Or perhaps authentic poetry is when you football team wins
And you are happy all Sunday because, elsewhere, a ball hit a net.
Or reading up until lunch, and at lunch talking politics,
Celebrating your mortgaged freedom within an excerpt of the world.

There is no greater poetry than getting paid
And buying that fresh periodical for the ride home from work.
Or there is no greater poetry than a simple weekend beginning,
Whenever Saturday does, for a hundred happy in bed.

Blair at Chilcot

29/01/2010

The signifier drowns the signified in fake poetry,
Or mannered acting, like here: a kind of virtuosic trance of emptiness,
Wiping glasses, shuffling, calling Al-Qaeda ‘AQ’ as if we were friends. All evokes ‘I’m harmless,
My war was rather harmless, and I deserved that Oscar in a “Best Supporting” role.’

Ausländerlied

27/01/2010

Deutschland, ich klopfe an deine Tür; lasset mich mal rein!
Ich warte für Licht am Fenster, ich warte seit Stunden allein;
Aus dem Heimweh ist Fernweh geworden, und schon jetzt warten viele,
Lasset uns mal rein.

Snow heaps on the approach to the Hauptbahnhof,
Or ice gales at the Currywurst stand,
Coffee drinkers behind glass watching cold golden light,
Winter has Berlin in hand.

Eating in Tolerance

25/01/2010

Hard it is to be the foreigner at table
For try as you might your hosts hear a scraping accent.
And hard it is to be both dumber and smarter,
Swallowing and chewing things you never knew back home.

His own rules

24/01/2010

A child at the football game is wrapped in his father’s scarf. He stares;
The rules that govern these exchanges of movement
Are difficult to comprehend. Instead, all becomes pure movement,
A giggle of goals are scored.

Listen, children

23/01/2010

Since when was rebellion abusing your home town?
Throwing cigarettes on the floor, dropping bottles,
Puking out booze. As if the whole world was your own true playground -!
Your dirt’s now a given: to subvert, tidy up!

The done thing

22/01/2010

Music interviews conducted in international English
Do not impress me. Banality’s apotheosized, and no-one ever says
‘Only in Latvian can I express myself’ or ‘Dutch is beautiful’.
Why not speak for someone? But English, and only English, is becoming the done thing.

All three family members are the same soul
In different incarnations.
The father argues with the mother, his older self. Meanwhile
The child stares at those who were itself when it died.