The Collected Tales of the Wind

January 29, 2016 § Leave a comment


Tales of the wind (Part 1)

Of course the wind comes from far away. That’s what winds do, what they’re paid for.

If a rain hasn’t been enough to clean up sinn and shame, you then call the wind, for a biblical showdown.


Tales of the wind (Part 2)

You must escape but you’re broke? No problem. You take an east wind and head west, where even the sun rests.

And if you fear you’ll miss someone you’ve left behind, send a few Autumn love leaves with the next wind heading east. They’ll come.


Tales of the wind (Part 3)

The ones betrayed, the ones deceived stand at the top of the rock against the wind and cry out the bitter names.

And some of them get carried away, in every single way.


Tales of the wind (Part 4)

If a wind returns the next night it’s always stronger. Our resistance is played and brief. We give in and fly.

There were people found in far away countries who could still name the winds in their mother tongues but had forgotten their mother’s name.


Tales of the wind (Part 5)

Winds don’t like meeting each other.

But no one who’s been at their meeting points has survived to tell us why.


Tale of the wind (Part 6)

A wind never really sleeps. It rests for a while in the trees, on the back of lazy rain clouds, or in deep lakes.

And waits.


Tales of the wind (Part 7)

Weak winds touch softly the earth to rest when light is low. But every stone touched hurts. Winds die down.

No one remembers a dead wind except one or two birds who learned to fly against it.



Last Night

January 24, 2016 § 4 Comments


I was already

sleeping. I saw you passing

the doorstep. A dream.


“I don’t know where I

had been before you called my

name. But I’m here now.”



through dreams is like the test card

of an old TV.


Spaces full of colour

but trembling and uncertain

before transmission.


Are you from my past

or am I in your future?

Lines are blurred in dreams.


Somewhere else the moon

is higher than in this room

where I write down dreams.


I better go back

to sleep before I forget

the channel you’re on.


January 11, 2016 § 4 Comments

Whom are we going to mourn my love this dawn?

I read about children starving or falling off a boat,
about a girl who’s lost her child, a child herself.
And of course there are earthquakes and wars,
torture and prosecutions, rapes and murders,
bombs, drones, beheadings and shootings.
And, soon enough, we are all going to lose
a parent or a spouse, or, even the worst,
our best friend, a daughter or a son.
So why do we write a poem or paint a wall?
And why, why my love, do we mourn a song?
Is it because this is the only chance we have

to mourn after ourselves?

David Bowie (8 January 1947 – 10 January 2016)

Let’s Start Talking About the Trees

December 5, 2015 § 1 Comment


(What Kind of Times Are These)

And I won’t tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it’s necessary
to talk about trees.
–Adrienne Rich


There’s a tongue of water between three continents where the waves are low
and the old trade routes marked now by a chain of rubber boats
washed out on a shore next to the bodies of children
too young to take off their wet shoes.


I’ve swum there picking up shells and antique verses, but don’t be fooled
this is not about an ancient time, this is not their wars but ours too,
we are all killing someone somewhere and then run for our lives
from our own children who only know war and flight.


I won’t tell you what else we could do, it would take longer than
to close all the doors and roll down the blinds
or throw all the bombs on the evils we don’t understand:
I know already who will shout ‘coward’ or ‘fool’ or both.


And I won’t tell you either anything about the trees
because the trees, too, are drowned or burnt or cut or fake
but since we must talk, since it’s necessary,
let’s start talking about the trees.

A Missing Mirror

October 24, 2015 § 1 Comment

I got up this morning and went straight to the mirror that was not there. The wall the mirror used to hang on was renovated last spring and afterwards I somehow preferred the white wall naked and neutral. It is the spot where the sun dives into the bedroom through the window every morning. I often watch the spot of light getting bigger and then smaller again as clouds fly past the sun. A meditative moment in the rare times when staying in bed longer is possible. I could live without my reflection for a while, I thought, even if this round mirror was a particularly beloved one.

But this morning I was obviously so confused that I searched for an image of myself first. One has to make sure she exists sometimes. I stood in front of the white wall and looked deep inside it. First surprised, then searching and realizing, and finally searching again. It was much more difficult to see myself in that white wall, but I was still in that room.

 A missing mirror is like a missing friend.

All Muses Die Young

October 21, 2015 § 3 Comments

You’re not the summer

You’re not quite healthy

(And you burned yourself while ironing yesterday)

You’re not twenty but not even eighty

You’re simply not in the right age

You’re not a have-not but you also cannot

(And you tried to buy the good dress but the shop was closed)

You could not talk but could not stop

You had not the power to not listen either

(And all your knowledge is still not shared)

You are not there

(And all your words will bring you nowhere)

You are not her

(And if she copies you, you are unaware)

You are not a woman

You are not a man

You are a creature that will die young

This New Life

October 3, 2015 § Leave a comment

This new life.

But don’t forget.

Your song.


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