Tag: poem

“Nobody reads poetry these days.”
Mr. Nothing shifted a questioning glance
from the pages of Britannia Depicta
to the poet, who, however, seemed to be
talking to himself, bent over a notebook
with the gold-plated finial of his favourite
Carène caressing his lower lip, and asked,
“Not even poets?”

A genius or a madman, the poet really knew how to touch a nerve at times.
Even the simple-minded Platocrates, in the depths of despair, on occasion
insisted that there was a reason why poets, although treated with respect,
should not be allowed to live in a well-ordered home. But for some reason,
Mr. Nothing had a certain fondness for this obnoxious dandy. Who knows,
perhaps his presence at the table was a step towards redemption, or maybe
just a means of preserving memories.

Nobody listens to Platocrates in Castlegate any more. Even the seagulls
were more interested in the scraps of bread than in his tortuous arguments.
The thing is, nowadays, the agora has moved into different realms,
with its own crowd of preachers and unrelenting keyboard warriors.
Anyway, Mr. Nothing, in his heart, also admitted to himself that following
this quaint persona occasionally left him feeling somewhat uneasy
as he courageously tried to make up for his lack of eloquence in front
of the old self-styled fool.

He had always wanted to be able to play the piano
or the violin, for that matter, but at this point, Mr. Nothing,
although reluctantly, admitted that he could actually be
content with an ordinary harmonica, as he had already settled
once, like every future stranger, and managed to get along
with that fairly well for a while, considering the odds.
But there had never been enough time, and now it was
just a man flying a kite whom Mr. Nothing would never know,
Platocrates would ignore when feeding the seagulls,
and the poet, well, he was always trying to capture
nothing but his own silence.

Mr. Nothing knew many things, but nothing of much importance.
On warm afternoons, on his way to a walk along the promenade,
he liked to stop at Castlegate and listen to the old drunk Platocrates
bantering with seagulls on the steps of Mercat Cross.
Sometimes, in a fit of good humour, he would take the poet with him,
but usually he reserved these rare moments of respite for himself
and the shoulder bag, in which he carried all the essential things
that were never of any use.

Mr. Nothing looked at the man he had become,
the man he had once wanted to be,
and the man he had a chance to grow up into,
and tried to recall the boy doomed to be one of them.
He also wondered which one best suited the poet
with his ridiculous collection of fountain pens and typewriters,
bizarre habits of making sure he shut the door properly
and attachment to words like “perhaps” and “indeed.”
They had been at odds with each other for quite a while,
and only recently, all of a sudden, they found some form
of peaceful, if not harmonious, coexistence.
Mr. Nothing provided the poet with a roof over his head,
five meals a day, and an adequate amount of sleep,
while the poet, in return, amused him on long winter evenings
with tales of his favourite personal pronouns
adrift in a salutary indeterminacy.