Tag: poem

the concept of small talk is something
that has always bewildered me. intuition
tells me that it is the inability to face
the silence that pushes some to all these
futile exchanges that are meant to resemble
conversation. but although the motivation
behind this baffling behaviour remains
a mystery that i would very much like
to solve someday, for now i remain courteously
indifferent. only, i wonder why do people
avoid me?

i once said i love you and i actually meant it,
but i guess in the end, it is not what you say,
it is what the expectations are. you can curse,
to give an example, in your soul, but in public,
strict hygiene is obligatory, both in language
and in deeds. that is probably why one day
i realised that you can only appear as a flaw
in a mirror image.

i try to remember my name, matityahu,
a gift from yahweh, whose existence
i do not believe, just to be clear.
but let us assume, for the sake of argument,
that there is a god, whatever his name is,
and that my rotting matter was given by him.
then, despite all the unsuccessful accounts
of existence, there is still this inexplicable
need to find out if the unwanted gift
is worth the wrapping paper.

i choose to remember only the details,
like the french crystal pendalogues
of the chandelier in your father’s study
or the squeaky planks of your bedroom
floor, and the still perceptible smell
of tobacco smoke in the loft, a memory
of the days when it was timidly occupied
by our first attempts at adulthood.

some mark the passage of time with birthdays,
others with summer holidays or hogmanays.
for me, every year, such a marker is a letter
mentioning two colours – purple and orange.
the former points to the place where a smiling
technician catches the echoes from my chest.
in the latter, a physician with a sombre face
tries to figure out why i am asymptomatic
despite deteriorating images on his desk.
and it has been going on like that for years.
only now, it might be the last time. my heart
betrayed my poker face.

do you remember that moment you were waiting for,
the one where all that was left was small talk? of course
not. you never expected that it could ever happen to you,
do you? you have always had this certainty that the day
will simply love you back, and now you just have trouble
sleeping. and if you asked for a sceptic, only to tell him
the funny things one says to someone that one loves,
he would pretend for a moment that he does not know
what you mean. then you could walk together through
the night streets of the city, as if all the possibilities
did not miss you that one night.

I came like Water, and like Wind I go.

The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

appreciation for a bowl of porridge comes with time.
but first, you will learn to cherish all the little stories
of your childhood that your parents unintentionally
embarrassed you in front of every new love of your
unfinished life.

i am nothing but a link
in the reproduction chain,
and still a snob reading elegy
written in a country churchyard,
wondering if that weary reign
is ever going to fade.
and, if we toss ambitions aside,
you dare ask why, there is always
that somewhat awkward silence
engraved in the granite.

i am still the first draft of a person,
not exactly a catch, a puny little
jest rather than a strong punchline.
sadly, my reflection in the mirror
cannot understand this, and it scares
me more and more with the sight
of this greying imitation of dignity.
and i might actually be okay with it,
if it were not for this tiny, insignificant
detail: the poet suddenly wanted to get
rid of me.