Tag: poem

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,
so we should not take that first bout of novelty as blithely.
But only the old know how to be silent, the old and the stillborn
splashes of ink.

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
of the book in the bag over your shoulder, trying to recall the meaning
of printed words we read a long time ago. After all, why should I trust
my hands less than my eyes during this disguised lesson in the anatomy
of inconvenient bygones?

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
of letters conveniently undelivered on time.

When there is nothing left but small talk,
we can finally abandon all pretence of trying
to master the Voynichese of inherited scars
and never quite perceived inadequacies.

When there is nothing left but small talk,
the way to survive one more tepid cuppa
is to feign that somewhat bitter awe admirably,
and yet not to behave as we are expected to.

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.
An early breakfast gives you something to brush off. But don’t worry, a bag of cashews
as a treat: Perfect for snacking or sprinkled into stir fries or curries, will be your only
attempt at perfection.

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
to compete with the landscape? And nothing could be more
intimidating than an excess of free time and bottles
of anti-dandruff shampoo in a vanity cabinet.

My name is Rapunzel. I live in the tower. I will wait here
until you finally give up on that ridiculous urge to jerk my hair
or the absurd idea that I need to be saved, whichever comes first.

My name is Rapunzel, the tower you crave.

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.
Or maybe I just got lazy. But I have learned that a rug
is not exactly a carpet, that heroes also sometimes struggle
with continuity, and that keeping your shoes laced up
is never quite good enough. So when a drunk once asked me,
“What can’t you see at the end of that road?”, I said, “A shush
that drowned out the usual voice-over expressed expectations.”

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
to meet each subsequent morning’s imposed needs
and expectations handwritten on the refrigerator door.
But a telephone that never rings is all for decoration,
as is a box of unread letters and a dictionary purchased
just the day before, which has lost its relevance already,
yet still needs dusting, like all the trinkets of the day.

I didn’t sleep well last night.
Already disheartened, I spent the usual
eight hours in front of the computer.
Then shopping, microwave dinner,
an essay from The Portable Atheist,
and a poem from The City of Dreadful Night.
Meanwhile, I was reminded of the novels
by nineteenth-century Russian writers
that I devoured in my youth. All this kept me
from staring at the newsfeed incessantly.
You see, I don’t know what I am doing.
Not helping, that’s for sure. At best, I calm
my conscience. Because who needs stanzas
when ammunition is low? What can puns
be good for when tanks are approaching?
How much effective protection can all these
sophisticated poetic devices provide
against the constant shelling of skyscrapers
thousands of miles away? Yet I still remember
the words of the poet I learned when I was seven:
“I sound the alarm for the city of Warsaw.”
Another era, another city, another aggressor;
the only constants are the fear and tears
of the innocent.

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
a nation to stand bravely on the street barricades
with Molotov cocktails against tanks and vacuum bombs
thrown by the dictator and his minions. And I suppose
it only takes a glance for a decent person to decide
if they will express sorrow in some dramatic fashion
or actually bother to act upon it for as long as it takes.