Leucon, no one’s allowed to know his fate,
Not you, not me: don’t ask, don’t hunt for answers
In tea leaves or palms. Be patient with whatever comes.
This could be our last winter, it could be many
More, pounding the Tuscan Sea on these rocks:
Do what you must, be wise, cut your vines
And forget about hope. Time goes running, even
As we talk. Take the present, the future’s no one’s affair.
Horace, Ode I. 11, translated by Burton Raffel, from The Essential Horace
I used to love traveling no matter how. I now hate airports and the tiring processes entailed in flying somewhere .
I used to like road trips or, at least, the idea of road trips.
I think I still like trains.
I still have the fantasy of traveling on a cargo ship .
Reference
Caminante, no hay camino / Traveler, There Is No Road
by Antonio Machado
“Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace el camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar.”
Traveler, your footprints
are the only road, nothing else.
Traveler, there is no road;
you make your own path as you walk.
As you walk, you make your own road,
and when you look back
you see the path
you will never travel again.
Traveler, there is no road;
only a ship’s wake on the sea.
translated by Mary G. Berg and Dennis Maloney
Dear Nadine,
I haven’t written letters in so long that I’m not quite sure how to do this.
If you have made it as far into the future, I suppose you have managed to survive the anxiety and anger you were feeling when everything around you defied a logical explanation. Maybe you have learned that things are not as extreme as you perceive them. Although, being a Leo, I’m intrigued how you have managed to curb your tendency to overreact.
If you have made it as far into the future, I hope you have outgrown therapy or, at least, have found a therapist that does not seem to need help more than you do and, managed to open up and allowed yourself to be helped.
If you have made it as far into the future, I hope you danced as much and often as you could and that you have managed to read all the books you wanted to read and kept your to read pile always high.
If you made it as far into the future, I hope you have understood how to deal with the pain of losing loved ones and that you have kept your friends close by. I hope that living alone has not been too much of a burden and that you have enjoyed your freedom.
If you made it this far into the future, I guess you have mastered your horrible tendency to procrastinate. Maybe you followed through with all your plans and are now living in some Greek island surrounded by blue.
I hope you have always carried with you all the songs that have helped life make sense and that your inner soundtrack keeps growing.
I hope you have not gotten lost inside yourself. I hope you still remember.
I hope you have kept the passion and that you have not become indifferent to people, to beauty. I hope you still believe that elegance is a form of resistance.
I hope you have never stayed quiet in the face of injustice, that you have helped others and, that your world is much better than the one right now. I hope you haven’t given in.
I hope you have owned your choices and that you have always insisted on being the Sun and never a black hole.
Even if you do not look like the AI projected version of yourself, I hope your eyes keep showing that your name is Hope instead of impossible.
I hope you still like poetry even if you have never managed to write a single line of verse.
Dear future self
By JP Howard
If I should ever forget you,
this is my love note to you
You were loved
You were somebody’s lover
You were loving
You held parts of all the women you loved,
somewhere deep in your generous heart
You were heartbroken
You were a heartbreaker too, girl
Sometimes you were heartache
Your heart never grew heavy though,
I remember that about you
You were silly
You were giggles
You were somebody’s Mama
You always wanted to be a Mama
Mama was the greatest title you ever had
You were jealous as fuck
You were selfish
You were sad
You held other folks’ sadness,
especially Mama’s sadness
You buried that deep in our heart
You were swag girl
Leo charm and confidence
Couldn’t nobody crack you up
as much as yourself
You were cute and you were vain
You wore lipstick under your mask
during a pandemic
because you were cute and you were vain
You loved your family
Your lover loved you for decades
Sometimes you would ask yourself,
How I get so lucky, girl?
You loved people
You were at home on a stage in front of a mic,
sitting with community in a circle,
or talking one on one with a friend
for hours on end in a coffee shop
You were a poet
You are a poet
This is your love poem to yourself, Juliet
References
Henry the V, Act 2, scene 4
Say nothing
Philip Larkin, Nothing to be Said
For nations vague as weed,
For nomads among stones,
Small-statured cross-faced tribes
And cobble-close families
In mill-towns on dark mornings
Life is slow dying.
So are their separate ways
Of building, benediction,
Measuring love and money
Ways of slowly dying.
The day spent hunting pig
Or holding a garden-party,
Hours giving evidence
Or birth, advance
On death equally slowly.
And saying so to some
Means nothing; others it leaves
Nothing to be said.
I will, most probably, not face it alone
for Mordechai Vanunu
not to be complicit
not to accept everyone else is silent it must be alright
not to keep one’s mouth shut to hold onto one’s job
not to accept public language as cover and decoy
not to put friends and family before the rest of the world
not to say I am wrong when you know the government is wrong
not to be just a bought behaviour pattern
to accept the moment and fact of choice
I am a human being
and I exist
a human being
and a citizen of the world
responsible to that world
—and responsible for that world
Being a Human Being by Tom Leonard
In the late 90s, when Skunk Anansie emerged with their fierce blend of alternative rock and political awareness, frontwoman Skin confronted society’s hypocrisy with unflinching honesty. Their music, to which I confess, I wasn’t paying much attention at the time, but can hear it loud and clear from the first time I saw them live, offered profound commentary on disillusionment, authenticity, and betrayal that remains startlingly relevant today.
In today’s social media landscape, we curate selective versions of ourselves, seeking validation in an ecosystem that promises universal acceptance while quietly enforcing rigid conformity. The anger in Skin’s voice when challenging religious and social hypocrisy reminds us that genuine acceptance remains conditional—algorithms, trends, and social capital determining who is seen and who remains invisible.
The message behind “God Loves Only You” resonates powerfully in an era where people preach inclusivity while practicing exclusion. We’ve traded explicit prejudice for implicit bias, creating environments where belonging still comes with unspoken qualifications. How many of us perform the correct political positions online while failing to embody those principles in our daily lives?
“It Takes Blood & Guts To Be This Cool But I’m Still Just A Cliché” highlights our contemporary paradox. We demand authenticity yet punish genuine vulnerability. Today’s world expects us to be fearlessly original yet utterly digestible, to stand out while fitting in. The song’s provocative title captures this contradiction perfectly.
Those who dare to exist outside accepted parameters face consequences ranging from algorithmic invisibility to outright harassment. Meanwhile, true boldness gets commodified, packaged, and resold as aesthetic without substance. We’ve developed sophisticated language for social justice while failing to achieve its fundamental aims—much like the performative rebellions Skin critiqued decades ago.
“Hedonism (Just Because You Feel Good)” offers another layer to our modern dilemma. In an era of instant gratification and endless distraction, the song’s exploration of pleasure without purpose speaks directly to our attention economy. Social media platforms are designed like casinos—engineered to maximize engagement through dopamine hits while creating little lasting satisfaction.
The chorus question, “Just because you feel good, does it mean that you’re right?” perfectly encapsulates our collective susceptibility to emotional reasoning. From consumer choices to political positions, we increasingly mistake feeling good for being right, comfort for truth. The hollow promise of digital hedonism—endless scrolling, outrage cycles, validation seeking—leaves us, as Skin powerfully articulates, “Empty like the hole you left behind.”
Skunk Anansie’s “Yes, It’s Fucking Political” delivers a raw, uncompromising message that challenges our ability to remain neutral in times of conflict. In today’s world, wars rage on physical battlefields and across digital information spaces. The song’s central assertion—that everything is political—cuts through comfortable illusions of neutrality.
As Skin defiantly proclaims in the song, political realities can’t be escaped or ignored; they shape our lives whether we acknowledge them or not. This truth resonates powerfully in our current moment, where algorithms curate our worldviews while creating the illusion of objective reality. The conflicts we witness—from armed struggles to culture wars—aren’t distant abstractions but forces that directly impact human lives.
The song’s visceral intensity highlights the frustration of those whose suffering is reduced to debate topics. Their existence is framed as “political.” Meanwhile, others enjoy the privilege of claiming neutrality. At a time when we can customize our information environments to screen out uncomfortable realities, Skunk Anansie’s confrontational approach reminds us that turning away from conflict doesn’t make it disappear—it merely privileges those who benefit from the status quo.
“This Means War” offers a perfect companion to these political themes by bringing conflict to the personal level. The song’s explosive energy captures the moment when diplomacy ends and confrontation becomes necessary—not just in global politics but in our individual lives and relationships.
In today’s world, we’re encouraged to compromise, to seek middle ground, to maintain peace at all costs—even when fundamental values and boundaries are at stake. “This Means War” reminds us that sometimes, drawing a line is not just appropriate but necessary. The song’s defiant stance resonates with anyone who has reached their breaking point after repeated betrayals or violations.
The lyrics speak to personal liberation through confrontation. This theme is particularly relevant today. We increasingly recognize how power imbalances shape even our most intimate relationships. When Skin sings about declaring war, she’s articulating the moment of reclaiming power after prolonged subjugation, of refusing further compromise after continual exploitation.
From setting boundaries with manipulative institutions to refusing engagement with bad-faith arguments, from breaking cycles of abuse to confronting systemic injustice. The song’s message isn’t about glorifying conflict but recognizing its necessity in certain contexts—a message that cuts against our culture’s emphasis on toxic positivity and endless accommodation.
I believed in you, well, I was wrong. How many institutions have failed us? How many movements have been corrupted from within? How many public figures have revealed themselves to be contrary to their cultivated image? We’re continually investing faith in platforms, personalities, and communities that promise connection but deliver surveillance, promise empowerment but deliver exploitation. We believed in the democratizing power of technology only to watch it amplify inequality. We believed in the possibility of genuine community only to experience unprecedented isolation.
Like the powerful vocals and words that define Skunk Anansie’s sound, perhaps mine (our ) response to today’s challenges should be neither whispered conformity nor performative outrage, but something more raw, more honest, and ultimately more revolutionary—the sound of our authentic voices, raised together. Hope, at this time, might be just naive optimism against all evidence but, it might as well be a deliberate choice made with full awareness of reality’s harshness.
In a world where climate anxiety, political polarization, economic uncertainty, and technological disruption create a perfect storm of existential dread, envisioning alternative futures becomes crucial. It is both a psychological necessity and a political act. My biggest challenge, I don’t think it’s particular to me, is how to simultaneously process difficult truths while maintaining the creative capacity to imagine beyond them.
It does take music to survive. Music like Skunk Anansie’s doesn’t just entertain—it validates our experiences, expresses our frustrations, and offers both catharsis and connection. In a world that can feel increasingly alienating and chaotic, that musical connection is essential. It becomes not just enjoyable but necessary for emotional survival.
Live performances add another dimension entirely. There’s something about being physically present in a space with other fans who understand the importance of these songs that creates a genuine community, even if just for a few hours. It’s a reminder that we’re not alone in our experiences or our reactions to the world.
We are nothing more
than the time we have left,
walking toward the oblivion
we will become.
It's harsh, but that's the way it is.
The rest is just literature.
The best thing
is not to think about it too much:
keep walking,
drink coffee, fall in love,
watch the rain...
Karmelo C. Iribarren (my own attempted translation)
Monday poetry is late, again, so am I for most things
The unexamined life is surely worth living, but is the unlived life worth examining?
I think Stanley Kubrick actually captured something similar when he said “The truth of a thing is in the feel of it, not the think of it.”
While Socrates emphasized reflection as crucial to a meaningful life, there needs to be something substantive to reflect upon. Pure contemplation without lived experience could become a kind of hollow philosophical exercise.
There’s a point where self-reflection can spiral into a kind of paralytic introspection or self-commiseration.
When examination turns into rumination, we find ourselves in an echo chamber of our own thoughts. This detaches us from the vitality of direct experience. Excessive self-examination can also drain experiences of their natural meaning and immediacy.
Yet, I wonder if the issue isn’t with examination itself, but with its nature and purpose. There’s a difference between examination that enriches our engagement with life – helping us understand our patterns, make better choices, appreciate moments more fully – and examination that becomes a form of self-absorbed withdrawal from life.
A little more sun – I’d have been embers,
A little more blue – I’d have been beyond.
To reach it, I lacked the stroke of wings…
If only I had stayed beneath…
Wonder or peace? In vain… All faded
In a vast, deceitful sea of foam;
And the grand dream awakened in mist,
The grand dream – oh pain! – almost lived…
Almost love, almost triumph and flame,
Almost the beginning and end – almost expansion…
But in my soul, everything spills out…
And yet nothing was mere illusion!
Everything had a start… and all went astray…
– Oh, the pain of being – almost, endless pain…
I failed others, failed myself,
A wing that entwined but didn’t fly…
Moments of soul that I squandered…
Temples where I never raised an altar…
Rivers I lost without leading to the sea…
Yearnings that passed but I never held…
If I wander, I find only traces…
Gothic arches toward the sun – I see them closed;
And hands of heroes, without faith, cowardly,
Set bars over the precipices…
In a diffuse impulse of despair,
I began everything and possessed nothing…
Today, of me, only disillusion remains,
Of the things I kissed but never lived…
A little more sun – and I’d have been embers,
A little more blue – and I’d have been beyond.
To reach it, I lacked the stroke of wings…
If only I had stayed beneath…
(AI translation)
Here's the original poem, Quase by Mário de Sá Carneiro:
Um pouco mais de sol – eu era brasa,
Um pouco mais de azul – eu era além.
Para atingir, faltou-me um golpe de asa…
Se ao menos eu permanecesse aquém…
Assombro ou paz? Em vão… Tudo esvaído
Num grande mar enganador de espuma;
E o grande sonho despertado em bruma,
O grande sonho – ó dor! – quase vivido…
Quase o amor, quase o triunfo e a chama,
Quase o princípio e o fim – quase a expansão…
Mas na minh’alma tudo se derrama…
Entanto nada foi só ilusão!
De tudo houve um começo … e tudo errou…
– Ai a dor de ser – quase, dor sem fim…
Eu falhei-me entre os mais, falhei em mim,
Asa que se enlaçou mas não voou…
Momentos de alma que, desbaratei…
Templos aonde nunca pus um altar…
Rios que perdi sem os levar ao mar…
Ânsias que foram mas que não fixei…
Se me vagueio, encontro só indícios…
Ogivas para o sol – vejo-as cerradas;
E mãos de herói, sem fé, acobardadas,
Puseram grades sobre os precipícios…
Num ímpeto difuso de quebranto,
Tudo encetei e nada possuí…
Hoje, de mim, só resta o desencanto
Das coisas que beijei mas não vivi…
Um pouco mais de sol – e fora brasa,
Um pouco mais de azul – e fora além.
Para atingir faltou-me um golpe de asa…
Se ao menos eu permanecesse aquém…
Yes, that “agony of the almost” is the heart of what makes this poem so powerful and painful. Sá-Carneiro captures something uniquely torturous about consciousness – not just the pain of failure, but the specific suffering that comes from knowing you came close and fell short. All the intention was there – just not the final decisive action. It’s the difference between never having talent and having talent you squandered.
There’s also something especially modern about this kind of suffering. In earlier times, one’s path might have been more predetermined by circumstances. But now, we face a growing burden of choice and possibility. This makes the failure to realize potential feel like a personal shortcoming instead of an external limitation.
And, again, the same question, is the unlived life worth examining? Awareness itself can be a curse. As Sá-Carneiro, we don’t just lament missed opportunities, but also knowing about them – and wish we “had stayed beneath.” Self-reflection does have a potential to become self-commiseration – when awareness of what could have been overwhelms and paralyzes rather than motivates. And we stay trapped between worlds – neither fully engaged in life nor able to transcend it (“To reach it, I lacked the stroke of wings…”)
If, as Joan Didion wrote “We are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not”, we might as well learn how to come to terms with the people we did not become.
References
Adam Phillips, Missing Out: In Praise of the Unlived Life
Recursos
El sobresalto fuera del poema y dentro del poema, apenas aire contenido.
Leer y releer una frase, una palabra, un rostro. Los rostros, sobre todo.
Repasar, pesar bien lo que callan.
Como no estás a salvo de nada, intenta ser tú mismo la salvación de algo.
Caminar despacio, a ver si, tentado el tiempo, hace lo mismo.
Ida Vitale in “Jardin de sílice”
—————————————————–
The startle outside the poem and inside the poem, barely contained air.
Read and reread a phrase, a word, a face. The faces, above all.
Review, carefully weigh what they silence.
Since you are safe from nothing, try to be the salvation of something.
Walk slowly, to see if, tempted by time, it does the same.
Todos los días del mundo
algo hermoso termina.
Jaroslav Seifert
Duélete:
como a una vieja estrella fatigada
te ha dejado la luz. Y la criatura
que iluminabas
(y que iluminaba
tus ojos ciegos a las nimias cosas
del mundo)
ha vuelto a ser mortal.
Todo recobra
su densidad, su peso, su volumen,
ese pobre equilibrio que sostiene
tu nuevo invierno. Alégrate.
Tus vísceras ahora son otra vez tus vísceras
y no crudo alimento de zozobras.
Ya no eres ese dios ebrio e incierto
que te fue dado ser. Muerde
el hueso que dan,
llega a su médula,
recoge las migajas que deja la memoria.
© 2004, Piedad Bonnett
From: Tretas del débil
Every day of the world
something beautiful ends.
Jaroslav Seifert
Suffer:
as if you were an old, tired star,
light has left you. And the creature
you lighted
(and who lighted
your eyes, blind to the world’s
trivial things)
is now mortal again.
Everything recovers
its density, its weight, its volume,
the poor balance that supports
your new winter. Be glad.
Your entrails are now again your entrails
and not coarse food of anxiety.
You’re no longer that drunk and uncertain god
that you turned out to be. Bite
the bone they give you,
down to the marrow,
pick up the crumbs memory leaves behind.
© Translation: 2005, Nicolás Suescún
The body does not wait. Neither for us
nor for love. This groping of hands,
researching with such reticence
the warm, silky aridness
that twitches from embarrassment
in movements quick and random;
this groping attended not by us
but by a thirst, a memory, whatever
we know about touching the bared
body that does not wait; this groping
that doesn’t know, doesn’t see, doesn’t
dare to be afraid of feeling scared…
The body’s so hasty! All is over and done
when one of us, or when love, has come.
Translation: 1997, Richard Zenith
“I see nothing in space as promising as the view from a Ferris wheel.”
― E.B. White, The Points Of My Compass
Porto, June 2018
I have in me like a haze
Which holds and which is nothing
A nostalgia for nothing at all,
The desire for something vague.
I’m wrapped by it
As by a fog, and I see
The final star shining
Above the stub in my ashtray.
I smoked my life. How uncertain
All I saw or read! All
The world is a great open book
That smiles at me in an unknown tongue
Tenho em mim como uma bruma
Que nada é nem contém
A saudade de coisa nenhuma,
O desejo de qualquer bem.
Sou envolvido por ela
Como por um nevoeiro
E vejo luzir a última estrela
Por cima da ponta do meu cinzeiro
Fumei a vida. Que incerto
Tudo quanto vi ou li!
E todo o mundo é um grande livro aberto
Que em ignorada língua me sorri.
Monday poetry comes on Wednesday because Fernando Pessoa was born on this day in Lisbon 130 years ago.
Translation: 1998, Richard Zenith
Now, dear, it isn’t the bold things,
Great deeds of valour and might,
That count the most in the summing up of life at the end of the day.
But it is the doing of old things,
Small acts that are just and right;
And doing them over and over again, no matter what others say;
In smiling at fate, when you want to cry, and in keeping at work when
you want to play—
Dear, those are the things that count.
And, dear, it isn’t the new ways
Where the wonder-seekers crowd
That lead us into the land of content, or help us to find our own.
But it is keeping to true ways,
Though the music is not so loud,
And there may be many a shadowed spot where we journey along
alone;
In flinging a prayer at the face of fear, and in changing into a song a
groan—
Dear, these are the things that count.
My dear, it isn’t the loud part
Of creeds that are pleasing to God,
Not the chant of a prayer, or the hum of a hymn, or a jubilant shout or
song.
But it is the beautiful proud part
Of walking with feet faith-shod;
And in loving, loving, loving through all, no matter how things go
wrong;
In trusting ever, though dark the day, and in keeping your hope when
the way seems long—
Dear, these are the things that count.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox, The Things that Count
Homens que são como lugares mal situados
Homens que são como casas saqueadas
Que são como sítios fora dos mapas
Como pedras fora do chão
Como crianças órfãs
Homens sem fuso horário
Homens agitados sem bússola onde repousem
Homens que são como fronteiras invadidas
Que são como caminhos barricados
Homens que querem passar pelos atalhos sufocados
Homens sulfatados por todos os destinos
Desempregados das suas vidas
Homens que são como a negação das estratégias
Que são como os esconderijos dos contrabandistas
Homens encarcerados abrindo-se com facas
Homens que são como danos irreparáveis
Homens que são sobreviventes vivos
Homens que são como sítios desviados
Do lugar
Daniel Faria, Poesia
Men who are like places in the wrong place
Men who are like plundered houses
Like locations not on maps
Like stones not on the ground
Like orphaned children
Men without a time zone
Agitated men with no compass to rest on
Men who are like violated borders
Like barricaded roads
Men who are drawn to choked pathways
Men spattered by all destinies
Laid off from their lives
Men who are like the negation of strategies
Like the hiding-places of smugglers
Incarcerated men opening themselves with knives
Men who are like irreparable damage
Men who are barely living survivors
Men who are like places wrenched
Out of place
Daniel Faria translated by Richard Zenith
Today I start counting days of absence because I failed to understand all the days of Being
I sing the will to love:
the will that carves the will to live,
the will that saps the will to hurt,
the will that kills the will to die;
the will that made and keeps you warm,
the will that points your eyes ahead,
the will that makes you give, not get,
a give and get that tell us what you are:
how much a god, how much a human.
I call on you to live the will to love.
Credo, Alfred Kreymborg
Photo, Campo dos Mártires da Pátria (Porto, May 2018)
Stories from A Closet of Errors 