When you find yourself vis-à-vis with the routine
horrors-turned-tattle, a walk down St Fittick’s might help,
even if the beheaded watcher’s house no longer guards
the graves from resurrectionists and unsolicited graffiti,
and you face either the leper squint or the rusting corpse
of a tanker abandoned in Nigg Bay. ‘But will it help?’
And how should I know? I’m only the poet.
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A creature of the word—
doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?
Who would have thought that we’d turn
into creatures of paper?
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My French is only slightly better than my Latin,
I’m afraid, which means—though I’m perfectly capable
of informing a passer-by on the Rue Saint-Jacques
that je ne parle pas français—I can’t indulge in
Mélange Adultère de Tout, unfortunately.
Besides, I’d rather see Longhaven Cliffs
than your cenotaph.
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I woke up this morning feeling like it was Sunday, only to realise that it was just Tuesday. At least it wasn’t Monday, one might say—or was it? But here’s the rub—the seven-day week is complete nonsense. It turns out the Babylonians are to blame, specifically King Sargon I of Akkad. The story in Genesis of God resting on the seventh day reinforced this even more, although, for example, the Egyptians had a ten-day week and the Romans originally settled for eight days (nundinal). But when you think about it, the only truly universal measurements of time are the time of day, that is, day and night, and the years because the seasons repeat. Even the seasons themselves are more of a regional fair. While areas in the mid-latitudes experience spring, summer, autumn, and winter, other regions have different seasonal patterns, like a wet (monsoon) season and a dry season near the equator. So I decided to completely abandon the idea of a week and the names of days associated with it and use only two—Myday and Theirday. Unfortunately, the latter prevails.
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Of all the creatures big and small, there are two that I actually quite like—magpies and slipper animalcules. The former for the good neighbourly relations we have, the latter because of a poem—but I suspect you may not know Andrzej Bursa—that once gave me the unique opportunity to say ‘motherfucker’ out loud in class without any undesirable consequences. The thrills of youth—where have you gone?
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Being alive by proxy—
subject to semantic bleaching—
is the one particular burden that is mine
and mine alone, yet
since I mostly read old men
with long beards and moustaches,
I don’t feel particularly overwhelmed.
That is, until I’m singed by the flare
of tone contagion, which leaves no choice
but to close the book and get out
in the real world.
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I would love
to write love poems
again.
There’s just no point in trying
when in the bittersweet
it’s only me
and aspartame.
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If I so desperately yearn for human connection, where does that constant trepidation come from every time I have to meet an actual living human being? Why do people seem to be so much more captivating in their refined, textual form? Is it because books don’t exhibit annoying habits or have foul breath, or is it all down to my own shortcomings that I try to hide?
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Have you ever heard of a library without books? I haven’t—at least until now—but apparently such a thing actually exists. And while I could understand the appeal to some extent, it seems to me that it is something akin to a vegan steak—edible, perhaps somewhat filling, yet still lacking a few essentials. Maybe it’s a hint of nostalgia, but I still remember when, as a youngster, I would go to the local library, stand between the shelves and, with my eyes closed, randomly pull out a book. You can’t imagine how many treasures I discovered that way. Besides, my objection most likely comes from the fact that it seems like another step towards eliminating the traditional book, because although their electronic replacements have their advantages, they are still far from surpassing the paper ones. Take the 1969 Faber and Faber edition of The Complete Poems and Plays of T.S. Eliot in your hand (which I happen to have on my desk right now), and you will understand.
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hidden pilcrow 