Poetry Box

1.

I receive a call,
long-distance,

from a woman I've
never met. I ask:

Who are you ? She
refuses to give her name.

In a cellar, in a
house, in a country

far away, she says
a box awaits my

collection. I pause
for a while,

take this on board.
What's in the box ?

I ask. Poems,
she says.

Hundreds of poems
written by you.

Some are written
in notebooks, others

on scraps of paper.
Are you sure ? I say.

Yes. I'm sure.
Your name is written

on each and
every one.

I think back through
the years - twenty,

thirty, more - recall
a time in my youth

when I lived in
that far off country

with a girl. The
girl, I'm told,

has long gone
and the house

has fallen into
disrepair.

The cellar, it
once got flooded

but the poems
remain intact.

The woman wants
me to collect the box

sooner rather than
later. She sets a date.

Otherwise the box
will be thrown out.

2.

I spend a good few
days thinking about my

box of poems. What
titles do these poems

have ? What subjects and
feelings do they explore ?

It takes me a while
to convince myself that

I used to write such
stuff. I don't any

more - I can say that
with certainty.

These days writing
poetry doesn't come

in to it. The more
I think about the box

the more I begin
to lose track.

In my mind the box
transforms itself,

becomes a person,
a living thing.

It's as though I'm
trying to remember

the face of a young
man long since forgotten,

retrace his footsteps,
peek into his soul.

I think of the girl
and struggle for a name.

Did I once love her ?
Well, we lived together,

that much I know.
So yes, I suppose I must

have loved her. Soon
I begin to realise

something: the more
I think back to that

time the fonder the
memories grow.

3.

The weeks pass. The woman
(who I've never met)

leaves a message: the
deadline for collecting

the box is approaching.
I confide in a friend.

What should I do ? Go
back ? Retrace my steps ?

He laughs. They're just
poems, he says. Juvenalia.

Forget them. Soggy poems,
all wet through.

Maybe the box itself
has fallen apart.

Who knows what
you'll find ?

Yes. Perhaps that's the
answer. Why waste good

time and money ? Why
travel to a far-off

land to retrieve
a long-forgotten box ?

Isn't life fine enough
as it is ? I'm no longer

a young man, a dreamer,
a would-be-poet. Those days

are gone. I grew up.
And yet, no matter how

I try, the box and its
contents remain in my

thoughts. At night
I dream that I'm

standing in the cellar.
Each and every poem

a far-off jewel
sparkling in dartkness,

containing secret
codes and pictures

of the person I was.
The deadline is approaching.

I have decided to travel
to that far off land.

Who knows what
I'll find ?