poems and words

not all poems are words.
my poems should also please not be called art.
the poems which i still find present in me
the day after writing are not words.
some end with words or begin with words
and may only uncover dirt, aggression, tristesse
or a certain clumsiness of mine in being alive.

the others are parts of me given from me in my transience,
poems frail like autumn leaves through which the sun shines,
with holes and spaces,
true parts of me as a real being, human and man,
soul and skin and blood and  spirit,
coming out in  flow with an effort to capture the essence
i experience in my very own life, as it can be present
and expressed parts of my consciousness.

A Diet of Thistles, Conrad T. Feder, lulu.com

http://www.lulu.com/shop/conrad-t-feder/a-diet-of-thistles/paperback/product-22270556.html

"A Diet of Thistles", poems in English, lulu.com, later on Amazon

poems from another blog: zenyogagurdjieff.blogspot.de: stroke me...speak to me...

http://zenyogagurdjieff.blogspot.de/2015/04/the-unfixing.html


 Origami

 This is how I live:

Inside, I get torn apart,
into small pieces, each one showing 
no more than a letter or two, 
perhaps a syllable; 
and the pieces are thrown
into the errors of my soul, my breath.

They spiral, fluttering slowly
downward towards the bottom of my heart
like confetti, as though snowfall
were a benediction: all the words I use made sacred
by destroying them.

Down there, in darkness
where I can’t reach them,
small creatures find the scraps; 

Gather them with nimble fingers,
folding tiny resurrections 

In the shape of birds. 



http://zenyogagurdjieff.blogspot.de/2015/04/the-rain-falls-i-come-to-this-moment-of.html


The rain falls

I come to this moment of return
Without a pale breath to feed me,
Without warning, without
The threads that got me here.

I am picking up a thousand instances
Where I dropped time on the floor, astonished
By what it said:
That it dared to speak to me.

That I dared to listen.

And altogether, I am helpless
In the art of living;
I thought I knew 
The way things ought to be

As though what in them were preserved
Unbroken, undistorted
Even though I touched them
And hurt them with my cares.

Where is my trust, my trust
Where are the ones who loved me,
Held me up?
Geese cry in the morning

As though they, too, are lost.
Yet their light
Has not yet begun to fail;
They know their Way.

I do not know mine.
This is the fate of those,
Who go into the unknown.
The rain falls.

Maracha Hospital - UGANDA 1984 -1989 - poetry 1990

FLAME TREE


Flame tree in Maraca:
red flames
the verandah,
yellow flares, green hedge,
chicken, children,
light

This cruel brightness
no words

Scars
burning leopards
too sudden, too bright

The eyes of Vincent van Gogh
thirsting for fire
Blake's tiger
eating in the dark

The moon of Maraca
very near
the flame tree
and snakes
move in the matoke,
guard my garden

For all this
is my world
I want to eat
flame trees,
breathe fire,
burn,
and incredibly bright
turn light

creative writing