Tag: poem

when confronted with the quotidian predicament
of a finely forced awakening while still half asleep,
i blindly hit the space next to my bed, attempting
to deliver the knockout blow to an annoyance
made of shoddy plastic in a bland sea blue
(i do not mind the colour, and neither does time).
sometimes i win this encounter, but usually
all i manage to do is fall off onto the cold floor.
and this is where my daily dose of spontaneity
ends.

it all started when, beyond
the essential yes and no,
you learned the word perhaps.
and although over time
you have lessened the habit
of overusing the conditional
mood in favour of the indicative,
long words, like long shadows,
still say little about the sunset
of yours.

if you had asked me if i ever spoke
in country lyrics, i would have denied it,
proudly pointing to the legacy of pindar
and keats. but deep down, i know
that i envy your little week;
your sorrows and delights;
your passions and your spites;
your glory and your shame;
and that there is hardly anything
i could say that you do not already know.
but guessing your day from the creak
of the upstairs floor, all i can muster
is the rustle of a page as it flips.

what is your name?
and why do i get the feeling
that you are hiding it in the colour
of your lipstick that distracts others
from the shadow in your gaze
as you face the rain without an umbrella,
letting the first drop roll down your cheek
already streaked with one?

i wear my past as if it were my heritage.
a little tight, worn here and there, tailored
to the old fashion, allows me to recognise
my reflection in the pupils of one’s eyes,
even if it is only a glance of indifference.
and if i feel too comfortable with that gaze,
i ask for directions to some random place
and continue my peregrinations aimlessly.
i wear my past as if it were my future,
indefinitely.

do you remember that scene from tootsie
where michael approaches julie at the party
with a pick-up line she previously told him
she would like to hear, as she was unaware
of his female disguise? i think i know what
he felt then. i just saw a meme somewhere
with a picture of a stunningly beautiful lass
with a text that says she will never talk to me
if i refer to her beauty and attractiveness,
but i certainly have a chance if i tell her
about my poetry. it is puzzling, because
whenever i try exactly that, she runs away
faster that one could spell the simple word
eirōneía.

[…] reason by itself alone kills, and it is imagination that gives life.

Miguel de Unamuno, The Tragic Sense Of Life

will wuhan find its thucydides or lima its camus?
or perhaps a new boccaccio was born somewhere
in kolkata or mumbai? because for now, the wind
brings only the mouthpiece of statistics, followed
by finger pillory.

the old adage says that a picture
is worth a thousand words,
and it is hard to argue with that
when looking at odessa steps.
yet i can not escape the power
of words, even if it is just a rhyme
that starts with the familiar
remember, remember, recalled
when in the silence of my study
i hear the distant sounds
of bonfire night.

i swapped my fountain pen for a pencil
because it never really lets you down,
regardless of all the imperfections
of the weather, and allows you to write
on napkins and book margins without
ruining them. if only it could improve
my word power.