I bought the ugliest curtains
I could find—so ugly that no one wanted them
even on sale. But they cheer me up
every time I walk into my bedroom,
for there is some pitiful beauty in them,
or so I tell myself, because truth be told,
I didn’t do it out of some insatiable sense
of altruism—they were the cheapest,
that’s all. But doesn’t it feel better
to see yourself as an altruist
rather than a miser?
Forty years and the summer is over.
The raincoat and Wellington boots
are slowly catching up with the time
measured with the ochres of withered
leaves sticking to the soles, while hands
in pockets, still not ready for a cane,
are clutching the pebbles emitting
the last of the sunny riverbank warmth
until the first frost doffs its fedora
to the autumn foliage cadaver.
This is not your typical nine-to-five—utterance hunt, I mean. You struggle all day long
and through the night, whether it be journalism or poetry, just to get a glimpse of the truth
once in a while. I have been there, so I know. The only difference is that in one, you chase
facts of life embraced in words, while in the other, you pursue words embracing facts of life.
Perhaps I will leave saving the world
to greater minds and braver spirits.
I am not cut for profundity, too meagre
to become a hero, and clearly lack
the necessary charisma to inspire others.
There has always been something
missing in my constitution
that prevented me from even approaching
the depths of the sages’ wisdom
I desperately desired.
And since I cannot pave new paths,
all that remains is to limit damage
within the existing ones, at least
in my own backyard.
It must feel good to see the world in technicolour. Mine has always been sketched with charcoal,
with occasional dun streaks and traces of mould in places. For long, I blamed myself for not being
a great drawing subject. After all, you cannot expect an artist to find inspiration in a boring shape.
But then it struck me that there is no such thing as my world but the world, and it has colours—only
I am colour-blind.
I always know when my next-door neighbour is watching a comedy or when the couples downstairs
have burned their Sunday dinner. On the ground floor, there is a rather odd man who lives in his car
instead of the flat and keeps the building door wide open and the floor wet when constantly washing
or repairing his equally strange old vehicle. I guess, for a poet, living in a multi-apartment building
could be a great source of observations on people’s habits, but I will not lie, it also annoys the hell
out of me sometimes. I just hope that talking to myself out loud at four in the morning while writing
does not get anyone on their feet. All in all, I seem to fit in quite well here.
For Elizabeth
I doubt myself every morning after I wake up and find I need another reason to get out of bed.
It was not always like this, but somewhere along the way, I lost my passion and limited myself
to simply staying alive. I have long since accepted that I am not going to be the sun, but now
I am slowly realising that even shining a reflected light in the depths of the night may be beyond
my reach. And I am actually fine with that. There is nothing wrong with being one of the pebbles
found on the river bank, as long as there is a warm hand to hold it.
We like to emphasise our uniqueness, but to tell the truth, we are all simple creatures of habit,
repeating the same mistakes over and over again, as if there really were nothing more important
than preventing ourselves from becoming unsubstantial, even if it is only through futile attempts
at growing ultra-long hair, or, as they call it, princess hair for her and bold six-pack abs for him.
And although lying prone on the bed makes it easier to choke down your screech with a soft gag
of the pillow, even that is just a matter of fashion.
We often say, I’m dying for this, or I’m dead serious about that, or even I would die
a thousand deaths before [something], not to mention the notorious dying of a broken
heart, but sooner or later death is going to be more than just another figure of speech.
Shadowing life like a stop-motion artist replacing figurines on a scene so that hardly
anyone notices frame skips, with a single casual stroke, it will stop you mid-sentence
for ever, regardless of whether you mind your words or not. But you could consider
those left behind.
hidden pilcrow 