Category: English poetry

i am a straight, white, middle-class, able-bodied male.
i am a highly paid, well-educated white-collar worker.
i am a european union member states’ passport holder.
i am a law-abiding, liberal-minded, responsible citizen.
i am fit, active, well-nourished, and fully vaccinated.
i am a lost cause.

if i could simply leave,
turn off the light, and slam the door,
drawing this galling lease to a close,
without a single glance back,

then i could simply live,
not word for word, but line by line,
drawing a day from borrowed tears,
fleeting like nameless stanzas.

if you only read texts that you agree with,
then you will just reinforce your biases.
so i read the tragic sense of life and feel sorry
for myself. because there is nothing better
than wallowing in self-pity, as you can always
count on a pinch of someone’s attention
and you do not have to make any effort
to forgive yourself.

a year ago, i woke up early in the morning,
ate a bowl of porridge for breakfast, brushed my teeth,
changed clothes, and spent the next few hours exploring
the intricacies of remote work.
i had greek yogurt with nuts and dried fruit for lunch,
then a short walk before going back to the computer.
for dinner we ate new potatoes with dill and buttermilk,
which always reminds me of holidays in the countryside
in my childhood.
and then you said we need to talk.

a year ago, it was the end of the world,
or just another day.

Art thou poor, yet has thou golden slumbers?

Thomas Dekker, The Happy Heart

the adage says, money does not make you happy,
to which someone added, but it allows you to be
comfortably unhappy. and in this sarcastic remark,
as in the adage itself, there is a painful truth hidden.
they are both chasing the undefined.

the best of the Greeks would rather die in freedom than live in servitude; and the Persians should have taken warning from this.

A. C. Grayling, The Good Book

what does it mean to be a free man?
what does it take? would i dare to ask
the lycians who set fire to the citadel
with their wives and children inside
and ten launched a suicide attack
on harpagus and his army?
and would i rather be one of them
or be among the eighty families
then absent from the city who later
returned to revive xanthos?

and if i keep asking these questions,
will i never have to answer them?

we dream of being stars, but the only thing
we manage to achieve is being a piece of rock,
and not even the big one that shines with reflected
light in the night sky, but the ordinary pebble
polished by the waves of the sea or the stream
of a river. and while playing with one in my hand,
i admire the delicate line of its oval and its fanciful
patterns, the thought flashes through my mind that
the sun would hurt my eyes.

If the man who tells you that he writes, paints, sculptures, or sings for his own amusement, gives his work to the public, he lies;

Miguel de Unamuno, The Tragic Sense of Life

listening to the silence of the wise man
in the agora trying to convince me that
i write to leave behind a shadow of my
spirit, something that may survive me,
i rather trust the old sage from samos.
and so i write for that ounce of glory
that may amuse me a little in the days
i have left without the comforting
warmth of someone else’s arms.

there is this commentator i love to read
and always think about her as beautiful
and smart, and then regret that she is a lesbian
(there is nothing wrong with being one,
it just means there is no way she would ever
fall in love with me if we met by chance).
what bothers me is that i prize her body
before her mind.