Tag: poem

It was a beautiful winter morning, so I finally decided to go for a walk.
I changed, washed my teeth, polished my shoes, checked all the socket
switches and water taps, and, making sure everything was fine, left.
But what a disappointment! The weather suddenly turned into a blizzard.
So I came back home, changed into some loungewear, and sat on the sofa
to continue reading “Protagoras.” Then the sun rose from behind the clouds
and shone brightly through the window again, and the clean blue sky bared
its teeth at me in an ironic smile. But this time I refrained from re-attempting
to go out. Not that I was superstitious or anything, but just why on earth
should I spoil fun for others? What is interesting is that I did not think
that the old excuses were still working.

I never really knew what was expected
as me, what part I was supposed to play,
and there was always something rough
in my chest that kept reminding me
that most of my life I have been a runner,
only not one of those professional athletes
sweating out miles in branded running gear,
but running away, fastening upon the words
out of the irrelevance of sanctified forms,
and every year choosing seats a little closer
to the radiator.

Rain is just water. It does not hurt
to watch the drops trickle down the glass.
I still remember when, out of disposable moments,
arose your promise to watch “Det sjunde inseglet”
if I explained to you the word “yuck”,
polite but casual. Or when I ran down the stairs
like an escape master, the self-proclaimed hero
of endless grumbling at broken lifts,
and you just kissed my cheek,
wishing me that one day it would come in handy,
that glass of water next to my bed.

So, here we are, another year,
another pile of unfulfillable goals
and wishful thinking. But this time,
I have decided that I will only make
one New Year’s resolution: to stop
making New Year’s resolutions.
If only I could get over the strange
feeling that I sound a bit like
a famous Cretan.

I always have a book
on my bedside table.
The same book,
read over and over again,
or just lying there
as a tacit reminder
that there is more to life
than life. And some say,
“One book is all you need,”
although I am pretty sure
they mean a completely
different volume.
After all, I do not live
in a roadside motel.

As eleven degrees Celsius attracts awakened flies
and anti-vaccine rallies, the crowded promenade,
filled with the barking of dogs and the cries of gulls
hunting for a piece of burger torn from the hand
of an inattentive passer-by, lines up at the food stalls.
The surfers in neoprene suits try to catch the weak
waves of the North Sea. And one can hear small talk
and laughter all around. Even the street violinist
is playing more cheerfully than usual, trying to make
some extra money on top of his zero-hours contract
as a music teacher. And everything would be fine
with this genre scene if not for one small detail:
it is really hard to believe it is the penultimate day
of December.

All night long, all day, the doors of Hades stand open.
But to retrace the path, to come up to the sweet air of heaven,
That is labour indeed.

Virgil, Aeneid

So you finally made it
through the winter’s allegro non molto.

Now, lying on the shore of the Channel
like a great-eyed bireme that you sailed,
which looks as alien to them as the letters you used
to write your name on the unfamiliar sands,
you dream of holding your beloved Creusa.

Only, she lies among the ruins of Troy.

Instead, the Sibyl in navy blue,
surgical gloves, and a face mask,
with a firm gesture, guides you
through the gate of abandoned hope
to the detention estate.

Helen, left her most noble husband
and went sailing off to Troy with no thought at all
for her child or dear parents

Sappho, Fragment 16

A little girl watched an armada of biremes
hurtling to the north-east with the Lacedaemonian army
and their proud king, her father.

He did not tell her why. He just left. But she heard
it had something to do with someone called Paris,
and as she looked questioningly at a beautiful woman
standing next to her, she stroked her cheek
and, sighing thoughtfully, replied,
“You see, men need their legends
to excuse their wars.”

The winners write history textbooks, the others cover plain fields.
There is nothing revealing about it. One could say, a simple fact of life.
And it worked out just fine for millennia. At least for the winners.
But then something went wrong. First, someone discovered that history
had ended, although soon after, history decided to have a go anyway.
Then someone else, amplified by the echo chamber, weaponized failure.
And suddenly, we discovered that no one really pays attention to writers,
because all that matters is the echo.