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Not Quite

I am not a poet, not quite. Not yet.

My mind isn’t fully formed;

My ideas are imitations,

My love for punctuation

Stems from e.e cummings: my desire to read

“next to of course god America i” offbyHeart,

My heart is not mine, not quite. Not yet.

It belongs to Rudyard Kipling, If…

If I were older than maybe I’d

Be less influenced. But somehow my

Imitations are not limitations, or copycat

Admirations. A journey W. B Yeats

guides, T. S Elliot in my rear-view mirror.

It is not my downfall that I plaster

Sean O’Brien’s words on the inside of my skull.

My youth, not yours, not quite.

Like a baby learning first words

And if my poems from years ago smell

Like Wilfred Owen and feel like John Burnside

Then I am not ashamed. My mind is easily influenced,

From the poets to the songs and the movies,

It is not a folly to be young and love others

More than yourself. To find warmth in

The shadows of the noble, in anthologies

or the poetry section of Waterstones.

I know I am not a poet; I am fragments of others.

My words are not mine, not quite. Not yet.


Megan Depper


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