Two Short Storm Poems

February 27, 2017 § Leave a comment

The sky is moving away.

 

Awoken by the dying storm that rocked me into sleep

I hear the sighs of trees now left in peace.

Notes and secrets lie open on our street

The fallen dustbin has lost the game in the tenth round.

Hearts still pump our blood in the storm’s rhythm

One could go out and offer the rain a warm skin to touch.

But of course we stay inside, undercover, under the covers.

And wait. Wait for the storm to die.

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After a storm

 

After a storm, the world like a photograph:

a frozen smile, a hand in the air, not waving anymore.

Goodbyes are movement but the wind is gone.

To walk into the room of no words

to read the walls of the sighs

to eat the glacier’s tongue

just not to sleep

just not to speak.

Delight

January 31, 2017 § Leave a comment

On the way back home he bought her sweet delights. They were so sweet her tongue would stick at the back of her teeth. His tongue would come to rescue.

Playlist here.

On Grief

January 22, 2017 § Leave a comment

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Grief is not a fleeting feeling. It likes settling down properly, it claims space and time and waits for all the deadlines to expire. But then it goes away, the dark veil shifts on a summer evening and it’s as if it had never been there. Another grief will come, and another, and another. And in between, the summer evenings on the coastal roads.

First published on Instagram.

First Poem of a Year For No Reason At All

January 3, 2017 § 2 Comments

How does the first poem of a year feel?
A bit of a duty of course,
For a poet must have something to say on important dates
And sharps her nails, even when full.

But first how to overcome the sense of uselessness
All has been said before, even better,
By others, or by oneself too, especially
After a glass of wine and a few broken hearts.

Then one looks around: The winter; many deaths
One looks back: The summer; many deaths
Now taking pictures of love imagined in the future
Now talking to humans imagined in the future.

Where is humanity’s heart to
Stab it with needles, like a voodoo doll,
Goal reversed: to heal not to hurt.
One heart after the other. The smallest first.

John Berger

January 3, 2017 § Leave a comment

(5 November 1926 – 2 January 2017)

Out of a Dream

December 16, 2016 § Leave a comment

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How I wish that my dreams would let you go. You don’t deserve this freedom—so often you denied me—to walk in and out my kitchen, to change faces and sexes, to cook and eat in it, tell people you love me you never told you loved me, hold my hand and swim in moonlights, and all this children’s stuff. So inappropriate for someone who spat on time’s wheel. After all I am gone now and this is only your dream.

The Bag of Winds

December 14, 2016 § Leave a comment


This is not a very big city. It is a peaceful city. It has one of the most beautiful Christmas markets I’ve visited here in Germany, with a lovely, over a hundred years old, wooden carousel. 

My son has almost reached the age to find riding such a carousel uncool, but not quite yet. He still loves riding the bigger wooden horses. He is though a rather shy boy and he finds it difficult to claim a horse for himself at rush hours. Besides, you should also really see how some parents behave in order to get their kids onto a horse… 

Today, after he had lost his dream horse to at least three younger children and their determined parents, he finally got his foot on its stirrup. But out of nowhere, a blonde young mother pushed him away in quite a rough manner and got her not much younger daughter onto the horse. The carousel started turning leaving my son and me totally shocked on the side. I turned furious to her as she was going back to her partner and a friend standing nearby: “That was a great behaviour lesson you taught your daughter tonight” I said, “such an inappropriate and aggressive way to behave to another child!” Then she turned to me, having her man and friend on her two sides: “*You* are the last to tell me what to do here!”, she told me with the undertone that any migrant speaking with a foreign accent would immediately recognise. “You and your sort.” “You and your sort.” repeated the smoking man.  

I don’t think I have ever faced such a naked aggression before, though sometimes the more subtile forms of it,  and my son had certainly never faced a situation like this before. He was puzzled and scared: “I want to go mum,” he said “don’t wanna ride no more.” I was scared too but they had turned away. I took my son by the hand and chose the way right next to them. “You and your sort” I repeated loudly in their face as I went by, but went by I did.

The weather in west and east is getting worse day by day. Someone has opened Aeolus’s bag of winds. It’s chilly.

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