To Cut Oneself with Night

May 29, 2016 § Leave a comment



You can’t sleep and so you hoard

words under your pillow.

Years, later, an other night,

someone will dream

and whisper them in his sleep.

Childhood Photos 

May 25, 2016 § 1 Comment

At our school there is a new refugee boy, a sixth grader, who has made the whole way from Syria —on foot, on boat, on foot, on train— by himself, no parents or other relatives on his side. We still know little about how he has made it so far, what he went through for it, and where his parents are, or are not anymore. Whenever someone asks him something, just anything, he answers ‘nein’.

Yesterday 5,600 people were rescued from boats on their way from Libya to Italy. Ever since the Balkan route to Europe is closed more and more people hazard the perilous crossing of the Mediterranean on dangerous, overcrowded boats.

Today far-right group Pegida launched into a rage on Facebook over pictures of black and Asian children on the new Kinder chocolate bar packaging: “They’re trying to pass this s*** off as normal, poor Germany.” The Pegida group failed to recognise that these kids on the Kinder packaging were childhood photos of several players of the German football team, to celebrate the upcoming Euro 2016 tournament.
And I found this little boy in the picture at a shop’s window. I want him to say: Nein!

(First published in my Instagram)


May 23, 2016 § Leave a comment

When more than 60 Syrian and Afghan refugees turned up for the day trip, a hike and picnic around a lake known as a rest area for migratory birds, organised by the local environmental association, the younger volunteers had to fetch the association’s old VW-transporter because the bus was too full. The day developed wonderfully: the weather behaved and remained sunny and warm, the thundering only started after everyone was back home safe and sound; there were no fights or other misunderstandings between the Syrian and Afghan refugees and everyone had fun: the kids enjoyed the games, the adults the fresh air and interesting new place and the environmental activists the delight of the migratory families about all those migratory birds.

Only on the way back to town it became obvious why the volunteers wouldn’t have used the transporter if they didn’t have to. It broke down with a big noise. The volunteers were making the call to the breakdown service when the three young Afghans in it stepped out, opened the engine hood and started taking out parts and putting them back inside again. The engine started right after.

In Afghanistan, they said in quite good English, almost every man can repair a car. This is normal.

(First published in my Instagram )

Three Birds

May 23, 2016 § Leave a comment

I had been happy the whole day thinking about the two flying birds I caught with my lens in one and only film. I had forgotten, or wanted to forget, the dead one I had photographed with my next film. 

It’s only because we forget death that everything we do has a meaning. And it’s only when we remember death we understand this meaning.

(Fist published in my Instagram account.)

Construction Sites

May 18, 2016 § Leave a comment

Old walls must be constantly restored so that they don’t fall down, old stories must be written and rewritten so that their many versions are not forgotten, moments can be photographed with the hope someone would like to revisit them one day. For the strong, a recycling spiral staircase, for the weak, a circle. We will all meet each other twice.

(First published in my Instagram account.)


May 17, 2016 § Leave a comment

Yesterday a visit at friends’ whom we hadn’t seen for years. Their son is now eighteen and they’ve lost all their parents. We talked about the future, our upcoming holidays, our teaching jobs, how much work their huge garden in the suburbs means, and how it is to find your old mother lying dead in her bed after she hasn’t answered the phone for the whole day. W. said he knew that this was a good death but this image was hard to keep together with images of him playing with her on this bed as a kid. W. will go to Bristol for one week in the holidays. Why Bristol?

(First published in my Instagram account.)

A Poem in the Queue 

April 24, 2016 § Leave a comment

I’ve been waiting here for months


You won’t touch my words

You won’t comb my letters

You’re hiding behind the shades of my semicolons

And you took that comma seriously

But I didn’t mean it so, baby

Come on!

Move my verses a little further

They might move you a bit, too

A stanza or two

Slowly. Lovingly. Tenderly.

And after all, who knows?

I might become a poem one day

…to be continued

  • Categories

  • Archives


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 99 other followers

%d bloggers like this: