Yes, it’s difficult
to know the light and miss the shadow.
As difficult as drinking only
one beer and missing the word
just
because you don’t like crisps.
It’s difficult not to have been your friend
in adolescence, but I never had adolescent
friends,
even the ones who claimed they were
lied: they were all a hundred years old.
It’s difficult never to have gone out with a crowd,
never been smashed, stayed
always here,
yes, here,
heart close to the poem,
tongue below the line.
Yes, it’s difficult
to fall into the abyss and find it
cosy after all. As it’s difficult
to read Celan and Pina,
Herberto and Belo,
Szymborska and Clarice,
and believe that faith
becomes intermittent,
always here,
yes, here,
between the spit and the teeth.
It’s difficult, therefore,
to tread on the wooden floor
and hope the board will creek in the right spot
of memory.
As difficult as to expect the next drink will be the only hope.
Less difficult, though,
than becoming a mother,
orphaned of father, grand-parents and cats,
an orphan surrounded by orphans
on all sides. Water
surrounded by sea on all sides.
It’s difficult to pile up the facts:
to have been me
who taught you to read at 50,
to have been me
who failed to read death at 90,
to have been me
who survived you, a survivor at 30.
To have been me:
as difficult as being wheat when the weather
is wrong for the harvest.
As difficult as being
afraid of dogs,
allergic to cats,
and remain:
a swallow for the catching.
It’s difficult, finally, to dream
the beer was drunk
in the company of the poet.
As it’s difficult to believe the poet lost
the poems on the train. And the poems
always here,
yes, here,
close to the ground. Just so.
I’d like – very, so much – to;
I’d like so – arms wide open –
so much to: believe
all this has a soundtrack.
However:
to write a song,
to have it all pierced by sound is not enough.
No, it isn’t.
Yes, it’s difficult.