I hope you do not mind becoming a muse, as nothing more than an occasional verse
will ever come out of that. No expectations, no strings attached; your pure existence
three thousand miles or so away is all it takes. And even if, by sheer chance, we meet
somewhere, we can always avail ourselves of some small talk. I hope you do not mind
becoming just one more moment of reflection.
For Makenna
An ocean and three decades apart, how pathetic can a heart be
to change its beat for a blooming wit? Has it learned nothing
from Molière’s old geezer about what awaits a risible suitor?
Perhaps the Harpagons of yore really are my only brethren
in this old conundrum, but for what it is worth, I can always
share a verse about it.
Some claim they are half-full-glass kind of people; others say they are half-empty.
Me neither, as I already drank the liqueur and smashed the glass, and all that is left
is to pee, pray, and go to sleep. Perhaps the proverb holds true, but only if you play
by its rules.
While life is still in technicolour, I like watching it in the sharper contrast of a black-and-white
motion picture. And so you can imagine my irritation when I see on the silver screen a pale, flat
palette of colours instead. Where does this strange trend come from, and why? There is a saying
where I come from that better is the enemy of good, which basically means if you start messing
with something that is already fine, you will ruin it. I cannot argue with that after seeing Scarlet
Street colourised. I just hope they never touch Nosferatu.
My first child was never born—the foetus failed to develop a heart and died.
The doctor assured us that we had nothing to worry about because, in the first
pregnancy, such things happen often—kind of a false start—and the next one
will be perfectly fine for sure. What really struck me then was the discrepancy
in the language. I guess the child occupied the parental realm of the possible,
while the foetus was the clay-cold reality of medicine.
If you have ever wondered what life would look like with a poet, take me as an example.
You can count on a walk along the Victoria Road and across the golf course to the lighthouse,
where you have a chance to spot a flock of house sparrows along the way and, if you are lucky,
even a curious fox, but not on a holiday in Sicily or a weekend in Málaga. I will also be more
inclined to write you a verse or two than a cheque, and if I happen to remember your birthday,
you will get Camus rather than Versace, likely purchased as a gift aid at Oxfam on Back Wynd.
Of course, evenings on the sofa with a book or a black-and-white film can be taken for granted.
Perhaps none of that has anything to do with poetry and is just me being, well, me. No wonder
I spend my days in solitude.
Bread-making came to me out of necessity rather than some newly discovered passion
for baking when I found that the daily loaf was slowly ravaging my guts and its pricey
replacement tasted more like a piece of cardboard—not that I ever tried it, but I imagine
the sensation would be similar—than anything even remotely resembling my favourite
multigrain. Years of experimenting gave me something quite likeable—a bit heavy, more
on the chewy end like pumpernickel, with an intense aroma and spicy aftertaste. I guess
even an illness can do you some good sometimes.
Being immortal seems like such a hassle. Personally, I do not mind
the expiration date—all the bodily needs are what really bother me.
Imagine taking care of that ad infinitum when there is only so much
you can do to spice it up. Even after boredom eventually killed your
spirit, you still had no choice but to perform the daily rituals. So stop
finally whining about paradise lost, because in fact, it was a desperate
escape from hell.
While it has always been nothing more than an annoying but unavoidable chore, I find eating
to be a rather intimate activity, which is why I do not see much difference between a restaurant
and a brothel, where, purely because of some social convention, I have to spend the equivalent
of a week’s worth of home-made dinners on something my body is going to excrete a few hours
later anyway, just to show all the strangers occupying every inch of space around me that I have
impeccable table manners.
hidden pilcrow 