Donnerstag, 17. April 2014

time beyond tears

Time beyond tears





Es gibt eine Zeit
jenseits der Tränen
ein Licht hinter den Bergen
eine Stimme in der Not

Ein Atem aus Licht
ein Singen
jenseits von Blut

Sogar im Sturm
sprudelt der Quell
im Rhythmus des Quells

Es gibt eine Zeit
mit dir zu sprechen
jenseits von Durst
und hinter den Bergen

Aber jetzt

verbirg mein Herz in deinem Leib
bedecke meine Wunden
mit deinen Augen

Aber jetzt
deck mich zu
Mit deinem Haar
Das Meer schläft
Und alles wird Nebel

jetzt schon

cf, 1991?

Sonntag, 13. April 2014

about authenticity

About authenticity

( Over the last months I read some excellent,some wonderful poems. But there were also these which came across as non-authentic. Sometimes maybe because somebody tried too hard to be different or to increase his/her importance with other people’s suffering and with tales of heroism (which I hate). Or sometimes just maybe because the text had to fit the rhyme. Or because the phrase found was so wonderful, it had to be used: it could have been used later.)

there is a full moon
i smell wild boars
in the dark of the forest

it is april
and i blossom
restlessly
shooting the sky

yes.
i agree,
this is poetic
and it
may be
a bore.

but if you watch
 a war on tv:
why do you write
as if you were there?
you in your chair.

if you
don’t love:
why pretend
and molest me?

if you like pus
ok
then there may be
a certain degree
of
authenticity


but if you think
that i need pus,
amputations,
heroes,
flies ,wounds,
maggots,
crucifications,
flagellations

all from you
who has no experience
with  torture,
prisons, ditches
not even hunger ,thirst
not even freezing

you cannot
frighten
me enough
to make me
listen


why don’t you pull
your own toe nail?

even if your skies
are ever so azzurro,
lilac and deep

even if your genitals
are as voluptuously
swollen
as your brain

even if rain falls
and washes it all away
why should I read?



(peace…?)

a poet

a poet

a poet doesn't need
blood , wars,
violets , perfumes

a poet
needs space,
needs to listen to
what is not said.

a poet
needs to make
silence dance

his words
are not words
but signs


and a breath
to
make you shiver


his words
are a language
of nomads

but you
will not be led
across the dunes

but out

Dienstag, 8. April 2014

today i am silent

today i am silent

today i am silent,
tonight

at day
i am a rock
amidst chaos,
wishes
suffering
desire
blindness

at day
i translate
words into
meaning

at day
i am there
between
their
nights,
which
they do not
understand


at night
i am alone
i howl
with the stars
and I feel
the earth turn
in my blood

at night
i am desire
and
i move
out of
my shadow

i do not suffer
i am not hungry
nor  thirsty

there is
nothing wrong,
not even me.

i am human
that’s all

at night
i translate
meaning

into words

Freitag, 4. April 2014

there is the scent of spring

apple blossom mornings

i am at sea,
dizzy
with the waves,
my courage unbroken

i tied myself
to the mast,
sails set
for the morning

after all
there is nothing to lose.
i am here anyway
rolling and rolling

i will see
the apple trees
blossom
at dawn


Sonntag, 23. März 2014

emptiness

emptiness
ist just
a means of rhythm

silence
is an art
of awareness

between two waves
is there emptiness
or the ocean?

between you 
and me
is there nothing?

what will 
I find between
heart and brain,
earth and sun,
nucleus and electrons?

there is no matter
no spirit
no empty space

there is music
in a stone
in a tree
in you
and me

matter is spirit
and spirit is matter
dark is light
and light is dark

I am not I
you are not you
but I am I
and you are you

and all is dance
each cell
and each thought
the universe
and the sea



(Goethe-Zitat:
Was wär ein Gott,
der nur von aussen stiesse,
im Kreis das All am  Finger laufen liesse?)






Samstag, 22. März 2014

Nachts in Levanto



das meer
ich hör zu zu, zu, nicht zu
zu, nicht zu, zu , nicht zu
ich treibe schäume
brande rausche
ich bin still

die feder
eine  weiße feder
ich bin
ich schwebe

durch das dunkel,
unter mir
unermesslich schwarz
und tief,
ich falle

verharre
ein atem,
von wem,
ein hauch
nimmt mich
weiter


das meer
ich höre
ich höre nichts
ich lächle,
tanze
in den schlaf

video




Sonntag, 16. März 2014

impertinent

impertinent


sometimes i thought
it does not matter
if i die now

but i want to live
moving
the sea in my ears
the sun in my eyes

a smell of honey
and this boisterous
sparkle of happiness

Mittwoch, 5. März 2014

No riddle, no joke

I am a whisper
at the dark of night

I am fire
on a wintry field

I am the rain
at your window

I am the plough
wounding your heart

I am one pulse
of the universe

Your are one song
sent from the stars

I am a word
born in the wind

I am not I
You are not you
We are not we


Kein Rätsel

Wenn ich nicht an bin
bin ich aus.
Wen ich nicht aus bin
bin ich an.

Ich bin das Licht
und
das Dunkel.

Wenn ich an bin
bin ich aus
und wenn ich aus bin
bin ich an.

Ich bin an
und ich bin aus.
Ich bin das Licht
und
das Dunkel.

Wenn ich da bin
bin ich nicht da.
und wenn ich nicht da bin
bin ich da.

Montag, 24. Februar 2014

Grass

Grass

Green grass
breaks up
concrete

A bird sings,
then
silence

It is cold
but the signs of spring
glare all around

Another night,
a cigarette,
lost words

The doors
closed.
Skin too tight.

My blood
sings
to nobody.

When
will you come
on your
steed

and sing to me?

Small animals far away

Small animals far away

Sometimes I thought
the gods play-
they throw human guts,
excrements,
spurt our blood
across the skies

I thought they hide
in clouds
enjoy the torture
make a game
of suffering

Maybe they do.
Or they are not
there at all.
But poets do
and neighbours.
Politicians.

We are small animals
far away
stumbling on a chessboard.
But we can fight

and together
we can tear and bite
and gnaw like rats
at the flesh of gods
and neighbours
and politicians.


We should.

Visions

Visions


I walk a  line
between and inbetween,
enhance the shadows
violate the light

There is blood,
it is my blood.
There is spirit,
it is my spirit

There is strength.
I don’t know
how to use it.
I walk , I breathe.

Turtles kiss my face
and lions lick my nose.
I smell death, decay.
I cannot heal.

I live in a jungle,
noise, voices,
I find a path.

I live in the air
dance on a string,
stare at the sea

My eyes are blind
but I see
dark lakes ,
silent swans.

I come back
to myself,
but I don’t know
who I am,
where

I tried to talk
but I get

misunderstood

Dienstag, 18. Februar 2014

journey and game

all my life i have seen this my existence as a journey and adult life just as another game, deadly serious and still full of joy,. often i have felt like sitting in a train, watching time pass and clouds and meadows and sadness and expectations,sitting next to myself and wondering what it will all be about... looking at the stars in a clear night i kind of know where my journey started but i don't know where it will end. one thing i know: i won't tell children easily "it's just a game", i would rather phrase it "it is a game, (one of many)"

Dienstag, 11. Februar 2014

astral shield II , for revision, notes september 2013

my astral shield is bomb -shelled,
things, faces passing through.
i am a post-office,
transport letters,
thorns of promisses

sometimes i need drugs
to close the gates,
for shelter,
for rest.

the u-bahn shrieks,
squeals, screeches
to a halt,
then rumbles on,
thunder underground

from far a wailing child,
a dog barking down the tunnels.
this is one stage of bardo,
transition, dissolution
the astonishment to find
silence
amidst 
noise.

white paper
being filled with letters,
paint, colour, signs,
symbols, figures,
trainloads of people
in a cloud of voices

long after Babel
running
away
or 
somewhere

they carry wishes
and sorrows
and i hope
they would see
and live now
because now
is tomorrow too late
and yesterday gone

their own monsters
 will shake them
and
only with the fear of death
they will awake
into their lives

i open my eyes
and i see
a sword in my hand.

i will not need
a shield anymore















Mittwoch, 1. Januar 2014

2014 and some points about complaining

this is not just about the start of 2014.
 it will be better to complain to yourself. but it is better to imagine you complain to somebody else as this makes you more careful and observant, it makes you more awake and more aware.
 it is the same with poems. maybe nobody will read them.
the best ones though are written for yourself but as if somebody else would listen.
 it is very rare that somebody listens.
 and it wouldn't help in the process of writing at all. it is the same with complaining.

once when i was a small child a kind old man asked me, tears were running down my cheeks: 'o why do 
you cry?', and my answer was:' let me go and cry'. kindness can be disturbing....when you need to cry until you forget why you started in the first place.

often i wonder if i love anybody at all. maybe my children, it is a gut feeling. i certainly like my brother and a few other people. maybe i want to fall in love, maybe not. there is always the problem of falling and getting hurt. but will i love? do i really even love my grandchild?
there is no answer yet. i need to be honest to myself.

i feel lonely, i think i will soon lose another tooth, and my backpain has been near to unbearable for the last one or two weeks or so.
now what do i do with this?
i just complained. for the moment i finished.
i will go to bed and try to sleep as millions of other people do.

it would be nice to find a lover and friend who can make me laugh, likes my food , can laugh herself, and i could be quiet with her and enjoy all these silent talks  together.
if she is there she will find me.
or i will find her.
when the time is right.
good night.

Samstag, 28. Dezember 2013

a diary note

this morning i watched a tree and some birds above the sea. sometimes i do not know if i talk to the world only or if the world talks to me. when i was a child the world talked to me all the time and in many ways. now i got older, experienced collisions,fusion, grief and suffering. and off and on pain takes me out of the flow of the universe, keeps me locked and crystallizing in an unwelcome process of individuation. i am still the same, branded by the sign of aries on my forehead, wanting, fighting, throwing tempers and tempests, more often than not walking in a cloud of fire, wounds  and violence. i learnt to live with myself better than some around. and now, getting older, i feel the ground on which i walk getting thinner and thinner, and i know that i thrive on pure imagination. of course there is no reliable path at all, and escape is no option but a waste of energy. so  i keep on walking and inbetween i try to listen to the trees and the birds and  the wind and the rain.

Sonntag, 1. Dezember 2013

Lissabon

I feel these holes
in my astral shield.
the tides of time
make me sleepy.
but i walk
and see.

this city is beautiful
and strange.
i collect perfumes and smiles,
a scent of power and presence

my mind fills with ships
and poets
with sheer splendour, arrogant,
built on a past of wars

i walk on
meet faces
music
sensuously slurred words
which i cannot understand
just as i don't know
anything here

i listen to the wind
the Tejo slapping the banks
and i know, for each moment
we all pay with blood

Europe was raped
and she bore Minos
who kept a monster
in his maze

now the poor
need to find a thread
to help them out

i know
and you know
there is no garden
for the heart to rest
but for a short time
and time does not exist

for now
i sit in the sun
the coffee is good 
Adeus,Lisboa 















nachts


nachts


aufwachen

nachts

leise tritt

die einsamkeit

über die ufer


kein saxophon,

mein herz schlägt

in einen schwarzen raum,

verstrahlt


die federn

der toten engel

legen sich auf

mein gesicht


ich kann

nicht

mit dir

telefonieren


Sonntag, 10. November 2013

lies

lies

is it revolution
if i don’t want to talk?
is it the language of madness
if I just want to listen to a voice
but not to hear the words?

is it bourgeouis
if I want a hand
to hold
and an arm
to rest?

is it immoral
if I don’t want
to do
anything
at all?

i know
we are here to
communicate
i hate the word
it starts with the church
continues with politics


proceeds into the
world wide web,
there
eaten by spiders
I guess

there is always
somebody
who
defines
communication

i have done so much
i have talked so much
i tried
to
communicate

but what has it taught me
where did I go from there
and why

i am a liar,

i already talked too much

Samstag, 12. Oktober 2013

Loss

Loss

I went on
and on,
busy as a bee,
senseless.
I forgot to mourn

I went on
but I cannot.
I stop
and there is:
I don’t know.

I went to her grave.
She said:
Why don’t you stay
just a bit longer

I was frightened
but
I turned back
and stayed
just a bit longer

Then I left.
Life is not the same
now

but as before
the ground moves
all
the

time

Dienstag, 1. Oktober 2013

Bardo

BARDO

I think,
I don’t think.
I am inbetween
sleep and waking,
doing and not doing

hovering
between worlds.
I am  a ship
riding the tides,

I swing through an eddy,
catch a backcurrent
near an unknown shore.

Forgotten by the waves
I am here
and I am no more.
I cannot sleep,
I cannot wake

I see no stars
in the mirror of this night.
I see no sun
in this glaring day.

I hear no one
but blood thumping
 my eardrums

I grow roots in the air,
bleached by salt.
My heart drunken
 with blackness
 in this bottomless sea.

There is a  witch,
she stands in the door
but she holds not power
nor broom

I have no legs,
I cannot walk.
I have no wings,
I cannot fly.

In the birdless shadow
I cannot talk
nor sing

So much water
but I am dry.
The dance is finished,
the last echo of this song
gone in a silent wind

My desert needs rain
and a voice.
Then I may rise
with the clouds

and write on the walls

Sonntag, 22. September 2013

silence

Silence

if there is silence
noise is mere wrinkles
on a deep lake

people breathe
hawk
whisper in the last row
you want to close your eyes

a gust of wind outside
a large window
leaves tumbling across
rain

outside a  car
another one
a siren approaches
fades away

a chair squeaks
you forget
where you are

somebody talks
there are words

they are words

Samstag, 21. September 2013

Conni, beautiful,courageous,so very brave, a fighting spirit and distilled energy in her eyes



Poem for my wife's 47th birthday, 2003: Cornelia Feder 12 Oct 1956-11 Sept 2013

Deine Augen


Deine Augen sind wie Seen,
der Himmel spiegelt sich.
Wolken fliehen zentrifugal
vor kleinen grünen Enten,

die mit ihren Flügeln
Wellen schlagen,
das Wasser kräuseln.
Nebel ziehen müde durch.

Deine Augen sind wie Feuer,
wärmen und brennen,
hüten und versengen.
Leiden ist nahe an Kraft.

Du siehst alles so scharf.
Es wird schwer, sanft zu sein.
Irgendwann wirst du im Traum
kirschblütenleicht  schweben.

Deine Augen sind manchmal
wie ein Licht von hoch oben,
das wie ein Falke weit und ferne
in den Winden kreist

und dann  zur Erde stürzt,
dort die Beute krallt.
Die Geduld des Falken
ist die List des Jägers.

Du bist stark und doch schwach.
Ich möchte dich halten,
im Ohr deinen Rhythmus,
dein Lied aus Blut und Atem.

Deine Augen sind wie Wind,
sie sind fern wie Sterne,
nah wie du
und ...