Category: English poetry

i am not a misogynist,
i was just married once,
so stop asking me why
i do not write love poems
like you never asked me
why i do not write about
fairies. there is no love,
only mutual dispositions.

there are seven days a week: monday,
monday, monday, monday, monday,
after-monday, before-monday. i took
care of them all with just one stroke
of my waterman, and now quietly
tossing the wilted apples in the basket,
i try to see the wrinkles on the worn
face in the mirror, as a scratched record
on an old turntable fills a shabby room
with a crackling sound that was once
the music of one of the mighty five.
if only dust dancing in a single ray
of sunlight piercing through a broken
shutter could still sustain the illusion
of life.

it takes a while to become facetious,
as it is said that we are born innocent,
and only with the passage of time
that rains a cappella all the inevitable
regrets take on a vital touch of patina.

at first you found my vigorous tattarrattat
at your door amusing. but in my search
for palindromes, i had not noticed that
the simple words slowly ceased to mean
all the little rituals that we once cherished.
and i still have that letter with one word,
your name.

he called me an escapist who hang on
to a feel-good believe system. perhaps
he is right. in the end, i do not struggle
with my faith as he does. his doubts
sound alien to me, somewhat bizarre
at best. even my body is just that,
a body, not a temple of some kind.

so here it is, as he said, until you think
about the chilling idea of nought.

would you notice a quiet man reading
an engraved plaque on the backrest
of each memorial bench he passes by?

would you wonder if he feels guilty
or even just sorry that he can still hear
the screams of gulls hunting titbits?

would you imagine a man walking past
a bench with a plaque on it, still without
the name engraved in his weary gaze?

i can hear nothing
but rain in the dramatic
movements of your lips.
it is as if being inaudible
is something akin to
a common trait of all
those drowned in a glass
of water who used to ask
me about the concerto
we listened to
the night before.

i still have the ability to see
the colours, which perhaps
keeps me in the realm of casual
observers, like the one
looking down at a swimmer
in a pool, wearing the same
pink jacket you disliked
so passionately, who knew
our real fears could fade
away into a veil
of ignorance.

years ago my father disowned me
because i dared to change my faith.
not that he was particularly religious.
it was more about what others would
say, all this provincial mentality.

in the end, he died in solitude, and i
prefer de rerum natura over sacred
texts. but i too seem destined to die
alone, as all my classical education
and seemingly broad intellectual
horizons have not prevented me
from alienating my rebellious son.

a friend advised me to give him time.
but is there time to give? the carmine
stains on the silk handkerchief raise
doubts whether they are mine or my
father’s.

i heard of the city warden who arranged
all the files in the station computer
based on dante’s nine circles of hell.
it was back in the day when computers
were rare and overlooked harbingers
of what was yet to come. imagine his
successor’s bewilderment at the sight
of the latin names left by the prankster.

but was he really one or was he rather
a visionary?