Tag: poem

He was probably a little more articulated than most of his peers,
and at that point, too deprived of any further illusions to stand
the excess of their attention without even a single bitter note.
But once he had descended behind the wall of sarcasm, he never
really managed to free himself from a certain stiffness of disposition.

It was not until years later, when Mr. Nothing admitted to the poet
that there was something intimately familiar about that somewhat
long glance, which, he regretted, was lost in a too late realisation.
But even his disappointment was marked with a hint of irony:
“At least we were spared the cold words ‘yours’ and ‘mine’.”

As lofty as it might sound, the prolonged wait to meet destiny
made Mr. Nothing sometimes forget the taint in his chest.
But then a twinge or a waiting list reminder brings him to heel.

If only he could stay a little longer, with all the time to devote
to the Greek of Alexandria, a great lover of ancient history
and young men in secret moments of the forbidden sublime.

But perhaps it is still not too late to at least help the poet
repair his constantly rickety typewriter and mock the seagulls
on the promenade with the increasingly silent Platocrates.

The old business card used as a bookmark
told Mr. Nothing the last time he had attempted
to read the sesquipedalian first-fruits of the poet,
which he now looked at with some disbelief
as he accidentally fumbled that handcrafted volume
from under a pile of papers in his desk drawer.

He barely remembered that, now nameless, face
with incredibly long hair, that had made these lines
come into existence. But although the poet would never
admit it, Mr. Nothing knew that despite his passionate
disputes with Platocrates on the nature of feelings,
he was still as clueless as then, and just as frantic.

There were words that Mr. Nothing did not trust
the dictionary to provide an adequate definition for.
For instance, what was he supposed to say
in response to the question, “Are you happy?”
The problem is not even with that unfortunate “happy,”
but with the one who asks the question.

Mr. Nothing watched the poet tinkering with a typewriter
and Platocrates weighing white and black pebbles in his hands
while looking thoughtfully at a large clay jar standing in front
of him. And since he himself, more out of habit than necessity,
read lines full of foreign-sounding names and events that meant
nothing any more, he suddenly felt as if they were strange triplets
from an incongruous nest. He would have used the word “weirdo”
before, but after learning of its negative connotation, he settled
for “just another man.”

The poet came to the conclusion
that he lacked a good biography.
He was not a war hero, not even a child of war.
Communism also somehow missed him.

It is true that he accompanied Mr. Nothing in his exile,
but without unnecessary excesses, in the silence
of his shady nook full of unfinished books
and secretly obtained typewriters.

But then, in the midst of his tirade,
thoughtful Platocrates, setting down another white stone,
reached for a volume from a pile on his desk
and, leafing through, said,

“When the next time they ask for your name,
say it is Echecrates,
and that you were carrying the cup
by association.”

The poet would likely find better words,
but Mr. Nothing only ventured to repeat
after a song, as tormented by the myriads
of his infinitesimal desires, each inflicting
a different kind of despair, he tried in vain
to invent endearments that could get him
to the infinite springs of jasmine scent.
And as he stood at the edge of the meadow,
Platocrates suddenly spoke, somewhat out
of context, “The god compels me to be
a midwife, but forbids me to bring forth.”

A glass of water at Old Blackfriars caught Mr. Nothing’s thoughts,
while the poet’s playful banter charmed a jasmine gaze on the other side
of the table. It was the taste of the water, somewhat salty with some sip,
that reminded him of reckless words he had spoken many years ago,
that eventually got him to where he was now, annoying the bartender.
And then a figure like him appeared, with no roots in the granite
cobblestones, reached up to his cheek for a fallen eyelash and said,
“Make a wish and blow.”