Dead Poet at the Swimming Pool describes what is probably the most powerful dream I've ever had, back in 1999. I interpreted it as a message to my waking self that if I continued to ignore my creativity - specifically, if I didn't write - something vital inside me, which was already close to death, would perish altogether.
So I started to write - poems and a novel. Not that this stopped my subconscious pumping out admonition after admonition; in fact, I continued to be inundated with stressful dreams about imminent exams for which I had done no revision/attended no lessons or lectures/had no idea of the syllabus until my first collection, Communion, was published in 2011. But I will always be grateful for this message, which I heeded despite being incredibly busy at the time with four young children, two of them autistic, a part-time job, and a troubled marriage. Ultimately, it changed the course of my life.
Dead Poet at the
Swimming Pool
Outside rain
clatters through gutters
pays thick ropes
through gratings, drains
and still he’s here,
hunched on the steps, his head
hanging in his hands.
No one takes any notice
Not the receptionist
in her office
pool staff swabbing
dingy floors, slick-haired men
fraught mothers
trailing dripping kids with neon wings
all too preoccupied
to clear his eyes of
silt and withered leaves
his dirt-stopped
mouth
It’s early autumn
when she kneels beside him
drops a coin to
gauge the depth
ten more years
before she hears it
hit the bottom
©Deborah Harvey 2015
'Dead Poet at the Swimming Pool' was shortlisted for the 2015 Bridport Prize
Artwork by Dru Marland
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