Tag: poem

i should have just stayed invisible.
with a body that hurts in so many ways,
my voice finally leaked all over the bed
in a futile attempt to pass beyond that
favourite perhaps and indeed of mine.
i even tried to remember why i stopped
wearing ties, only to realise that i had
no idea why i wore them in the first place.
and then, while walking in the heavy rain,
i suddenly dropped an umbrella at the cry
of è rimpianto, è rimpianto, è dolor!

i was a teen when i first heard the colonel mention them,
the heelots, that they had got a stranglehold on me,
and filled with dread, i added, before i was even born.
but then the wall fell, and finally seeing life in technicolour
made his words sound like another old man’s grumble.
so i moved on. and only now, over three decades later,
when i ran into his diatribe by chance, did i decide to pay
attention once more. the thing is, i no longer feel at ease
with technicoloured landscape.

if the dumbest of creatures are always the happiest,
then my miserable disposition inevitably leads
to the conclusion that i must be particularly bright,
although i am afraid the latter would not hold up
under scrutiny for long. and even if affirming
the consequent may seem somewhat enticing at first,
it will quickly lead to undesirable consequences,
such as the increase in the number of my heirs
born to my female readers.

there is something appalling about the idea of a secular bible,
as if we were that poor relative from the provinces, skilfully
imitating metropolitan customs yet somehow not quite right.
and still, i wanted to know, so i fabricated that unassuming
disposition of mine, but as i was looking for the right words,
i forgot what it was for, like the other day, when i ate a pear,
delicious and seedless.

i must be alive, since i am writing this stanza
after i walked you home and said goodnight,
even though it was morning. i must be alive.
you see, one likes a pint of lager, or cider
for that matter, while the other gets intoxicated
with words. but eventually we let it go, settling
for a regular cuppa, or trying to coffin teabags
brewed with tepid water.

as charming as he may be, a poet is not a husband-material,
because sooner or later he will turn your life into a cadence
of words scattered randomly across the page. so you better
listen to what mrs. dreyfuss said, and find yourself a nice,
substantial man, a widower perhaps, and settle down instead
of looking longingly at that beatnik. unless you do not mind
life without a napkin.

the shadows belong to the nooks and crannies,
so when one dares to step out into the brightness
without a veil of delight, one will get slapped
on the fingers, if nothing more, for spoiling
the pastel landscape. no wonder this jolly picture
looks somewhat flat and shallow.

should we embrace the word finally
or just allow ourselves one more moment
of self-pity? when there is not much left
to exchange, we must make a choice:
greed for life or mourning over somehow
overlooked meanings. at least now we know
all our little inventions.

there were supposed to be twelve traditional dishes
and carols for a family celebration, but why bother
with all that when there is no family to celebrate?
so i settled for a bowl of greek yoghurt with nuts
and fruit, and some not-so-romantic romcom.
later, i called my rebellious teens and their mother
with christmas wishes. to be honest, it took me longer
to prepare the yoghurt than the phone call lasted.
but i guess i do not really have the right to complain.

in the tradition in which i grew up, there is nothing
more important than a christmas eve vigil supper.
it is not that it has some kind of religious dimension
for me, as i am an atheist, and if i had to find an analogy,
i would consider it more of a birthday alike, but still.
and sitting in an empty flat, when i think about it,
i start to wonder what it is that we are supposed to be
celebrating tonight, because neither the family i come from,
nor the one i tried to create, survived even the starters.