Tag: poem

wandering through the streets of the city,
i pass boisterous people, blissful couples,
and whole families laden with daily errands
and emphatic periods. and unless i get in
their way, they ignore me, which is fine.

and then i see a face with that familiar look,
a thin, stooped shadow in the crowd, staring
at the pavement to avoid the eyes of others,
a vivid reflection of my own hollow face
that i have been avoiding for a while now.

we pass each other, brothers in solitude,
without a sign of recognition, with the timid
silence of witnesses to the passage of time,
mismatched like unpaired socks at the bottom
of a drawer, nothing in common but that.

and there are many of us, some seeking help
in brotherhood, for better or for worse,
some falling into the trap, but all struggling
on their own, because at the end of the day,
there is only grammar of the four blank walls.

you know that you have lost when you come to a singles’ night out
and there are more than twice as many men as women, the latter
being either your daughter’s or your mother’s age.

you know that you are in a losing position as you do not do extreme
sports, you do not travel around the world, and the hot summer
makes you look toward the arctic circle with longing in your eyes.

you know that you have no chance of attracting anyone’s attention
because you are unaware of the latest gossip and popular tv shows,
and the age of the music and books that you enjoy is measured

in centuries rather than years of your social death.

so you are alive and i am dead. you are alive
to the sentiment in my stanzas, and i am dead
serious about collecting all the new york clichés
and bad jokes casually thrown by shadowy cynics,
because why not, if taking a walk and falling there
could help me feel alive again?

they say we are only six people apart.
but what does it matter when my voice
fades as soon as it reaches the friends
of my friends’ friends? you will never
hear the words that i want to whisper
to you on the coney island boardwalk.

they say we are only seventy-two degrees
apart. except that on the school globe,
every distance is short. my arms cannot
reach three thousand miles to hug you,
catching sunrise on the brooklyn bridge
with your cute twin-lens reflex camera.

they say… it does not really matter what
they say. all the degrees of separation
lose their relevance in a place shared
with an unrepentant stranger, espoused
at the wrong time for the wrong reasons.
loneliness is easier in an empty bedroom.

A favourite has no friend!

Thomas Gray, Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes

night intervals measured by dreams
and physiology bring the brevity
of fate, this ironic courtesan,
to the bedside of the dying child
of illusion destined by birth to parent
disappointment.

is making an omelette an art or an act
of desperation? what does it mean
if an egg in the fridge and a can
of kidney beans in the cupboard
are all you have left to eat?
not that the stores were closed
or their shelves empty or something.
even the distance is not a problem
as you live in the city centre.
and you have everything you need
to do your shopping, except an act
of will.

as the late evening washes away
the withered traces of daylight,
i watch from the drenched window
as the weary shadows of passers-by
plunge into the whispers of the rain
and ask debussy if i can see the light
of the lighthouse on the other side
of the street again, but all he offers
is a bit of moonlight melancholy
for ninety-ninepence a track.
a blind man’s buff goes
without light.

every morning i make myself breakfast;
flat bread with cheese spread and salad,
sometimes a can of fish in spicy tomato
sauce, and i brew a cup of redbush tea.
dirty dishes go to the washing-up bowl,
and i collect them until there are enough
to make it worthwhile to heat up a kettle
of water. who needs a dishwasher, right?
because you see, i like washing dishes,
methodically breaking through a pile
of bowls and plates, putting an even row
of washed cups and glasses on the dryer.
and, by polishing the cutlery, for a brief
moment, i could give the impression
that it was just another day or two.

looking at the portrait of james taylor,
i am waiting for both sides now to finish
shedding raindrops on the window sill.
i envy him that relaxed smile, his hands
folded behind his head, and that dreamy
look into the distance. all my portraits
are at a crossroads. if only i had painted them
differently.