My life as a rat /

Yes, every city is a cage
of streets, seen from above,
but also – of your habits:
Paths you take (or don't),
cafes you frequent,
squares you pass
on your way home,
to work, to dance
on Friday night,
and restaurants
you might have dined at,
had they not been closed.

Oh, yes. A dozen roads
and fifteen hundred extras
would be enough
to film your whole
damn life on set –
and yet you need
a million people
to feel thoroughly alone?
Ten thousand destinations
to pretend you're cornered?
Five hundred thousand
square kilometers to stay
away from land in towers,
way above the 40th floor –

Ah, yes. A Universe,
to know: it's there,
outside the door.


MR @verse

Off the Books /

God isn't a medication,
to take like the doctor said.
God doesn't have Terms of Use,
he's not in the fine print.

You know God in your heart —
yet let others explain
what God is, what God does,
what he wants you to do.

And when you believe them
they happily call it 'belief'.


MR @verse

Gravity /

A red balloon,
almost exhausted,
creeps along the wall
like a lost pet.

Oh, how you soared,
you poor thing!
Did you think
the Earth forgets?

@verse by MR

(Now also in pictures)

Durée /

A quarter of a century
is longer than
a quarter of an hour –
by only ten


@verse

Departed /

No, Jesus is not here.
I saw his kind, sad face
on board a train,
just standing at the door
and looking out
into the twilight
of this empty platform —
no one else to see him off
except a moth,
attacking station lamps
by way of "fare-thee-well".
And when the bell
and then a puff
and then a tug
removed him, sideways,
into distance —
I read "Godless"
on the blue-white signs.

@verse by MR

Clipping sound of scissors /

My barber's like a priest:
how long since your
last haircut? Then,
we sometimes smile
that way and back
until he says:
'No more, I think.'
And I agree
and dive into the world,
refreshed by silence.

@verse by MR

The Lands of Poppies /

You can’t bring poppy seeds
of any kind into the Emirates,
they told me. So it is here,
outside, that I enjoy my
dearest flowers bloom
their bloodstains on the grass
under the passing clouds,
their tissue petals – oh so fragile,
oh so loud.

@verse by MR

Migrations /

soon the season
will take me far
away from heavy
books will sit on
summer shelves
unleafed through
undisturbed save
by the duster of the
maid until October
smiles Orion from
the balcony and
falcons instead owls
and no more dogs
in restaurants and
has it really been
another — yes,
we're back and,
why, we aren't
even gone yet.

@verse by MR

Dubai's Cold Skin /

I like to cross the space
between the buildings —
just to touch some
undeveloped ground,
shovel some sand and gravel
with my sandals — wondering,
which dried-out sea
had once caressed these crystals
only to be dumped here by a truck.

@verse by MR

Interview with a war /

What are your plans? Any surprises?
Where do you see yourself twelve
months from now? Five years?
Let's talk about your childhood.
Was it your father's or your mother's
influence that brought you here today?
Explain this N-year gap in your career.
Are you expecting children? Ambitions:
would you rather rule the world —
or reach perfection in a single region?
Are you better than your peers,
especially those with more experience
in other markets? Compensation:
do you feel this number would be just?
I must say that your references
are impressive: highly recommended
by the worms. My final question:
How come we're on speaking terms?

@verse by MR

Midnight scramble /

The agony of looking for your phone
when you don't dare to ring,
at night: the black device
tee-heeing from some corner.
It's the third time that I look
behind this pillow!
And, unlike your glasses,
it is never on your head.


@verse by MR

(Next time, look for something you've removed, like a gown or jacket. It's in the pocket, I guarantee you.)

A Prayer /

Read the names of great painters —
to plant your feet back on this Earth
and to tether the spirit,
molested by low information.

Thus:

Boldini; and look at their eyes,
at their hands so dissolved
in the air.

Study Sisley,
alone in a winterscape,
sodden with snow.

Stormy Gainsborough,
run from those looks,
you unwary of heart.

Take a rest
by the side of a haystack
and think of Millet.

Semiradsky,
his sun playing leopard
in shadow of trees.

Follow Hopper,
alone in a city
or outside of town.

Shudder: Harris,
alone in the ice
of improbable shades.

Marc and Macke
who failed
to survive through the war.

Twilight Vrubel
who looked to the Other side,
searching for more.

And the greedy Grechetto
who valued his brilliant blue.

(It's a pity their digital copies
won't give you a clue.)


@verse by MR

===
This one is a bit heavy on references, so I'm including a ChatGPT analysis. In this brave new world of 2023, that article took about 30 minutes to craft — sometimes rephrasing the request, sometimes deleting a sentence here and there to make things more compact; the only thing the AI couldn't handle well was choosing the particular examples, I ended up adding them myself to save time.

If you're not yet bothered by AIs, here's why you could be:

Microwaves from the Big Bang /

Reading about cosmic radiation
is like a prayer — for what better
way of utterly resigning to your place
is there than this: the micro-tremble
moving through your heart that
carries in it the resounding boom
of the start of everything —
the white glow of primordial light,
red-shifted to a harmless fibrillation.


@verse by MR

GPT-Explainer: The Big Bang, the event believed to have started the universe, left behind signals that have stretched out over time as the result of a phenomenon called "redshift". It's like how a car's sound becomes deeper as it moves away from you. The Big Bang signals are so ancient that they have redshifted from light to microwaves. These microwaves are everywhere—even passing through your heart right now. This realization transforms scientific awareness into a religious experience, making reading about cosmic radiation feel like a prayer.

Dedication /

Who else could I be but a poet?
A novel wants hours
alone at one's desk:
and why would I part from you
even for minutes?


@verse by MR

General store /

Recall the quiet of a shop
before the malls: maybe
the hum of freezers,
creaking floorboards,
or the flapping sound of
feet upon linoleum,
a muted conversation
from the backroom,
maybe radio. The jazz
standards of payment:
the stroke of till keys,
the trombone of money,
and the hi-hats when it shuts.
A swing of door, a chime —
and you are out.
The sun, the pavement.


@verse by MR

Casualties /

A body, dead, with open eyes;
a body, dead, with open eyes;
a body, dead, with open eyes;
a body, dead, without a head...
This poem doesn't have the lines
to fit a hundred thousand. Yet,
the only way past stats and lies
is counting each of those lost lives:
a list of graves, page upon page,
a line to each.
With open eyes.


@verse by MR

Al-Ula /

Stars twinkle
in the evening wind
of the Hejaz,
fresh out of Hegra.
Bread of mountains,
butter of the desert.
The squeaking of the tentpole —
or a creature of the night?
Thus was it that I saw
the stars of Scorpion
crawl out of the horizon
for the first time.


@verse by MR

Becoming /

At times a teacher’s
sweat is thicker than
the blood of parents.


@verse by MR