hidden pilcrow

is making an omelette an art or an act
of desperation? what does it mean
if an egg in the fridge and a can
of kidney beans in the cupboard
are all you have left to eat?
not that the stores were closed
or their shelves empty or something.
even the distance is not a problem
as you live in the city centre.
and you have everything you need
to do your shopping, except an act
of will.

as the late evening washes away
the withered traces of daylight,
i watch from the drenched window
as the weary shadows of passers-by
plunge into the whispers of the rain
and ask debussy if i can see the light
of the lighthouse on the other side
of the street again, but all he offers
is a bit of moonlight melancholy
for ninety-ninepence a track.
a blind man’s buff goes
without light.

every morning i make myself breakfast;
flat bread with cheese spread and salad,
sometimes a can of fish in spicy tomato
sauce, and i brew a cup of redbush tea.
dirty dishes go to the washing-up bowl,
and i collect them until there are enough
to make it worthwhile to heat up a kettle
of water. who needs a dishwasher, right?
because you see, i like washing dishes,
methodically breaking through a pile
of bowls and plates, putting an even row
of washed cups and glasses on the dryer.
and, by polishing the cutlery, for a brief
moment, i could give the impression
that it was just another day or two.

looking at the portrait of james taylor,
i am waiting for both sides now to finish
shedding raindrops on the window sill.
i envy him that relaxed smile, his hands
folded behind his head, and that dreamy
look into the distance. all my portraits
are at a crossroads. if only i had painted them
differently.

Two paradises ‘twere in one,
To live in Paradise alone.

Andrew Marvell, Thoughts in a Garden

i am trying to remember the sky
over berlin as i leaf through my old
pocket edition of berlitz’s guide
and wonder if i could still walk
from tiergarten to potsdamer platz
in just twenty-five minutes?

i had long forgotten that summer
at jepsen’s when i tripped over
the old jens’s bike, and all the hopes
embedded in my fear-lined fascination
with the elegant kurrent of handwritten
notes found on the vacat pages.

and only now, when out of the blue,
someone asked sprechen sie deutsch?,
did i realise that when the lights are off,
my mind is still stuck in the place
where i left you alone the last time
you failed my unfair expectations.

the man who exists is infinitely interested in existing.

Miguel de Unamuno, The Tragic Sense of Life

if no word is worth its weight in silence,
why should i waste any on the stillness
of this wicked chamber, let alone trifles
like prescribed daily exercises in doubt
over its provisional soul?

when i was young, no aces were mentioned,
so first i put it all down to her shyness.
then i thought it was because of her religiosity.
but a year after the wedding, i ran out of possible reasons
and asked for a divorce. and if it had ended then,
maybe we would have been happy now, apart.

but there was this woman, her friend, a dragon by name,
a snake by nature, a religious devotee with manipulative skills
trained in psychology school. she somehow managed
to dissuade me from my intentions and disappeared.
so all she had in mind was to prevent me
from breaking the religious marriage vow.

i never thought i could hate someone so much.
it still feels like a swollen wound in my soul.
every time i think of her, i curse her name and swear
i will spit on the ground in front of her if our paths ever cross again.
then, all of a sudden, a reflection appears. is my inability to forgive
the result of a wound in my soul, or is it my soul itself?

A tender heart, a loyal mind
Which with temptation I would trust

George Darley, The Loveliness of Love

i wish i had managed to convince you
to visit eighty-four charing cross road.
you can still change your mind and buy
a plane ticket twenty years in advance,
and in the meantime, in the evenings,
listen to the distant murmurs in the rose
envelops.

Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?

Alexander Pope, Eloisa to Abelard

from the distance of the kind words you wrote,
let us meet once at our favourite spot, nestled
on the corner of waverly place and west tenth,
so, pretending to look at the books on display,
we could smile at our reflections in the glass,
two perfect strangers to the outside world,
for now.