In the river of yellow umbrellas,
the rain swims with frantic crawls,
as if plotting wet shoulders were barely enough.
But even if the sky forgives the reflection
and the wind forgets the manner,
once they learn that forever has a pretty short shelf life,
they will realise all that’s left is to count
the grains of sand stolen from an hourglass
and be cautious.
What do you do when you realise you are not going to be a great poet one day? After thirty years of writing poetry, you finally give up, make a note of it in your journal, and move on. Simple as that. After all, there is more to life than putting together a stanza, even a great one. And if, in your case, it’s decent at best, what’s the point? Instead of wasting hours in your room trying to find the right onomatopoeia, wouldn’t it be better to listen to the sound of the waves while walking on the beach?
“Since Ronsard and Du Bellay have given reputation to our French poesy, every little dabbler, for aught I see, swells his words as high, and makes his cadences very near as harmonious as they: ‘Plus sonat, quam valet.’ [‘More sound than sense’—Seneca, Ep., 40.] For the vulgar, there were never so many poetasters as now; but though they find it no hard matter to imitate their rhyme, they yet fall infinitely short of imitating the rich descriptions of the one, and the delicate invention of the other of these masters.” (from The Essays of Montaigne—Volume 05 by Michel de Montaigne, translated by Charles Cotton)
Reading his words, I wonder what Montaigne would say about the state of poetry in our times, as not only has it evolved in form but it has also democratised, and today in France alone, probably more people write poetry than were educated in that country in his time. But reading this passage, I feel that they are as relevant now as they were then. If I happen to stumble upon a poem, especially one published online, I almost never find any satisfaction in reading it, let alone being impressed, and that’s also why I’ve stopped writing poetry myself. But enough about that because the sun finally came out after the storm Babet, so it’s time to go outside.
Dictators and regimes don’t like distinctive faces. They prey on the inertia of the idle crowd in the background of their own angry countenances, or let’s call them what they really are—ugly phizzes. When I read today about the Iranian regime targeting Iranian activists across Europe with threats and harassment, the first thing that came to mind was a poem by my compatriot, one of the greatest Polish poets, Zbigniew Herbert, titled The Power of Taste (subtitled recording of the poet reading his poem himself). For many, his words were a compass, helping them survive the communist regime in Poland.
The Power of Taste
For Professor Izydora Dąmbska
It didn’t require much character at all
our refusal disagreement and stubbornness
we had a modicum of necessary courage
but ultimately it was a matter of taste
Yes a taste
that contains the fibres of the soul and the cartilage of the conscience
Who knows if we had been tempted better and more beautifully
they would have sent us women pink flat as a wafer
or fantastic creations from the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch
but hell at that time was what
a wet pit an alley of murderers a barrack
called the Palace of Justice
rotgutted Mephisto in Lenin’s jacket
sent Aurora’s grandchildren into the field
boys with potato faces
and very ugly girls with red hands
Indeed their rhetoric was too clumsy
Marcus Tullius was turning in his grave
chains of tautologies a few concepts like flails
dialectic of torturers no distinction in reasoning
syntax devoid of the beauty of conjunctive
So aesthetics can be helpful in life
the study of beauty should not be neglected
Before we declare our accession we must carefully study
the shape of the architecture the rhythm of drums and fifes
the official colours the nefarious ritual of funerals
Our eyes and ears refused to listen
the princes of our senses chose proud exile
It didn’t require much character at all
we had a modicum of requisite courage
but it was basically a matter of taste
Yes a taste
that tells you to leave grimace drawl the sneer
even if it means losing a priceless capital of your body
your head
I can’t remember the last time I tasted marzipan,
or anything as sweet, for that matter.
Sugar has become one of those guilty pleasures
I can’t afford anymore. I envy the time I could eat
whatever I wanted and as much as I wanted,
and everything burned off without a trace in my waist.
I guess that’s age for you. But it’s not all bad.
There are things that only came with age, like the fact
that the all-consuming greed for new is finally gone.
I’ve learned patience and appreciation for the moment.
And back then, I would never have understood the words
of Professor Falconer. Now I know—I’m a single man too.
I can’t be a crazy cat lady since I’m a man,
and I don’t have even a single cat, but that’s a minor detail.
Living in the north of Scotland, if anything, excludes me
from the bon chic bon genre.
I could always have become a white-van man
if I had bothered to get my driving licence first.
And, of course, there is always the obvious choice—
a Polish plumber.
A word of advice if you are in a similar dilemma:
whatever label you choose, make sure it’s clear.
People forgive you anything but ambiguity.
I like that brief pause at the dust jacket flaps
before the serpentine sentences call me
to follow their long stretches and sub-clauses
introduced with all the althoughs, therefores,
and whiles pulled out of the conjunction hat.
I like the cat’s morning yoga for atheist classes
before the obligatory glass of milk-and-water bliss.
I like a furtive one last sniff of the night’s remnants
hidden in my pyjamas before I wrap myself
in the armour of an everyday suit.
And there are a few other trinkets like that,
but the point is, if there is a silver lining to life,
these would be the closest.
There is no point to life or value
beyond that of a pebble lying on a riverbank.
These could only be created between us, but only just,
since all we do is supply the necessary dose of meaning in life
to keep us going—not the meaning of life itself.
And by the way, let’s leave aside any notion of happiness
or morality as distinct concepts (have there been many lives
as meaningful as Judas’, to look no further than Christian mythology?).
So, asking about the meaning of life is, in itself, meaningless.
And as for meaning in life, just think of the paradox
of future individuals.
“You have lost your wits and have gone astray; and, like an unskilled doctor, fallen ill, you lose heart and cannot discover by which remedies to cure your own disease.”
Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound
With mobile phones, we have become accustomed to immediate responses,
so no one wants to wait for anything anymore. Add to that the quality
of our relationships—likely comparable to the nutritional value
of a plastic bowl of instant noodles—and it’s no wonder we are trapped
between the Scylla of solitude and the Charybdis of addiction to dating apps,
ending up lonely one way or another.
Dealing with people sooner or later brings disappointment. I get that.
But we all have our quirks and neglected issues, so maybe it’s time
to stop being harder on others than on yourself.
Give them a chance, and they may pleasantly surprise you,
said the one least likely to read his own words.
hidden pilcrow 