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

Coping Mechanisms /

I’m a cloak on the shoulders
of working-me – and when he
goes to sleep and I hang
on my peg at the door
I am free of all care –
and who knows who will wear
me tomorrow?


@verse by MR

Milan, July /
(you may want to turn your phone to horizontal mode for this one)

It's just me and the silly soft, feathery clouds,
like a pillow undone on the backdrop of night:
not a star to be seen and my feet feel the wet
of the balcony tiles. Rain has brought some respite
to this city that's stuck on the plain — like a shot
in a sling — between mountains and mountains, and on-
ly the East is a vent to the sea (and to Ve-
nice), the rest is too steep for the heat to move on.

On then!

Rise to the wind like a silvery sail,
pierce your back with this moonlight,
fall home with the dust,
drive your comet to fiery endings,
shrug dragonly scales — eat the Earth
to the fullest, to crispiest crust.


(And a happy birthday to me 🥮)

@verse by MR

Paper Plane /

I found an unsent letter
to my grandpa
who is dead;
stroking the surface,
like a cheek,
or wrinkled knuckles,
made the sheet
into a paper plane —
and I won't watch it land,
because the true one
is still flying.


@verse by MR

Swallows in flight /

Hurtling back-first
into the morning
of another day and
soon – another sky.
The airport express,
a bullet train to hit
the scaleless sides
of lightweight metal
flagons – waiting,
wings outstretched
upon a field of
anything but field
to swallow up
my bags, my me
and jet lost, thankfully,
like anything but swallow.


@verse by MR

Wonderland /

This summer evening,
chasing rabbits is a real thing,
on a hilltop, downtown Helsinki:
a park, a fountain, bushes,
bunnies – large as hares.
How does one go about
extracting their wife
from Wonderland,
should she discover
one down there?


@verse by MR

Uncomfortable wonders /

If you knew you were one of the few
who could practice the art of
necromancy – raise undead
with the magic of blood,
bone and grave dust –
would you dare to do it?
Or would you pretend
to remain in the world of the “normal” –
and do what mundane stuff
you normally would?


@verse by MR

“Legacy” /

Digital past dissolves
without a box
up in your parents’ attic
some descendant could
unearth and browse.
‘I found a link to father’s
teenage blog!' The page said:
'404. Domain For Sale'.


@verse by MR

Tropic of Concert /

The Caribbean night
attacks with sound
from every quarter –
from the patter of the rain,
to the cicadas’ whistling
altos (you would think
they’d take a cheque,
the weather being…)
to the backbeat
of the sea’s insisting
check-ins, wave upon wave,
a pause, another wave.
I’m waiting. Might the next one
break this night’s
reluctance to tuck in?

@verse by MR