If you step out of formal calculus
into your own bedchamber,
there are no proofs, only presumptions—
subject to circumstantial evidence—
and algorithm-induced silence of the granary,
where you savour that quaint blend
of Demotic and Katharevousa in Cavafy,
never quite ready to acknowledge
your audience.
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The docile grieve sotto voce, thrumming
the sorrows in the shade of a lime tree and drystane dyke.
After all, there’s nothing wrong with being a little awkward,
like a former semi-famous adolescent birdwatcher—
never reckless despite youth—now a lean curmudgeon,
collecting lanterns and astrolabes, having realised that
not every message needs to be delivered.
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There is none but one certainty,
expressed by the simple ‘I am’—
everything else, like the nine extra floors,
contemplated with that achromatic I of mine,
is a possibility; though if I pretended
to be anything but a curmudgeon on a rainy day,
delighted that the gentle patter of raindrops
on the leaves of the tree outside my window
replaced the song of Malebolge rising
from the school yard across the street at lunch,
I would be lying.
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I like rainy days, when the gentle patter of raindrops on the leaves of the tree outside my window replaces the song of Malebolge rising from the school yard across the street at lunch break. Does that make me a curmudgeon?
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From anacoluthon through zeugma,
Mr Honk savoured his grammatical incongruity
in the omnitude of the alphabet
as if linguistic phenomena were the draught that gave him life—
even if pronounced by a Doppler shift—
with an inclination to say ‘perhaps’ rather than ‘maybe’
and ‘indeed’ instead of a blunt ‘yes’,
which earned him the well-deserved title of snob—
a negligible price to pay for a stint in the temple of solitude—
the lost consort.
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Part hermit, part monk, Mr Honk—
courtesy of Mr Wallace—
wondered at what subordinate clause
his sentence would abruptly end,
even if he was not quite sure
whether he was writing a field report
or an epigraph.
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Mr Honk has been born out of necessity,
as no one knew how to pronounce his real name
or if he even had one; after all, he often struck people
as a rather peculiar figure—an elderly bairn
who always wanted to write long and amicable letters
but didn’t foresee that he would become the sole addressee.
But he came to terms with that just as he did with the fact
that some books were taking him longer, though he never knew
if it was the extent, the typeface and kerning,
or simply the purport.
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I live by the river yet never walk its banks.
Not that they’d miss me particularly—
after all, I would just be another pair of soles
trampling on their peace between the tides.
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I would love
to write love poems
again.
There’s just no point in trying
when in the bittersweet
it’s only me
and aspartame.
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