Why is it that when I see a young seagull rolling down a roof,
I have this urge to write about a young seagull rolling down a roof,
even though I don’t care about a young seagull rolling down a roof?
But before I could find a good reason—any reason—after a brief
tussle in the gutter, the young seagull flew away crying, unscathed
and unaware.
I spent this morning reading my own poetry,
which I haven’t done in a long time,
and I found it not bad—not bad at all.
In fact, it’s quite good, if I do say so myself.
Yet hardly anyone knows it, and what’s more,
I’ve wasted any chance to get it published
by simply posting it in that petty cubbyhole called the Web,
or so the experts in the field say.
The above may sound somewhat conceited,
but—though it comes at a price, as there are no free meals
in this corner greasy spoon—isn’t being bold a poet’s birthright?
If I didn’t know any better, I’d be inclined to believe
that every artist is actually a bit of a smug,
condescending arsehole doomed to sainthood
—a fig leaf covering up everyone else’s free pass
to continue business as usual.
As a long-time purchaser of scarce volumes
by authors gone in the meridian of their glory
and a humble juggler of words myself,
I certainly can appreciate a good book,
but recently I’ve noticed that in order to read,
I have to cycle ten miles; otherwise, I fall
asleep after a mere paragraph or two.
A simple explanation could be boredom,
but who in their right mind would blame the text
when it comes to their favourite titles?
The first signs of ageing are also a possibility,
although I had hoped it would be at least
another decade or so before my autumn came.
Whatever it is, ten miles doesn’t sound so morbid.
We are peculiar creatures, acting in bizarre ways.
For instance, no one minds when I casually talk
about my lunch or brushing teeth at least twice a day,
but even the mere mention of things like excretion
or masturbation makes everyone uneasy, to say the least.
Or another trivial example: we swallow about two pints
of saliva per day, but try to spit some into a glass
and then drink it without a gag reflex. I’m quite sure
even just thinking about it sends a shiver down your spine.
Of course, you could say that it is simply a matter of rising
above the level of beasts, let alone the refined taste
and sophistication we so readily attribute to ourselves
as a species exclusively. The thing is, we can play gods
all we want, but a monkey in a tuxedo is still a monkey.
Why is there me rather than not,
as if the slipper animalcule were not enough,
even if only recalled from the bygone, coarse syllogisms
of my birthplace, to allude to an obscure pen warrior,
known perhaps to a few highbrows in the Slavic literature department here and there?
Obscurity is actually what everyone should aim for, by the way.
But that’s just me, I guess. After all, fame seems to be the currency
that buys the much-desired immortality
of tomorrow’s bog roll.
What is the future, if not an incoming bygone,
or the present, if not an ongoing hereafter,
or the past, if not the nonce—just erstwhile?
When you think about it, our perception of time
is no better than of the squawking of a magpie.
No wonder we populate scrapbooks with eidola,
as if every departure comes in an untimely fashion.
A thousand miles is a mere few hours on a plane,
and even by car, though almost double the distance,
it would still be just a day-long journey—not the weeks
our ancestors had to endure—and there are no dangerous
wild animals or bandits lurking along the way.
The worst that could happen is a delayed or cancelled flight.
And yet, I can’t help but worry—trembling with fear even
—when the message on my mobile, asking if you’ve arrived yet,
shows as undelivered longer than expected.
I was born with a broken heart—perfectly imperfect
with every blood-stained handkerchief and every letter
from my solicitor—but that’s probably still better
than being heartless, I guess.
They’ve never had more than a kiss,
and even that would be a stretch.
Besides, I knew where this was going
from the first moment I spotted them
sneaking down Back Wynd.
She wore makeup as if it made her life more tangible.
He was nothing short of perfectly forgettable.
Together, they couldn’t be a better future addition
to the divorce statistics. And yet, despite everything,
at that moment, I wished them a glimmer of a chance.
Perhaps I was being nostalgic and probably a tad jealous.
After all, I’ve been there once, and nothing
has been more tangible since.
hidden pilcrow 