Tag: poem

it was four shillings’ worth of words, moved gently once
across millennia and given with a thoughtful line to soothe
the nights of chilling blackouts. i found it hidden on a shelf
in a charitable establishment quietly run by some odd fellows
in a forgotten, ancient alley. at first, its dusty gilded head
and slightly soiled burgundy covers escaped my eye, but then
i took a half step back and grabbed their word of sudden hope
at a time when hope was worth no word.

Morning a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?

The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

tell me, whose fault was it that we tried to escape the autumn scent,
naively believing in the linden blossoms collected that summer?
you taught me to follow your inattentive gaze into shady alleys.
i created random phrases to escape the attention of foreign ears.
even the volume of ovid, opened only on odd days of the week,
was still filled with sycamore leaves falling in this one park.
so tell me, how did we miss winter coming?

it was supposed to be magic, except that she had never heard
of as time goes by, and magic has been in short supply lately.
so, as i walked her home, i let myself draw an imaginary line
through the merak and dubhe in search of my gone astray days.
but sometimes i wonder: am i an incurable romantic, or do i just
have too much spare time?

a homeless couple hidden from the rain
under the mercat cross play carols on flutes
to remind strangers what a decent life is,
in spite of everything. and when they hear
nothing in return but the screams of joy
from the pendulum ride and merry-go-round
in the nearby christmas village, they remain
as silent as ever. but sometimes silence
is the loudest scream.

i am feverish, so i might rave…
kidding, these are just mild flu
symptoms. but my arm hurts
like it did in the school days
when the bully hit me hard.
but if you forgive my frivolity,
let me tell you something fundamental.
this little bit of inconvenience,
if i catch the thing, can save my life
and the lives of my loved ones,
at a small risk of complications.
frankly, i risk more every morning
by simply crossing the street.

the last piece of flatbread ruthlessly reminds me
of all the insatiabilities i scrupulously note down
every time i check the pantry cabinet, the fridge,
and my bower. and that is how the shopping list
turns into a love letter.

‘But ’twas a famous victory.’

Robert Southey, After Blenheim

politics is for grown-ups, not for a poor poetaster immersed
in the juvenile world of mr. magorium’s wonder emporium,
who is fairly disappointed that he cannot breath in and out
at the same time, not quite ready yet to run out of the words
used to tease the accidental now and occasional practicality,
and still trying to find a way to come to terms with the reality
of the “war on terror” he once applauded.

a woman in a wedding dress expects anything
but disappointment. and she should, because,
frankly speaking, otherwise, what is the point?
so she may be willing to accept a pinch of surprise,
but definitely not that the man in a black tailcoat
on the other end of the aisle one day changes
into this pot-bellied stranger sitting with a beer
in front of the telly and yelling at the footballers.

but could he lose his blissful smile at the altar
if he had foreseen that his chosen one would turn
into that netflix series fanatic, weaponizing sex
and expecting him to use the crystal ball to read
her wishes and reasons for her changing moods,
and that no matter how hard he tried, he only heard
criticism and dissatisfaction? and that their daughter
will learn from her mum how to treat her other half.

thank god she will be born a lesbian.

today i learned a new expression:
the bureaucracy of death. i heard it
from the custodian of peace of mind,
the insurance agent. it is actually kind
of ironic when the memento mori
leads us to a clerk.