Tag: poem

people find me funny when i am angry
because i am angry, although usually
just sad and otherwise unremarkable.
and there is also that fine line between
acceptance and the resigned shrug at all
that one considers one’s fate.

many years have passed since i learned the greek alphabet.
the first cause was, as always, the blind bard from ionia,
followed by the three tragedians and the father of comedy.
but the symbols once drawn by the hand of plato and aristotle
now mainly represent the variants of concern, with the omicron
just beginning to fill the red lists.

lapped with gusts of wind, the longing sound
of violins sinks into the rapids of pavement,
flooding the rainy day with pachelbel’s canon.
i look less and less at an emaciated calendar
with a handful of pages left to be torn off,
the last leaves on the tattered birch tree
outside the window, with no hope nestling
into the granite.

every time i die, word by word, breaking through
the stanzas, i reveal my anointed embarrassment
resting on the paper catafalque. every little slip,
every scratch and bruise, every fleeting glimpse
caught when least expected, every yes and no
carefully extracted from the rattle of my old
smith-corona lies in front of you. but remember,
you do not read my journal, so stop asking if this
or that really happened. would you ask stephen king
if he killed all these people?

you do not have to be particularly unhappy;
sometimes all you need is to not be happy
enough. then you get your gaiety booster
prescribed by a man in white, and you wonder
a week later how on earth you woke up
on this uncomfortable bed with your arm
connected to a drip, the sound of wheeze
coming from the bed on the right and moaning
from the other side. and when will the bell
of a nearby cathedral toll another hour
until the next inevitable examination
of your subjection?

maybe i listened to too much dylan and read
too many romantic poets, but who could blame me
for feeling disappointed when, while searching for the path
where the falling leaves caressed her shadow, i realised
that she had deceived me, my girl from the north country.
now i know that, in one fell swoop, i lost my love i had
never had.

my watch stopped a long time ago.
at first, i thought it only paused
for a moment. but after a while,
i realised it was over, even despite
my pathetic attempts at resuscitation.
the only thing left was to take care
of its wretched remains. nothing,
not even the ultimate clockwork,
lasts forever. if only i could stop
pretending to be a watchmaker
who caught the time.

i try to understand her whisper
through the sound of the violin,
while someone in the background
asks about fears and someone else
burst out laughing when someone
drops a book on the floor. silence
is a hiccup.

you learnt how to say forever,
even though it was just for a moment.
you sought certainty as if on bail
awaiting trial and the answers
were anything but controlled doubts.
even forgiveness in this strange,
no longer man-friendly place
has turned into mere indifference.
but remember, oral hygiene is not always
about brushing your teeth.