Before the Rains

End of summer holidays.

Every year at the end of January and before the rains end summer,

I try hard to cheer myself out of my holiday and into another year of paid employment.

Carefully, I go over all the benefits of having place of work and honestly admit that there are many.

I dare not to think of Charles Bukowski or even Tin Ujevic or any of the bohemian fraternity.

In this endeavour I mostly succeed as all the years gone by confirm.

Then I sit on the balcony and look across the roof tops,

Heavy, low clouds hang over the hill tops.

Cruise ship glides across the water away from the harbour.

Alone seagull screeches into the still, hot air, heralding his

Freedom.

To come and go

Unaccounted.

And I stayed there for a long time,

Until dusk brings cold breeze of night.

Then I must go inside and start preparing for

Morning’s work.

If only I can remember

Why.

 

Daily Lament

Today on my way to work I passed by a man sitting on the pavement cross-legged. The morning was cold and frost glittered in the window panes. His back was pressed against the wall. Face hidden inside the hood, hands squeezed in the pockets. Next to a small cap, large, hand-written cardboard note read: ‘Destitute and desolate, living in a night shelter, any help appreciated’. I passed by … embarrassed – for us both.  And the whole day the sight of the man rested in my vision. In the evening it brought me to Tin Ujevic and his poem (translated from Croatian) below:

Daily Lament

How hard it is not to be strong,

How hard it is to be alone,

And to be old, yet to be young!

And to be weak, and powerless,

Alone, with no one anywhere,

Dissatisfied, and desperate.

And trudge bleak highways endlessly,

And to be trampled in the mud,

With no star shining in the sky.

Without your star of destiny

To play its twinkling’s on your crib

With rainbows and false prophecies.

– Oh God, oh God, remember all

The glittering fair promises

With which you have afflicted me.

Oh God, oh God, remember all

The great loves, the great victories,

The wreaths of laurel and the gifts.

And know you have a son who walks

The weary valleys of the world

Among sharp thorns, and rocks and stones,

Through unkindness and unconcern,

With his feet bloodied under him,

And with his heart an open wound.

His bones are full of weariness,

His soul is ill at ease and sad,

And he’s neglected and alone,

And sisterless, and brotherless,

and fatherless, and motherless,

With no one dear, and no close friend,

And he has no-one anywhere

Except thorn twigs to pierce his heart

And fire blazing from his palms.

Lonely and utterly alone

Under the hemmed in vault of blue,

On dark horizons of high seas.

Whom can he tell his troubles to

When no-one’s there to hear hues call,

not even brother wanderers.

Oh God, you sear your burning word

Too hugely through this narrow throat

And throttle it inside my cry.

And utterance is a burning stake,

Though I must yell it out, I must,

Or, like a kindled log, burn out.

Just let me be a bonfire on

A hill, just one breath in the fire,

If not a scream hurled from the roofs.

Oh God, let it be over with,

This miserable wandering

Under a vault as deaf as stone.

Because I crave a powerful word,

Because I crave an answering voice,

Someone to love, or holy death.

For bitter is the wormwood wreath

And deadly dark the poison cup,

So burn me, blazing summer noon.

For I am sick of being weak,

And sick of being all alone

(seeing I could be hale and strong)

and seeing that I could be loved),

But I am sick, sickest of all

To be so old, yet still be young!