Category: poetry

i must be alive, since i am writing this stanza
after i walked you home and said goodnight,
even though it was morning. i must be alive.
you see, one likes a pint of lager, or cider
for that matter, while the other gets intoxicated
with words. but eventually we let it go, settling
for a regular cuppa, or trying to coffin teabags
brewed with tepid water.

as charming as he may be, a poet is not a husband-material,
because sooner or later he will turn your life into a cadence
of words scattered randomly across the page. so you better
listen to what mrs. dreyfuss said, and find yourself a nice,
substantial man, a widower perhaps, and settle down instead
of looking longingly at that beatnik. unless you do not mind
life without a napkin.

the shadows belong to the nooks and crannies,
so when one dares to step out into the brightness
without a veil of delight, one will get slapped
on the fingers, if nothing more, for spoiling
the pastel landscape. no wonder this jolly picture
looks somewhat flat and shallow.

should we embrace the word finally
or just allow ourselves one more moment
of self-pity? when there is not much left
to exchange, we must make a choice:
greed for life or mourning over somehow
overlooked meanings. at least now we know
all our little inventions.

there were supposed to be twelve traditional dishes
and carols for a family celebration, but why bother
with all that when there is no family to celebrate?
so i settled for a bowl of greek yoghurt with nuts
and fruit, and some not-so-romantic romcom.
later, i called my rebellious teens and their mother
with christmas wishes. to be honest, it took me longer
to prepare the yoghurt than the phone call lasted.
but i guess i do not really have the right to complain.

in the tradition in which i grew up, there is nothing
more important than a christmas eve vigil supper.
it is not that it has some kind of religious dimension
for me, as i am an atheist, and if i had to find an analogy,
i would consider it more of a birthday alike, but still.
and sitting in an empty flat, when i think about it,
i start to wonder what it is that we are supposed to be
celebrating tonight, because neither the family i come from,
nor the one i tried to create, survived even the starters.

cast adrift in provisional scenery,
like sleepwalkers, we move along
the grooves of a vinyl record
on an antediluvian turntable.
there is no nightingale to chase
through the shadow forest,
as there is no forest here, oddly,
only the sands of a forlorn shore
washed by the seagulls’ cries
and the tears of northern welkin.
eventually, we would reveal our names,
as if the sudden change in the tone
of our conversations prevented us
from turning all our past hopes
into future liabilities.

i do not like christmas carols
in december. i really like them
in july, when it confuses people
to hear me whistle a cheerful tune.
but this time of year, it is no more
than a stark reminder how out-of-tune
i am trying to fit into the pompous
fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la!

my name is not important, but if you would like to hear it, listen
to the rain in december. my age does not matter, but if you must know
how old i am, look at the granite road paving remains at the gallowgate,
where public hangings were conducted. the timbre of my voice fades
against the stormy waves, and only the humming sound continues
to percuss their reflection. after all these years, i still learn how to lull
my expectations somewhere between the banks of dee and don.
but at least i know some useful phrases and places worth visiting.
so here i am, a forsaken word dweller on an unplanned weekend
getaway that never ended.

i still remember when my father
brought home our first vhs player.
it was a rarity in communist poland.
i borrowed all the tapes they had
from my friends and we spent hours
watching hong kong kung fu films.
it was an unforgettable experience
for the boy i was then, debating
whether the drunken master would fit
in with the thirty-sixth chamber.
hong kong shaped our imaginations.

and who would have guessed then
that more than three decades later,
the drunken master would enter
my thoughts again while watching
as the totalitarian chinese regime,
with secretary xi jinping, fearing
the facts, tries to erase the remnants
of memory of the past in the form
of a statue that had sat on the campus
mourning all those victims killed
in the tiananmen square massacre?