Poetry (72)

Hello Escritori,

Parts of this came to me while I was doing the interminable dishes. Perhaps it would be therapeutic to write a story about a person cursed to wash interminable dishes. It’d be a good way for a washed-up mermaid to stay hydrated. In lieu of life-guarding or something. Kind of a modern Sissyphus.

I do dishes on autopilot now, during all kinds of emotions.

Imagine a future… where I own a dishwasher. So much stuff has happened that that is the kind of world I live in, inside my mind. If it hasn’t happened to me before, it’s not even a case of using your cultural capital to plug the gaps, but just sheer incredulity that it can actually happen. That’s what I mean about having a broken imagination. Imagine a future in which I own a dishwasher. My own. Liberty. Utterly.

 Six impossible things before breakfast,  Lewis Carroll said.

Imagine a world where I get kissed good morning every morning. I don’t imagine that sort of thing. Not for me. For my characters maybe, as a purely logistical exercise: in much the same way as two actors negotiate a sex scene. Who puts what where at what time. That sort of thing quickly becomes tiring and un-erotic.

 A man asked if he could sit next to me on the bus not long ago. It was only so he could sit nearer his friend. I blinked at him to make sure it was me he was asking, said:

“Yeah” as if someone had provided me with enough air to make it sound obvious that he was welcome to (because it was free country and a public service.)

I also wanted to prove that I wasn’t an uptight, scary Muslim. Then I tried to keep a respectable distance while he man-spreaded away from me (I forgot they did that) and act extremely normal. I miss having male friends sometimes. Although as with most things you don’t notice until you notice. And then you forget.

Anyway, you came for a poem.



The only way to consider life

As anything other than drudgery

Is to find some tiny,

Even minuscule way

Of becoming enamoured

With the ordinary.


With the conflagration of colours

In creation, or the sky

And the sonorous essence

And ceaseless hum

Of the human lullaby.


(© Copyright Pola Negri, 05/01/2017.)


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