Once More, Thoughts on Poetry

I like poems that do little useful things for you
like telling a friend you’ve been such a jerk,
keeping one company when bored in a long queue,
or teaching some manners to a misanthropic, rude clerk.

I equally like those that tenderly take care of each word
make it touch and fit and turn to the one before,
and have nothing against those that let loose, even lose control
the unorthodox, the paradox, the ones that cut like a sword.

Like a poet I most like said in a much finer way,
poetry is the not-adult-wise child in each of us inside
that takes our hand, feeds our heart, says a pray
when dangers and fears have sent all others to hide.

Nocturnal

One doesn’t know how certain nights end,

a clock bell might ring,

a bed side might turn cold,

a dream might feel like yesterday.

The heavy eyes aren’t heavy anymore,

the book is getting thinner at the wrong side.

Counting hours is no help,

only the whisper of a slow song.

(24 August)

*****

The soundless night is that of sorrow,

that one with heavy curtains

and covered mirrors.

No matter how hard you try,

you can’t remember your favourite song,

the words are missing, the tune is failing

to break through your inner wall.

(29 August)

*****

Timing

I set the clock back to find the words

and then again forward to lose them.

I‘m the night itself, the dusk, the dawn.

I count the hours faster and they’re past

I count them slower to make them last.

(9 September)

*****

The Night Moving

How does the night move?
There must be a moment
when it moves over your body.
You are half night, half day then,
you are a sister to the moon,
a brother to the deep sea,
half of you mourns the dying stars,
the other half worships the burning.
You like the chill, you need the warmth,
a blackbird sings at both sides.
The night and half of you
moves then away.

Published in Zócalo Public Square (14 September 2018)

Autumnal

 

The other day the world was shinning

like the good silver at a beloved daughter’s wedding.

Our feast on the world will come to an end one day.

Every time I think of it I take a photo.

(3 November)

*****

Under the skin another skin,

and another and another.

The day we disappeared

was a spring day in autumn,

each fallen leaf had touched that skin,

briefly, first and last.

(19 October)

*****

 

May Moon

The full moon is here

counting gone stars in its light.

No apologies.

 

There is a silence,

no wind, no voice, no promise.

Just the naked night.

 

Moon’s time expires

even sooner in hard rain.

She shines in goodbyes.

(May 2018)

How everything comes together…

Since a couple of weeks I‘ve been following Peter Maass’ tweets where he describes his experience during the Irak war always on the same day but 15 years ago, day by day. He is trying to bring that war, its deaths, its aftermath back into the consciousness of the US, and not only, citizens. I think, he’s hoping that a few more people will see its connection to the political events that followed that war and how this unlawful US invasion in Irak, though surely not the only reason for following events, particularly destabilised Irak and the region.

After an initial overwhelming solidarity with refugees, first crossing the Aegean and then continuing on foot all the way up to Germany, sentiments have changed in Europe, in some countries sooner (not to say some have to unfortunately yet show some solidarity) and more obviously than others, but this is certainly a general development: Too big were the numbers of refugees arriving, too deep are still the roots of nationalism and racism, easy for demagogues and far-right-wingers to dig out.

In Greece the state is in bad shape and help from Europe comes like a bad medicine since years. Thousands of refugees are stranded on islands like Lesbos, the inhabitants’ patience with their own government and hospitality to the refugees is declining.

And here in Germany, Merkel’s initial welcoming for the refugees has in the meantime been successfully presented as an act of political naivety by the growing right-wing parties. (Solidarity is generally a term deeply in crisis in times of global capitalism. Even traditionally social-democratic parties show problems defining it or even understanding it, therefore constantly losing their voters.)

At the moment doors are not as open as initially thought by refugees in Germany, certainly not to the ones that don’t come from countries directly affected by the war against the IS, but even for people already here and coming from those countries —Syria, Irak, Afghanistan—the so-called, “family reunification” has become more difficult.

You see, in most cases, it was men who made the whole way through the Balkans and reached the wealthier northern European countries. Surely some of them did that just for themselves, in order to escape military duty (who can blame them for that?) or wishing to reach a country with a future that they couldn’t see taking place in their own anymore, but many took the road because they were stronger, leaving their families behind, hoping they could get for them later, when they would have reached safety. Many families even started together but saw that it was impossible for kids to keep up with the pace, or money run out, and so they got separated on the way.

And now a final story:

I talked with a friend from Greece on the phone the other day. Among other things she told me that her sister and brother-in-law, already parents of two, had become foster parents to a three-year-old boy from Irak. I was very happy to hear that because these are very good people and there are so many abandoned refugee kids in Greece, still staying in hospitals or even on the streets with their constant dangers. The background of this little boy though illustrates the current situation and brings for me all the stories above together.

His mother has been committed to a mental hospital. Due to her mental problems was not able anymore to take care of her two sons who were initially, more or less, left in the streets. The older son, a young teenager, has been, according to the reports, abusing the younger one, so the kids had to be separated. The father is gathered to be somewhere in Northern Europe, probably in Germany, but nobody really knows or is sure about that.

A family’s fate in our current world.

 

 

 

Echos of Good Friday

Last year I was in Greece taking part in the Good Friday procession in my village. The evening air smelled of orange tree bloom and I recorded the sound of the crowd in the street and sent it to the RIC Journal for their lovely Echos section.

Weeping Willow’s Winters

A winter has its good sides,

no sorrow has to be hidden,

said the weeping willow.