What are the odds of getting one double-yolk egg,
let alone a whole box? One in a thousand, I read,
and yet the latter happened to me just the other day.
You have to admit, I must be one lucky bastard
or an unlucky one, depending on the superstitions
we follow. Speaking of which, I have always wondered
why blue is considered better than red and white imposes
its supposed supremacy over black, brown, and yellow.
After all, in the game of colours, nothing lasts but the dire
shades of pale.
The shadows outside my bedroom wear names other than mine,
but at least we still share the sentiment of having one.
Also, we all measure time, although I’m not particularly fond
of manipulating it, even if only twice a year.
The shadows outside my bedroom are keen on collecting proverbs,
as they look good pinned in a display box on the wall.
Well, as long as guests don’t mind the smell of naphthalene
and glossy reddish-brown stains on the pinning stage.
The shadows outside my bedroom preach kinship with the sun
yet practice fluttering around the glowing, coiled filament of tungsten
I come from. Sometimes I wonder if, behind closed curtains,
they simply cease to exist.
Nothing is real but reality in a watercolour
fog washed with the secretions of the graveyard
shift, like the yawner’s mention of a scarlet dawn.
Is it the fool moon mocking the street lamps
with reflected light that holds terror for one,
or is it the crunch of pebbles with each tired step?
And while the outline of meals has long lost its meaning,
they are still necessary to keep up appearances.
After all, any of them could be supper.
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.
hidden pilcrow 