Have you ever heard of an Englishman in New York? I have
met a perfectly extraordinary Englishwoman in New York
—a girl, really—named Carrie Pilby, and she was a character
of fiction, nevertheless as real as any of the women in my life
nowadays. Now I have a good excuse not to meet anyone else
until the next cosy film night on the sofa.
Why are black-and-white pictures called black-and-white pictures
when there is so much colour in them—so much unadulterated life?
At least the gown and tuxedo look better in them, and the wrinkles
become refined, as do the tears. And the trifling details fade away,
like the ones we hoped to capture in them.
If I told you that life is a miracle
of a chore—and a tedious one,
to be frank—would you rather believe me
or put your trust in all those who preach
that it is an actual miracle in its own right?
For if the latter, what a pathetic miracle is it
that has compelled us to say that drama is life
with the dull bits cut out? Isn’t that right, Alfred?
After all, two measly hours don’t compare
to the decades we have to endure. Yet, I recognise
that there is a miracle in life—that despite everything,
we still somehow manage to pull it off.
As I talk to a man of tough words
across the two centuries standing between us,
I try to recall the youngster who has grown
into myself over the past three decades.
I wish I could have told him that there was nothing
inherently wrong with being the protagonist
in his own drama, even if it’s not particularly well staged
and the audience is composed solely of critics.
But in truth, I doubt I would be able to say anything
that he wouldn’t have figured out himself eventually.
After all, I may be more well-read, but I’m still just as clueless,
only disillusioned—though that comes with time.
Why does the removal of the appendix seem mostly inconsequential,
leaving nothing but a small scar on my belly and a pat on the shoulder
—well done, you—while a simple orchiectomy leaves me branded
as a eunuch? In an overpopulated world, why are we still so obsessed
with procreation? Blaming the selfish gene seems a bit pathetic, doesn’t it?
After all, it was only going to take another hundred years of fine writing
and hard thinking to cure us of prejudice, and that was said two centuries ago
about our feelings for spiders—the milk of human kindness was the phrase,
if memory serves—when here we are talking about our brethren.
The problem is that it’s hard to expect milk from breasts made of marble
or silicone gel.
There is nothing better than romantic love
if you make a living selling tickets to Paris and Venice
or intend to do some fine coin on Audrey Hepburn films.
And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Think of the more sinister players,
like the diamond cartel feeding us with the myth of the symbol of love
—the engagement ring. Or have you ever contemplated the absurdity
of Valentine’s Day? After all, th’ uncertain sickly appetite needs nothing
of the sort. Elderflowers and an Epsom salt bath are Granny’s best
remedies for fever.
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.
hidden pilcrow 