Category: English poetry

sometimes i like an essay about a new book
more than the book itself, and i find myself
settling for the former more and more often.
i used to like to walk between the bookshelves
and grab some at random. now, i play it safe,
so i have decided to limit myself to books
that use words like wherefore and asunder,
and the singular forms of second-person
personal pronouns that differ from the plural.
after all, the answer is only as important
as the right question.

it was a long night on a train to the seaside.
we were boy scouts from the mining basin.
they were girl scouts from the highlands.
we were about to spend the summer camp together
and everyone was so excited that we could not sleep.
anyway, who sleeps at thirteen when they first break free
from parental control? and there was that girl
we all fell in love with. unfortunately, for most,
there were only eight seats in the compartment.
i was the lucky one and everything was going so well
until i asked her name. she introduced herself with a smile,
but a moment later i could not recall her name,
so i asked again. with some amusement, she repeated it.
but what an embarrassment it was when it happened
again some time later. and then again, and again.
she was not impressed and avoided me
throughout our stay at the camp.
i was heartbroken.

years later, i can not remember a single thing
about her except that unfortunate night
on the train and her simple name – monika,
my daughter’s name.

are all the books i have
all the books i need?
i have a diary of an emigrant
piercing the national poses
of my countrymen.
i also have a novel about the last hours
of the great poet, with sentences
stretching over many pages,
which i can not get through,
although i have tried many times.
there is also the humanist compass,
and last but not least,
the source of all footnotes.
so are all the books i have
all the books i need? perhaps
that is not the right question.
because the question is,
do i have the courage to read them
again?

It is not enough to cure the plague:
we must learn to weep for it.

Miguel de Unamuno, The Tragic Sense of Life

i can still hear incoming messages
even though my phone is silent.
and then i wake up sweaty at four
in the morning to write a stanza
or two about the hysterical calm
of my laughter.

since when has reading for pleasure
become an obligation? do not ask
the writer, ask the owner of a private
prison or the hardmen measuring beards
with lantern glass.

she once said that all she dreamed about
was being a mother and not necessarily
a wife. it is funny because all i dreamed
about was being a husband to a mother
that i never had. so she married a man
in boys’ shorts, and i married a woman
with a heart in a nun’s habit with an ace.

two decades later, i am the man i was
meant to be, but it turned out she could
not stand me any more. two decades
later, we discovered she was a rare
gem, but it turned out that i preferred
to hold a simple seashell in my hand
than to admire a rainbow from afar.

one day, i may hold one’s hand
without fear. for now, let me walk
with my hands in my pockets
holding a handkerchief.

one day, i may look into one’s eyes
without suspicion. for now, let me watch
my footsteps amidst the cries of seagulls
fighting for a slice of burger.

one day, i may fall in love with one again
without thinking. for now, let me dwell
on sleepless nights spent trying to guess
the meaning of which side she sleeps on.

one day, i may forget what it is now.

they do not need us any more, women.
they just keep us around as we are handy
sometimes. but though it is our own fault,
we still act like a tyrannosaur, savouring
its juicy bone, unaware that this is the last
meal. and brother, it does not matter what
ideology you attach to this, as in the end,
we all lose, because we ask for trouble
instead of forgiveness.

are the tears in my eyes the result of yawning
after a sleepless night, or of reading verses
to distract myself from the missing pillow
next to mine?