Tallinn

I confess that I did not think a lot
maybe not even a little
maybe almost nothing
or nothing at all
about you
about us
when I was away
immersed in that other world
so charming and new.

However,
now that I am back
now that the parallel reality
I found
is left suspended out there
in a part of the globe
where I shall not return

now I know
that such a removal
had a curious effect:
it has made me realize how bleak
my life actually is
because you are not in it
how empty I feel
incomplete
and sore

and thus
this trip
has made me
love you even more.

Labour

Giving birth to expression
is so difficult sometimes.
When I need most to unravel
the emotional knots
in the thread of my thoughts
I push
wait
then push again
panting.

I flinch and cry out in despair
I want to give up
It's too much
I feel sore
but no, I won't dare

and anyway pushing
is inevitable
so I push once more

I push as hard as I can
and the pain pushes me too.


But it's impossible to deliver this time -
not even for you.



Yet all the strength this entails,
the courage, the patience -
I know that I have them,
Be sure that I do.

It's language
that's blocking the way
for this revelation -

for this unspoken
unspeakable burden
to blurt itself out

to shape itself true.

 

mute explosion

When your thoughts and mine
unleashed
- though unrevealed -
meet somewhere beyond the atmosphere
in a wonderland
divine
a curious reaction takes place:

a powerful
- though mute -
explosion of desire bursts out
and we feel that the power of that language -
much as the words remain unsaid -
could make us fly
unite
or die.

But no one notices
(no one cares, no one pries)
you blush
and I go red


and we carry on with our lives.

Oxymoron

If we were single

we wouldn't be:

I would be with you

and you with me.

So alone

So alone
am I
There's a kind of itch

in my brain

a permanent
painful
inaudible sigh
on my lips


a thorough
vibrating
longing for yonder

a wonder before
this virtual pain.



So alone
am I
and so sad

So hopeless
and vain
So indecent as well
so indulging
in this futile feeling
so pathetic
- it's insane -


that I would gladly trade places
with a beggar in the rain.

Glory

Thrilled
Is what I am,
Not nervous.
Even though I may be criticised
for all I did not do
and did not say
or shouldn't have

despite the severe formality
of the occasion

and although it is a risk
to assume that glory
is coming my way

 
I must admit
I anticipate it with a smile
I rejoice in the perspective
of that day

when seven people I admire
for their wit and intellect
will sit and discuss
what I wrote
will offer my tiny self
their high attention
and - hopefully - conclude
that my work
is worthy of respect.

Specialness

I no longer try to capture
translate
the overwhelming feelings
inside me
your existence creates.

Still you do
fill my thoughts
you carry on
being you.
And whether or not
we interact
whether or not
I can express it
it is
at least to me
an inescapable fact:

your specialness affects me
despairs me
possesses me
releases me
fulfills me.


I am, thus,
permanently rapt.

Above and beyond

What is poetry for?

Well, obviously
for limitless self-expression

for total freedom
and impunity
for the most contemptible
real or would-be action
and - for want of the real stuff
or awkward discomfort with it -
for virtual affection.


Thus

I go above and beyond
the line of my duty as a poet
indulging in this shield of exemption
from censorship, punishment, revenge.


Ironically, though,
I long to suffer such penalties
for my impertinent offense.
I want to be punished
sometimes.
You see,
punishment -
however painful -
is a recognition
of my crimes.

There but for ungraceful God

She walks with you
talks with you
confides in you.
As I could
if I were her
and you were you.

You call her
caress her
confess to her.
As you would
to me

If I could be
more than a sigh
If I were truth
and she a lie.


So, there
but for ungraceful God
Go I.

The rush

Here I am
wanting to make
a compromising revelation
to you
without knowing how.
Trying to figure out
a way to balance myself
on the edge of language
without risking a fall.
Treading carefully
upon beautiful sea shells
Trying my best
not to break them all.




There are, of course,
those occasions when falling off
and smashing what's under
is required:
then I go with the rush
plunge into the thrill
and let go.
But it doesn't take long
until I have to come up
to breathe in
the air of consciousness:
I think hard
of you and me - and this
till I almost blush.
Only then can I feel
absolute bliss.

There, I said it.

And that's the best use
you can give to a metaphor.
That's what poetry,
in the end,
is good for.

In cielo mi portò...

Suspension (or: travelling by airplane)

Life is somehow suspended
and a universe of possibilities
can be conceived.

We look down on the world
smiling condescendingly
feeling slightly godlike
and unreasonably powerful -
since nothing
nothing
is in our hands.

We seldom
look back.

It is the perfect time
and setting
to consider the now
and the later
to ponder about
the cans
the coulds
and the shoulds.


So suspension becomes
somewhat troubling.

Luckily there are magazines
with interesting pages
to flip through
as well as bites to grab
drinks to sip
and our own gadgets
for us to play with
absentmindedly.

Still,
the atmosphere gets heavy
with unwanted thoughts
and uncomfortable sighs.

Some start imagining
what goes on in others' lives
as if their own did not deserve
any more consideration.

Then finally
we come down to
wherever.

Instinctively
we clap our hands -
more relieved than impressed
with the pilot's good job.
A gentle chime
the lights come on
the plane has landed:
 
we can continue
to feel safely chained
and stranded.

Scarlet ribbons

Poking sticks into wasp nests

Poking sticks into wasp nests:
a dangerous hobby,
stupid and pointless
almost suicidal -

any sensible mind would conclude.



And yet...

Discard

To a used book




Readings and feelings
from nineteen seventy five

Worn and outdated
Discarded
by the very keepers
Who treasured it for years
And at some point decided
Upon its uselessness


Who would have thought
That out here
So far
Both from where they were conceived
And from where they were kept

Someone would choose to cherish them
And wept...?

Intuition

...And that's why I enjoy writing with you.
My intuition assists me
and I grasp
- be sure that I do -
the underlying truth within your words.

However,
my friend,
you do nothing,
nothing,
with the discoveries you make

And so you leave them all to waste.


Wouldn't it be better, thus,
if your intuition failed you
and I was forced to explain in clear language,
accompanied by undeniable evidence
what you claim
to have inferred?

Then you'd be unable
to stand back
and stay aloof
like a careless, clever little bird.
Then,
You'd have to react
and to respond
to the revelation of the proof.

Naked man

There is always something embarrassing
about poetry
about showing off
one's most intimate parts.




The poet is like a naked madman in the street

Someone we can't avoid staring at
but fail to understand.

Perseverance

You really wanted to come.

No thoughts, no emotions, no action

taken by others - including me - 

against your determination

could have stopped you,

my sweet little man.

And I must confess

even though I hesitated

and agreed you were not welcome

I am ever so glad

you came

to make us all happy

all anew

Because you obviously can.

Bliss

Alone
feeling forsaken
and numb
Holding on
waiting in vain
for no one

Wishing, like that character in the story,
for "something else,
not this" -
but being unable to create
another reality
where I might find peace

Life this way
the future like this
is such a painful sight,
it makes me long for that fatal kiss
despite the beauty out there,
despite what might have been
what I might miss

Mortality at last
becomes a bliss.

Queenly height

The remote worship of a woman
throwned out of their reach
plays a great part in men's lives,

but in most cases
the worshipper longs
for some queenly recognition,
some approving sign
by which his soul's sovereign
may cheer him
without descending
from her high place.




From Middlemarch by George Eliot (1871)
(originally written in prose).