Category: poetry

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.

It is the strong-builded houses of the dead that have withstood the ages, not the houses of the living;

Miguel de Unamuno, The Tragic Sense of Life

going out for a walk along the promenade in the evenings,
sitting on a bench in the deep shade and exchanging
indifferent glances with the shoelaces passing me by,
i live out of a desperate sense of duty, trying to escape
the old spaniard’s adage.

i am the burning of a chafed ankle.
i am the swelling from an infected tooth.
i am the gurgling in a sore stomach.
i am the sour smell of a sweaty body.
i am the bite of a slice of stale bread.
i am the sip of chlorinated tap water.
i am the brush of the nape of a neck.
i am the thrill of flesh and blood.
i am the am in the uncertainty
of being.

do i still have a chance for an indecent
line of catullus whispered in my ear
in a crowded lift? will i ever find a garter
secretly tucked into my pocket when i leave
for work? is there a hand that i could hold
while walking along the promenade?
these may not be the millennium problems,
but for me they are equally, if not more
important. and likewise, with no answer
in sight.

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.