I have never been quite sure of the first sentence, but what is the worst that could happen—a shrug or an equally adequate reaction? At least words, continue reading
Tag: poem
It is what it is
A man’s whole life in a single stanza—what would that be? An arbitrary anecdote with a half-baked punchline over a pint of lager that dared to turn into a good work of fiction in the attic of a morgue? Perhaps. But this would imply that it is possible continue reading
If only Kiton and Brioni made straitjackets
Scribblers sometimes mistake ink for blood, or maybe the other way around. When it happens, shattered glass slashes through pages that, all of a sudden, lack subtle onomatopoeias, even though they were never short of promising continue reading
By the way
We are going to die. Yes, and we will die in a well-covered silence that changes nothing—see visitors’ beds, which count the strenuous hours of uneventful sleep with the precision of borrowed time—a performance reluctantly paid in advance continue reading
Paradise lost
Sometimes I think back to my adolescence, with its hopeless battle with acne and hectic masturbation schedule on a creaky couch beneath a shoddy replica of the Black Madonna of Czestochowa I was supposed to pray to every night continue reading
The grey sheep
I’m not sure what is expected of me, or I don’t remember—assuming someone told me that once, when I was looking for something tangible, even just a bruised apple—although it hardly matters, or so they say, as long as I follow the flock. But maybe that’s all it really is: knowing the decorum continue reading
A substitute
I envy you, my boy, with your damn good name, a noble one, still oblivious to the bitter taste of the lecherous garden’s fruit, where the precious moments behind the curtains provided a temporary substitute for innocence by stealing continue reading
A perfection of my own
In a way, I gave up on my chances. For a time, life was about perfection, which was tantamount to the good of the great Athenian. And even if not, there’s always been a perfect body, perfect job, perfect family, with a wife continue reading
An unintentionally blank page
Immersed in the words of emphatic announcers, with each new cleft sentence less inclined to elicit that wicked “who are you?,” did you stop asking questions because everything became complicated, or did everything become complicated continue reading
Earworms
What should you do if you get strong chords stuck in your head and can’t get them out? Or perhaps they are words, repeated over and over, like an unscheduled interlocution with yesteryear’s obsessions, except that there is only inexpressible dread on your part. continue reading
On All Saints’ Day
Sitting in the armchair by the window, I looked at the fallen leaves soaked in the rain, beaten by the heels of passers-by rushing into the unknown as far as the dust they are made of, continue reading
The right attitude
When a foreigner on the street asks you for the whereabouts of the semen centre, you know that this is not what he meant. But still, as you try your best to conceal that, admittedly, improper mixture of amusement and astonishment on your face, continue reading
On my squeamish urbanite nose
When a daily shower becomes synonymous with the lap of luxury, a bath even more so, living alone, not to mention working remotely, starts to look nothing short of a blessing. Don’t get me wrong, I take care of my personal hygiene and I believe in its importance, continue reading
Nothing new in the north
Awoken by a heavy rumble on the windowsill, I embraced autumn’s moody morning with columns on yet another new prime minister, soaring electricity bills, and the war in Ukraine—the usual, I guess. Then, after this exercise in my meticulously implanted continue reading
Dilemmas of my own
I wonder what it would be like if my surname were Young, if it would suit me, especially now, in my late forties, when I feel anything but young. Unfortunately, none of the twelve shillings’ worth of words occupying my desk brings anything continue reading
The disembodied
I missed the morning sunlight trying to decide if I really knew that “here is one hand,” and now, as raindrops trickle down on my reflection in the window, all I can think about is the disembodied lady and how much she differed from health faddists and the ones continue reading
All the pleasures, simple or not
There are simple pleasures like a late-summer beach walk, the aroma of freshly baked bread, and waking up after a full night’s sleep, and there are those not as obvious, like a passage continue reading
A night train
I had my chance for a happy life, or at least for a meaningful one, and now all that’s left is an artificially prolonged apathetic wait for a prompter to cue from behind the limelights my final line. continue reading
The smile of my choice
Carving a jack-o’-lantern is as alien to me as ending a sentence with a preposition, and yet I got used to the latter once I learned the islanders’ tongue. Buying a pumpkin shouldn’t be a big deal continue reading
A brief reflection on the meaning of life over a pint of lager
A saddle-goose once saw death’s head upon a mop-stick weeping. “What is the matter, my gaunt bud?” he asked, since tears were dripping, but what could be said at the sound of a bell beyond the timeless continue reading
Harbor nights
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I think of La Divina, who, all of a sudden, comes to mind like a gift-wrapped bedtime prayer begging: pietà, pietà! Too late to play the record leaves me with a distant memory of that great ugly voice of hers, once continue reading
I see you are happy now
I guess it is easier to just say, “I see you are happy now.” But one doesn’t smile too widely, doesn’t laugh too loudly, and wanders around with their fist clenched tight on the bottle neck. Happiness, I mean. You know, that almond-milk-bathed continue reading
The peripheries
I was never really fond of yellow, not until I met Miss Georgia Lass. Two seasons later, only a hint of metaphysical indiscretion remained unpraught in the canary shade. And just like that, the realisation came continue reading
Who are you?
Sometimes I wonder who you are—you who read my words. I’d like to think I have affected, perhaps even changed, your life, but I guess it’s just something people like myself fantasise about, continue reading
To do the dance exactly right
There are only two kinds of people in the world—there are women and there are not. I am not. I know this could be seen as a somewhat narrowed perception of reality, but what can I say? I am a simpleton continue reading
A shift in punctuation
There are notes in my handwriting that fill the blank pages on the backs of volumes crowding my bookshelves, each a trivial remnant of a stranger I believe I once knew. Sometimes when I look at them, it comes to my mind: all this effort and no sign continue reading
A birthmark
My birthmark is invisible, like all the books piled up in every corner of my memory. I simply lack the sturdy biography, steeped in dramatic paradoxes, that has served so many so well. And I guess there really is continue reading
A genre scene
Imagine getting old together. One day, we looked after each other, had red borscht with dumplings for dinner, and then a wee moment on the sofa to settle our stomachs before the evening walk. Maybe continue reading
High definition
I never realised that the extra pixels of high definition could make such a big difference. Call me sentimental, but I kind of liked the bleary picture of my shabby telly. continue reading
The thing we are good at
And so we, earthlings, made our first attempt at playing celestial billiards. I’m really glad that we decided to make this effort to save ourselves from the fate of the dinosaurs. continue reading
The cleanest books
Being an open book exposes you to marginalia scribblers, and you never know what you will get: a gloss in Korean or a casual critique; an early attempt at ornate drolleries; continue reading
There is nothing wrong with my choice of colours
We are strangers who happen to have children together. You’ve made it clear. And I’m not objecting to that, as we never really got past the flatmates stage, regardless of the official piece of jewellery, so why pretend to be friends now continue reading
My finely encased fountain pen
Lying dormant for years, my fountain pen has lost its ability to inspire me to transcend all the rubicons of corporeality. I used to believe that, once baptised continue reading
Passing away
As worn out as a shellac record and just as brittle, I’ve got my mug shot stamped in a book of wraiths. continue reading
The importance of being a fool
I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine, I promise. It’s just that I can no longer remember what it’s like to gently brush my fingers over that brief moment of silence in anticipation, which, like any attempt to hold on to a long bygone present, continue reading
All you need
What on earth were you thinking? That you could live your life without subtitles, as if you stood at the fireplace, bereaved but free, burning cocktail sticks and never-opened letters, and all you needed continue reading
Starting over
I guess it’s good to hang onto something tangible, like seedless grapes in a disposable clamshell container, for example. In the end, it’s always been all about convenience, hasn’t it? But you are not listening, darling, continue reading
We shall remember
You don’t have to say anything. Anything at all. Just slip out of your shoes. The water is still warm. You know, I tried to remember the last time we had a bath together. Perhaps you might recall it, although does it really matter? continue reading
The lovers
Once upon a time, before we were supposed to be happy — I mean, de jure — we used to be just like that — happy when left to our own devices. Of course, there were certain continue reading
The old olive trees
I have never touched the trunk of an olive tree. I doubt I ever will, since they don’t grow up north, where I live, and I prefer to avoid the swelter they thrive in. So as long as I stay here, I will not suffer, continue reading
Where the coarse seams join
If I stayed overnight, allowing myself to see perfection but phrasing it differently, how cruel would it be? Or if you waited too long, so neither of us knew which part still deserved to be considered good enough to play, who should call the wager? continue reading
The song of the birds
Ignoring unguided fingers slowly sliding over the burnished neck of Casals’ violoncello in El cant dels ocells, a sense of decorum, a relentless companion of pity, renders the unnecessary ceremony continue reading
The reality of desire
If the ancients knew the art of statistics, would they still believe in that little rascal Cupid? It’s hard not to succumb to the reality of numbers continue reading
A silent answer
Why am I still jealous of my old flatmate? We parted long ago. I moved to town with my dusty desk and overloaded bookshelves. She stayed in the suburbs, with her windowsills full of flowerpots continue reading
Watchers
I guess I’m lucky with my undisturbed daddy long-legs sitting on the ceiling with offspring, as watching the thirteen little ones, not bigger continue reading
The breakfast of the seventh day
I measure my week with the flatbreads I make on the first day, but for some reason, I’m always one piece short. Perhaps it all boils down to the slightly too small bowl for making the dough, continue reading
The future rival of the past
Do I have the right to feel so much older than I used to? After all, it hasn’t been that long continue reading
One language is enough
I don’t know French, although it sounds beautiful in songs. I would definitely like to know German as there is so much to learn in, say, Über Gewissheit. But I know some English continue reading
Père-Lachaise
I’m a time traveller. It all began when I was seven, though it didn’t really start until I reached ten or so. At first, being cautious, I stuck to the not-so-distant continue reading
Honesty is an a cappella song
Holding myself accountable for things not turning out the way I wanted always required a tad more honesty than I could muster at any one time, like an attempt at the mundane touted as an elaborate kintsugi exercise, continue reading
I’m not a bad person
Life insurance covers the event of death, but what insures me in the event of life? So far, I keep my hands above the table, even though most of the time I have no idea what to do with them. continue reading
On time
You are never on time. “I’ll see you in ten minutes” could mean anything from half an hour to a lifetime or so. It used to bother me a lot. I perceived your tardiness as disrespectful and still smiled at you, trying to keep my cool. continue reading
That old devil moon
It never entered my mind that the kind of blue, the blue in green, could simply squeeze me like a night in Tunisia, where smooch sometimes follows great expectations, but often settles for alone continue reading
A sonorous tryst
Forgive my verdant embouchure, timidly practised in dark alleys, and guide my fingers through respite in somewhat hurried pizzicato. There is no shame in apposition set off by commas, casually, continue reading
Cooking for one
I was going to make a proper dinner, but once again settled for a banana mash with nuts, Greek tahini and currants. continue reading
One could always use a fountain pen
When did we stop using fountain pens? I used to like the blue scribbles on the pages of my notebook. And why would someone else’s words, if one found them not worth the ink, still be kept in the ethereal depths continue reading
The one
I’m not looking for someone perfect, but someone who would trade empty pots on the windowsill for a good synecdoche continue reading
What happened after the last wedding?
As presumptuous as it might be, I think we nailed the sobriety of all the microwaved expectations out of the marital freezer, none of which exceeded continue reading
After you left
It’s been two years since we drew that bold line and abandoned the canvas somewhere in the loft. I gave up the easels. You let the brushes and paints go. continue reading
Shame
After many a night, when the constant parade of substitute futures diving into my halcyon booth leaves an aftertaste of a sealed body, I wander the deserted beach, chased by the enraged cries of seagulls continue reading
Words never rust
“Words never rust, I promise.” That is what you said, remember? Yet, it still feels like mocking Harlequin and Columbine at Tivoli. And you can’t even wink now, once we have played all the classics continue reading
The cadaver of me
When windows become doors and doors windows, when every next bus stop is a rushed page away, and a kachina doll collection takes on such importance continue reading
One day
I thought if I moved on, one day I would have a decent bed, lined with satin strokes and a longing “once upon a time,” with Chet’s Almost Blue and merrily misplaced cufflinks continue reading
Hope against hope
I remember when “for ever” simply complemented “are we there yet?”, only to turn into “for as long as it is humanly possible” over time. But as The Freewheelin’ has stopped spinning over the winter months continue reading
The inheritance
Sometimes I take pictures of genre scenes with half-empty bottles. I hoard them in rolls of undeveloped film lying around in the drawer continue reading
My deathbed bride
When I close my eyes, will they shine once you trade my touch piece for the waterway toll? You know, there is no room for us both, continue reading
The anatomy lesson
I remember you asking me, what if the only autobiography is a few stains on the shower curtain and an online shopping history? Would I regret it? As we stand on the crowded bus, my fingertips brush against the spine continue reading
Nothing left but small talk
When there is nothing left but small talk, like a sip of water, the silence goes smoothly along with a bag of scorned books and a bundle continue reading
Sunday morning
It’s Sunday morning. Someone on the telly mentions Wordsworth. You know him vaguely, akin to one of those random Latin proverbs you try to impress others with while pretending not to notice labels dangling from your wrists. It’s Sunday morning. continue reading
The tower
My name is Rapunzel. I live in the tower. Nothing fancy, but no point in complaining. After all, who is to notice that the cheap wallpaper has long since stopped pretending continue reading
What can’t I see?
When I was young, I used to read novels. I read a lot. And then I stopped. Probably because I wished for something more, something better, something real.continue reading
All the trinkets of the day
Waking up hurts. A glass of buttermilk and a handful of vitamins as a breakfast substitute and a momentary dedication to oral hygiene measure the effort needed... continue reading
Only the fear and tears
I didn’t sleep well last night. Already disheartened, I spent the usual eight hours in front of the computer. ... continue reading
All it takes
It takes a comedian to stand firm on a besieged stage where every day is a deadly rehearsal for a tragedy written and directed by an amateur historian. It takes ... continue reading
He is playing the cursed card!
And suddenly, it went quiet for a moment of disbelief. He is playing the cursed card, only it has long ceased to be just another ... continue reading
Putin, go fuck yourself
It would seem that everything was going according to plan. The weather was good, the protesters came in decent numbers, there were flags, banners full of angry slogans, candles. ... continue reading
Kyiv, not Kiev
My word processor struggles with the name Kyiv. For some baffling reason, it suggests that I mean Vicky. At least it does not mind a psychopath, a thug, terror, war, ... continue reading
No time for regrets
A bully gets bolder over time, taking advantage of the passivity of decent people. So now, as we wring our hands over Kiev, ... continue reading
Why die for Kiev?
Do you remember these words? To fight alongside our Polish friends for the common defence ... continue reading
A pain in the…
Well-mannered people mince their words, presumably so as not to hurt the feelings of others. But when one casually mentions ... continue reading
People like us
Nobody loves people like us. Endearingly naive and possibly just as self-centred, we crave ... continue reading
The cadence of her steps
First, there was the ancient lyrical cadence of handclapping, which scared the gulls and attracted the eyes of rare passers-by. ... continue reading
Is there any coffee left, Dad?
“Let’s talk about Friday night.” “You know, it’s only Tuesday morning?” “That’s exactly my point.” ... continue reading
The day after yesterday
Solitude requires concentration. It all starts the day before, in the evening, with the effort of setting the alarm clock, until “effort” and “time” stop being synonyms. The vocabulary soon expands to include a new definition... continue reading
Necessities
“Your dinner is in the microwave.” He stared at an old plastic container with a misshapen lid, filled with a random mix of vegetables, some fresh and some canned, and water with a dash of olive oil. Dinner has always... continue reading
Nothing but silence
His greatest ambition had always been to be uneven, somewhat passé in every step he took, as he denied himself too much sense ... continue reading
The misery of the poet’s life
The poet was cursing the misery of his life. The small hermitage in the centre of a large city that he now shared with Mr. Nothing and Platocrates witnessed many of his misfortunes. Once conceived ... continue reading
To invent the fly
As he wandered through the shouting streets of Friday night, Mr. Nothing wondered if it was worth trading his tinnitus for the promise of fun at McNasty’s, as the name itself was ... continue reading
On the eve of returning to the office
Upset Mr. Nothing tried to remember the last time he had tied the Windsor knot. The blue shirts hung neatly in the wardrobe, waiting for the moment he would return to his previous routine. ... continue reading
Xin nian kuai le / San nin fai lok
There were words that had been uttered with great emphasis in the rush of youth that had misunderstood a disillusioned old man, ... continue reading
The usual glass of cognac
Hearing the moped passing down the street, Mr. Nothing thought about that morning when, instead of the usual glass of cognac, ... continue reading
Two years ahead
“In a week, you will be forty-seven.” As he listened to the first gusts of Storm Malik, the poet wondered where their names might have come from, but at these words, ... continue reading
That long glance
He was probably a little more articulated than most of his peers, and at that point, too deprived of any further illusions to stand the excess of their attention without even a single bitter note. ... continue reading
After summer comes spring
Undercooked yellow split peas taste exactly like undercooked yellow split peas. There is nothing surprising about it, and you know it beforehand, ... continue reading
On the waiting list
As lofty as it might sound, the prolonged wait to meet destiny made Mr. Nothing sometimes forget the taint in his chest. But then a twinge or a waiting list reminder brings him to heel. ... continue reading
Just like the first time
The old business card used as a bookmark told Mr. Nothing the last time he had attempted to read the sesquipedalian first-fruits of the poet, ... continue reading
The one who asks the question
There were words that Mr. Nothing did not trust the dictionary to provide an adequate definition for. For instance, what was he supposed to say ... continue reading
Just another man
Mr. Nothing watched the poet tinkering with a typewriter and Platocrates weighing white and black pebbles in his hands while looking thoughtfully at a large clay jar standing in front ... continue reading
You were carrying the cup
The poet came to the conclusion that he lacked a good biography. He was not a war hero, not even a child of war. ... continue reading
Deceptive meadow
The poet would likely find better words, but Mr. Nothing only ventured to repeat after a song, as tormented by the myriads ... continue reading
hidden pilcrow 