My poetry written in English
With a vague idea of the age of winnocence,
Mr Honk stumbled upon the most delightful insult:
strange creatures with a few feathers
where brains should be—and it only took it a century
to reach his bookshelf.
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Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, W.B. Yeats
Would unfinished business be better
than no business at all?
I’d say that’s a question whose answer might lie
somewhere in one of Landor’s six volumes
of ‘Imaginary Conversations’
or in a chance exchange in the lobby.
But if you appreciate—
that’s the crucial part—
a glass of water and a self-portrait
by Giuseppe Arcimboldo
and aren’t embarrassed to shed a tear
while watching a film about books
with the future Dr Lecter reading Yeats,
you might already share
the sentiment.
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They said he wasn’t an alcoholic—
just an ordinary drunkard,
as if the distinction much differed
from the one between a lover’s quarrel
and the early morning banter
of seagulls.
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With the abundance of days,
a true existence is never far
for an honest person—
only twenty years away
or a page
if you’re lucky.
But as a piano teacher is not a pianist—
let alone a composer,
especially if their instrument,
crammed into the corner of the room,
is reduced to a mere flowerpot stand—
a man is only as humane.
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How can I remember my future
when my past has been gravely misspelt—
with all the hasty gerunds
and coarse-grained adjectives
serving no purpose
other than ornament—
and even rain has lost its subsumption
in such an unconceivable milieu,
so that when I entertain the idea
of using the vested Pooterish umbrella,
I always have to consider the wistfulness
of the draught?
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I’m not a very interesting specimen,
a hostage to awkward silence
and unforeseen circumstances,
but we don’t invent autobiographies
to live up to them—
this is what guestbooks are for—
and I like the idea of ‘or something’,
and that the most intimate personal detail to reveal
is the taste of blood after biting my tongue.
Also, for someone who doesn’t drink,
I devote a lot of attention to potations
served as a triune chorus of gratitude,
which sounds rather appalling, yet it’s still better
than some unfortunate magnanimity of intention—
the mother of all exhaustion in both,
regardless of whether I prefer to be situated
in Beatrice’s basement or Virgil’s attic.
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How selfish one must be—
how inconsiderate—
to impose one’s primal urge
on the next to come
under the pretext of not being able
to ask for consent,
as if our Eden were anything
but an elephant pavilion.
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It appeared suddenly
from behind the smoky horizon,
a non-dimensional apparition
I like to call an artin,
with all its pretended musings
and occasional hallucinations—
not quite Hal or Skynet,
but who cares about the old bogeys
when one day you might find yourself
in Josef K.’s shoes?
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I never expected ‘interesting’
to be such an offensive word,
like the unavoidable scent of semen
one calls freedom, though nothing as carnal
as patting the bed while dressed as a brigand
with a flask of brandy and a handkerchief,
uncomfortable yet of modest needs, certainly deliberate—
a kindred spirit trespassing the orchard east of Eden,
asking if there was anything special about the twenties
other than becoming a quinquagenarian in the midst of them,
which at the time seemed such a conundrum
but eventually drowned in birds’ chirping
at the first sign of a full-house solitude,
raising cauliflowers to the rank of orchids
(something to repay for one’s ignorance),
playing violin in the afternoon with the passion
of sock garters mingling in the lingerie chest
(I don’t think we ought to withstand the weight of the harp—
it seems like too hasty a decision, doesn’t it?),
to finally leave an inheritance in the form of a pair of wellies
and a map of Cornwall, and perhaps an ossuary
to keep amongst photos and sighs
on the sideboard.
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hidden pilcrow 