A planet, suspended
If the world could be stopped from spinning,
it would all be over – or? A new beginning?
Everyone wondered.
Not many of us tried.
It tends to be like that.
What could we do in our small ways,
what good would it do?
But at some point we became too dizzy;
a common motion sickness.
We closed our eyes and breathed,
in and out, mouth to mouth,
slowly, imagining one dream after another,
imagined the world
silent, soothing, stagnant.
We did not need the dreams to come true.
That would be childish.
We wanted peace for them,
a vast smooth space to just drift without all this
rotation, rotation,
constantly going in circles
and that sun draining all there is left.
We wanted cold dead stars,
but no one wished for death,
not just now, not just yet.
Suspended in a temporary darkness:
does stillness feint forgetting?
Does silence stifle lack?
Does it
still
spin?
If the world could be stopped from spinning,
it would all be over – or? A new beginning?
Everyone wondered.
Not many of us tried.
It tends to be like that.
What could we do in our small ways,
what good would it do?
But at some point we became too dizzy;
a common motion sickness.
We closed our eyes and breathed,
in and out, mouth to mouth,
slowly, imagining one dream after another,
imagined the world
silent, soothing, stagnant.
We did not need the dreams to come true.
That would be childish.
We wanted peace for them,
a vast smooth space to just drift without all this
rotation, rotation,
constantly going in circles
and that sun draining all there is left.
We wanted cold dead stars,
but no one wished for death,
not just now, not just yet.
Suspended in a temporary darkness:
does stillness feint forgetting?
Does silence stifle lack?
Does it
still
spin?
Soul, longing
Some people would do anything
to be seen.
We call them vain,
and vanity, you say,
does not suit us well.
What is left unsaid is
that the soul aches in
many different ways:
to be had;
for the body to be hers, only;
and, in the despair for gaze
to believe:
“I am not alone.”
Leaving is not a crime
I thought I witnessed birds dying,
there on the silent street,
but it was
not a murder.
Just leaves
falling.
Leaving is not a crime.
Leaving is
a small death.
How well we got this taught
back in the days.
How many hours
have we spent
with the flock,
watching as they dived
and diverted,
and dived
and disappeared.
No, leaving is not a crime.
It is an annual lesson of loss,
a sudden flutter
of feathered hearts;
so free, and so sad.
Some people would do anything
to be seen.
We call them vain,
and vanity, you say,
does not suit us well.
What is left unsaid is
that the soul aches in
many different ways:
to be had;
for the body to be hers, only;
and, in the despair for gaze
to believe:
“I am not alone.”
Leaving is not a crime
I thought I witnessed birds dying,
there on the silent street,
but it was
not a murder.
Just leaves
falling.
Leaving is not a crime.
Leaving is
a small death.
How well we got this taught
back in the days.
How many hours
have we spent
with the flock,
watching as they dived
and diverted,
and dived
and disappeared.
No, leaving is not a crime.
It is an annual lesson of loss,
a sudden flutter
of feathered hearts;
so free, and so sad.
Early deceits of autumn
Have you heard?
How soft the leaves have fallen
this late year, their weight
too light, their colour
all too golden. You take
one leaf in your palm, scrape off
the gold slowly
with your painter’s thumb and sigh
at the beautiful deceit,
of the season.
Every day
you walk through the alley.
I see you; the way you walk, the way
your head has had that
downward sweep from the top
of the trees down the barren bark.
Your eyes
following heaven to earth,
your heart – who knows
where hearts leave in their fall.
On this
habitual obliteration
of warmth, I watch you bend
to the hollow of the trunk.
How gently
you nestle the wilted leaf,
as if it were not dead,
as if you could not believe
that you still own something.
You place your lips
where the tree breathes:
Have you heard?
Have you had it good,
your life, have you taken
measures?
This autumn, is it the last,
is it ripe enough, is it our time
to land?
I wish so much to take
your pale stained hand and kiss it.
You are so wrong, you have forgotten
too much. Do you not see
all this?
Perhaps not golden, and not yours,
but here,
already landed,
right under your feet.
The silent hour of cicadas
What do the cicadas speak of
with such conviction?
Before and after
that one strange hour when
everything suddenly goes quiet
in the heat.
First heat,
then silence.
Does your heart
clench in panic
that the night had ceased its beat?
Listen –
it still sounds.
The ache is
in your wings,
in the blind spot
where you cannot reach.
There,
the mute hour
of remembering
the lost hour
of peace.
Season of the frogs
At least those frogs did not
jump out out your mouth
when you least expected it.
How true,
my friend.
Some frogs never
die, was also something
you had claimed, but that
was a lie, it was
your way to
get a grasp on this
world;
on me, maybe.
Didn’t you learn: a gone thing
is gone,
was gulped,
once, twice,
gulped down, never to return.
From the lake,
a prince, however much
you kiss the wide green
mouth,
shall not come.
Your skin, the one
you had so wished to shed,
has peeled of its own
accord, and that says
something sinister
about this season
of the frogs.
Positively lacklustre
My lustre lacks today.
It leaks as I lie low
and lick my lips to speak
in the happy way you know.
It leaks as I make the bed,
the coffee, and the call,
when I slip around the flat
it drips and stains the floor.
It leaks later, as darkness bleeds
lashing, losing, limply grieving
tufts of lamb all will to please,
lusterlacking, lusterleaving.
Blueberries
to dad
Perhaps the blueberries need
some time to think about life
before they find the courage
for their ripened bearing.
Before they find the right path,
how to talk with the rhubarb
without offending its shy colouring,
and what to become, for whom.
My dear berries of gloom,
what can I say? Some of us
are here to please and no amount
of will could turn you golden.
Just – try to root, if not for
meaning then to stop drifting,
feed on the rich fragrant earth
while you still have dreams.
Have you heard?
How soft the leaves have fallen
this late year, their weight
too light, their colour
all too golden. You take
one leaf in your palm, scrape off
the gold slowly
with your painter’s thumb and sigh
at the beautiful deceit,
of the season.
Every day
you walk through the alley.
I see you; the way you walk, the way
your head has had that
downward sweep from the top
of the trees down the barren bark.
Your eyes
following heaven to earth,
your heart – who knows
where hearts leave in their fall.
On this
habitual obliteration
of warmth, I watch you bend
to the hollow of the trunk.
How gently
you nestle the wilted leaf,
as if it were not dead,
as if you could not believe
that you still own something.
You place your lips
where the tree breathes:
Have you heard?
Have you had it good,
your life, have you taken
measures?
This autumn, is it the last,
is it ripe enough, is it our time
to land?
I wish so much to take
your pale stained hand and kiss it.
You are so wrong, you have forgotten
too much. Do you not see
all this?
Perhaps not golden, and not yours,
but here,
already landed,
right under your feet.
The silent hour of cicadas
What do the cicadas speak of
with such conviction?
Before and after
that one strange hour when
everything suddenly goes quiet
in the heat.
First heat,
then silence.
Does your heart
clench in panic
that the night had ceased its beat?
Listen –
it still sounds.
The ache is
in your wings,
in the blind spot
where you cannot reach.
There,
the mute hour
of remembering
the lost hour
of peace.
Season of the frogs
At least those frogs did not
jump out out your mouth
when you least expected it.
How true,
my friend.
Some frogs never
die, was also something
you had claimed, but that
was a lie, it was
your way to
get a grasp on this
world;
on me, maybe.
Didn’t you learn: a gone thing
is gone,
was gulped,
once, twice,
gulped down, never to return.
From the lake,
a prince, however much
you kiss the wide green
mouth,
shall not come.
Your skin, the one
you had so wished to shed,
has peeled of its own
accord, and that says
something sinister
about this season
of the frogs.
Positively lacklustre
My lustre lacks today.
It leaks as I lie low
and lick my lips to speak
in the happy way you know.
It leaks as I make the bed,
the coffee, and the call,
when I slip around the flat
it drips and stains the floor.
It leaks later, as darkness bleeds
lashing, losing, limply grieving
tufts of lamb all will to please,
lusterlacking, lusterleaving.
Blueberries
to dad
Perhaps the blueberries need
some time to think about life
before they find the courage
for their ripened bearing.
Before they find the right path,
how to talk with the rhubarb
without offending its shy colouring,
and what to become, for whom.
My dear berries of gloom,
what can I say? Some of us
are here to please and no amount
of will could turn you golden.
Just – try to root, if not for
meaning then to stop drifting,
feed on the rich fragrant earth
while you still have dreams.
Treat me like an animal
by sunrise, by the stables,
take me to measure my worth
by the softness of my skin,
by the golden teeth hanging
down my breasts and the thin blue
veins in between. Check the size
of my sins, my thighs, my chest,
my shins; seize my thoughts
before they gallop away with those
we do not speak of. Shake me up
from how I am, sharpen my hoofs
with salt. Whip off the creases
on the blue velvet skirt to make me
subtler, drag me in the hay by roots,
give me warmth, will, value on a tag.
Clean being
I never learned to clean happy.
I hoover when I feel too heavy
to stand still, and I iron
as a path to obliviate myself.
Though there seems to be no excuse
today; the stain softly spreading,
longing for sanity, sanitation,
or sickness, you could say,
so close they stand. To fill in
my domestic gap I start
with a list, limply, a wish
strapped to a lie.
How typical of me to deny us
a higher order, neither
a bullet nor a point
to score. I clean
to move out of my lightweight
ways. Water the plates,
fold the plants,
scrape the dirt off, the skin
lined with a faded linen cloth.
Wine the dust-path down,
set the clock to noon
for when the moon arrives.
On the hunt for solidity,
so that you don’t see
the odd socks pairing with
the oddity of mind.
With the hides and furs
of lame night fails, their
animal lament, I learn.
Here lie flowers
Here you lie, flowers – your future selves –
we touched your hardened cores before
anyone else. Before you softened; a ritual of finding
what lies beyond in the too shallow holes
where you might die, pressed together,
suffocating by the weight of earth, not your own.
Always craving warmth, cold-hearted,
but recalling longing, remember that you had
that one caressed moment,
that one chance for eternity.
Here you lie, flowers – your future selves –
we touched your hardened cores before
anyone else. Before you softened; a ritual of finding
what lies beyond in the too shallow holes
where you might die, pressed together,
suffocating by the weight of earth, not your own.
Always craving warmth, cold-hearted,
but recalling longing, remember that you had
that one caressed moment,
that one chance for eternity.
Waiting for seeds
I will just lie here and wait for seeds to be
placed into my mouth
as I sleep lying to the wheat
of the summer that would come,
of the golden ripened bliss.
I lay down drowning whispers of the stems
with stories they do not trust, but still
release their grains onto my limp tongue
one by one, lightly,
becoming bread, beckoning the plains.
Yesterday’s garden
The garden was never lonely.
We knew it was given what we would so clumsily
explain in words, gestures, images; faint in
its deluge of smells, secret whispers,
the buzz of struggle, the ease of living.
All this stubborn will to thrive, push
out of seeds, out of grass, stretch as far
as possible; feeding, eating, breathing,
in and out, and up; always up.
My god,
weren’t you impressed?
How much would we renounce to keep this
kingdom lingering inside? Growing back the past,
growing so thick we should lack nothing,
desire nothing, say nothing.
Remember after the rain?
Summoning back the garden’s scent
you might have missed the mythical Saskatoon berry,
its flutter of indigo always dallying in the shade,
too wild to blossom on command,
too shy to converse; the dark horse at the party.
By the greenhouse, the tomatoes, climbing the ranks,
so fresh and fragrant after the storm.
On their journey towards ripeness, their
readiness to complete a promise
with heads turned round, turned up,
turned red, starving, swallowing the sun, gulping air,
dizzy with the garden’s hope
that the warmth seeping into us would
stay to dwell in the branches of the apple trees and
leave a trace of the good.
The garden never claimed to be perfect.
The good here tasted of summer,
of red currants and rhubarb, of rot and dirt and
old walnut shells; of soft worms and
sweet decay. Here in the detritus of the seasons
it felt this is exactly where life was – where
we belonged to earth, not the other way round.
The garden was never lonely.
We knew it was given what we would so clumsily
explain in words, gestures, images; faint in
its deluge of smells, secret whispers,
the buzz of struggle, the ease of living.
All this stubborn will to thrive, push
out of seeds, out of grass, stretch as far
as possible; feeding, eating, breathing,
in and out, and up; always up.
My god,
weren’t you impressed?
How much would we renounce to keep this
kingdom lingering inside? Growing back the past,
growing so thick we should lack nothing,
desire nothing, say nothing.
Remember after the rain?
Summoning back the garden’s scent
you might have missed the mythical Saskatoon berry,
its flutter of indigo always dallying in the shade,
too wild to blossom on command,
too shy to converse; the dark horse at the party.
By the greenhouse, the tomatoes, climbing the ranks,
so fresh and fragrant after the storm.
On their journey towards ripeness, their
readiness to complete a promise
with heads turned round, turned up,
turned red, starving, swallowing the sun, gulping air,
dizzy with the garden’s hope
that the warmth seeping into us would
stay to dwell in the branches of the apple trees and
leave a trace of the good.
The garden never claimed to be perfect.
The good here tasted of summer,
of red currants and rhubarb, of rot and dirt and
old walnut shells; of soft worms and
sweet decay. Here in the detritus of the seasons
it felt this is exactly where life was – where
we belonged to earth, not the other way round.
my friend who has gone away to sea canals
Dear girl you are so pretty without knowing anything about it. Your skin
is glowing from within blinding my eyes that are already so tired.
With your elegant wrist twist you hold onto the wine glass and talk simply
talk like it was the most natural thing that friends do (you were born with it).
You said: ‘I met your friend just the day before he was gone it was nice but
then he tried to kiss me did you know anything about it?’
I said what was he drunk what did you do no I knew nothing about it poor boy.
And you just laughed no he just had a coffee and a beer and we say men are strange
and we continue where our dialogue stopped full of your smiles and my soul dripping
down under the table where your tights have dots on them oh how lovely your legs look.
Dear friend I am sorry I am laughing with her too you know what I am like
Some other day you might have stood a chance but now she laughs
(she laughs a lot she’s got a nice voice too).
I say: well he’s gone away to sea canals I wonder how he is? I doubt he would be coming
back he’s going to find a lady of his heart finally and a sea anchor
will appear tattooed on his chest a romance of his life that is what
he’s been waiting for way too long by now. Now he’s gone I miss him more
than before I miss him a bit but I miss that part of myself who’s gone missing with him
and with his times and the times in the past.
We’ve been all kidnapped by the soul-snatchers of the hyper-unreal future and
you are just merrily playing with your glass
laughing with your beautiful mouth, mannered, ready to bloom.
Small dead deeds
I think often of forgiveness.
Did you know there is a list
of deeds we all have out there?
Written in a neat hand, blue ink,
fountain pen; the paper thick and cream.
It is all noted
inside of someone.
The proper way.
You say it’s not about forgiving.
But what is it about?
There is only so much love can do.
It can’t bring back
the small dead things.
A done deed is done.
Just so that you know:
I haven’t forgotten any of you.
I haven’t forgiven any of us.
I think often of forgiveness.
Did you know there is a list
of deeds we all have out there?
Written in a neat hand, blue ink,
fountain pen; the paper thick and cream.
It is all noted
inside of someone.
The proper way.
You say it’s not about forgiving.
But what is it about?
There is only so much love can do.
It can’t bring back
the small dead things.
A done deed is done.
Just so that you know:
I haven’t forgotten any of you.
I haven’t forgiven any of us.
Tired mornings
You can’t sleep this night through. As
every other night sleep hurts; your hands
sweat and fingers cramp in twigs.
They must be done soon, surely, thinking
of the too loud, too bright birds who started
slightly early to define themselves against
the silent small-town streets. But as the hours drag
slowly towards the light that they want
so much to reach, the noise keeps rising
up, up, up, with wings that flap wetly in the dew.
With day-shy sigh there goes another one of
your vaguely wasted midweek nights. In these
tired mornings drooling toothpaste; sight
known so well to nightly polished tiles. Many times
tried mornings who cannot even pronounce it
right. What, dawn? Day? Dusk? As if you could say, birds.
Postcard
to Lucas
Hey it’s me again I don’t know what to tell you
It’s still the same nothing changed apart from
The season getting longer still the sea gale
Has been making my hands shiver shrink cold colder.
I hope you get better brighter breeze down there in the
southern lands where you lay with sounds of
sun dew in your ears and with supple dark eyed girls
caressing your hair and loving out your fears.
Oh and how is our old nostalgia foe friend? Has she
left in jealousy finally for good? Greening at the sight of
new memories that you will not share she must despair
but don't turn back she'll be alright
we're still together as you might have guessed that is
the one heart I can't mess with break in brittle bones.
I think that is my penalty for all the others it should be or
for feeling sorry for myself which makes the weakest of the weak
But: surely you can understand? that my exotic parrots rainbow
coloured beaks sharp and feathers soft and all that oh my if you
could see! well they all turned out to be just plain birds with
feather fluff on the ground leaking dye in the dying leaves
And that that is just not fair I know not fair is from the
childhood years and we should not not not say now in any case
but they took them all away all the bits of myself of this
personality dissolved with years stolen by the fakest of the birds damn!
I thought I would have turned out better that's it silly me
But back to the theme it's good to hear from you
And I know that you are not judging me for empty
long gone dreams. All is new now.
I miss you too I bought books I think you would
like a lot have you got a favourite plot of the month
to share? Let me know where you live the life near your river
bank I'll send you a postcard down the stream
Take care say hi to the rabbits and don't let them
starve if they scream plant a sugar-coated carrot patch
in few weeks all will sprout and sweeten up so hold on
don't float away send me a
lettre d'amour and a
lettre of the lettres and
just stay in touch
miss you lots
A.
You can’t sleep this night through. As
every other night sleep hurts; your hands
sweat and fingers cramp in twigs.
They must be done soon, surely, thinking
of the too loud, too bright birds who started
slightly early to define themselves against
the silent small-town streets. But as the hours drag
slowly towards the light that they want
so much to reach, the noise keeps rising
up, up, up, with wings that flap wetly in the dew.
With day-shy sigh there goes another one of
your vaguely wasted midweek nights. In these
tired mornings drooling toothpaste; sight
known so well to nightly polished tiles. Many times
tried mornings who cannot even pronounce it
right. What, dawn? Day? Dusk? As if you could say, birds.
Postcard
to Lucas
Hey it’s me again I don’t know what to tell you
It’s still the same nothing changed apart from
The season getting longer still the sea gale
Has been making my hands shiver shrink cold colder.
I hope you get better brighter breeze down there in the
southern lands where you lay with sounds of
sun dew in your ears and with supple dark eyed girls
caressing your hair and loving out your fears.
Oh and how is our old nostalgia foe friend? Has she
left in jealousy finally for good? Greening at the sight of
new memories that you will not share she must despair
but don't turn back she'll be alright
we're still together as you might have guessed that is
the one heart I can't mess with break in brittle bones.
I think that is my penalty for all the others it should be or
for feeling sorry for myself which makes the weakest of the weak
But: surely you can understand? that my exotic parrots rainbow
coloured beaks sharp and feathers soft and all that oh my if you
could see! well they all turned out to be just plain birds with
feather fluff on the ground leaking dye in the dying leaves
And that that is just not fair I know not fair is from the
childhood years and we should not not not say now in any case
but they took them all away all the bits of myself of this
personality dissolved with years stolen by the fakest of the birds damn!
I thought I would have turned out better that's it silly me
But back to the theme it's good to hear from you
And I know that you are not judging me for empty
long gone dreams. All is new now.
I miss you too I bought books I think you would
like a lot have you got a favourite plot of the month
to share? Let me know where you live the life near your river
bank I'll send you a postcard down the stream
Take care say hi to the rabbits and don't let them
starve if they scream plant a sugar-coated carrot patch
in few weeks all will sprout and sweeten up so hold on
don't float away send me a
lettre d'amour and a
lettre of the lettres and
just stay in touch
miss you lots
A.
I used to tread lightly; with lighter steps it meant
more casual, meant only touching on to
smooth surfaces, meant not being your drama.
Carelessly thought through to avoid all of you
it was still manageable. Now gone, pulled in
by you who came back, slightly, ever so slightly
shaking, appearing step by step, ignoring the past
success of my shallow attempts to slide by.
Clearly not clever enough to be alone I grew
heavy and bound by you to sink straight away,
still on my tiptoes, taking down all of us but talking
about your dramas, finally your bliss, your love, your crowd.
more casual, meant only touching on to
smooth surfaces, meant not being your drama.
Carelessly thought through to avoid all of you
it was still manageable. Now gone, pulled in
by you who came back, slightly, ever so slightly
shaking, appearing step by step, ignoring the past
success of my shallow attempts to slide by.
Clearly not clever enough to be alone I grew
heavy and bound by you to sink straight away,
still on my tiptoes, taking down all of us but talking
about your dramas, finally your bliss, your love, your crowd.
Nowhere else do the summer fires smell the same as in your hometown.
the brick-framed streets most apt at catching smoke signals from the air,
no other streets can emit so much calm as you do,
my Moravian corner.
the brick-framed streets most apt at catching smoke signals from the air,
no other streets can emit so much calm as you do,
my Moravian corner.
In the old town
As a neverending tourist I have been living in the old town for some weeks now.
In the mornings I wake up to the silent shuffle of summer rain
On the cobbled streets, church belling around the corner and the early tourists louding their awkward ways through the thick stone walls.
The sound of summer, for me will always keep with this house
With a cigarette of a non-smoker on the terrace overlooking
The royal palace. Little moment when cycling
Behind every corner, by the boats.
As a neverending tourist I have been living in the old town for some weeks now.
In the mornings I wake up to the silent shuffle of summer rain
On the cobbled streets, church belling around the corner and the early tourists louding their awkward ways through the thick stone walls.
The sound of summer, for me will always keep with this house
With a cigarette of a non-smoker on the terrace overlooking
The royal palace. Little moment when cycling
Behind every corner, by the boats.
It is my birthday today and it is hard to believe
that I still breathe the same air as I have had for all those years.
back then, when the greatest of the moments
were to collect chestnuts with my so admired older
brother.
At this lake
Already drinking too early or maybe it is too late?
A morning wine, just in my bra and with bike badly locked at the bar.
It seems lakes like to pretend that summer has arrived,
when in fact it still lures deep within the tides.
Lingering in the background are faintly foreign voices;
when caught in the slow motion of a lazy day they become somewhat coy,
stunned, softer in the way they let themselves be heard and carried on.
I can click them on my tongue and make them dive.
I want to make them mine, own these memories that found their way inside
of my senses caring not for what mess they have done.
I try to hold them nearer, mold them warmer, make them dearer.
Since I know that no image taken will make them any more alive.
What is it with this strangest air that my focus seems to shy away
at the slightest sight of strain? Wide gaping gaps hide in this seamless summer day;
invisible fish eager and so ready to be golden, promising small miracles,
teasing my hair slightly with fins stretched out in question if I will make love to you.
This lake, oh you, lake, you are making me escape when I should stay chained
to the ground. I would not think of the wrong lips and eyes if not for you,
with all your sunshine glitter, glowing fish scales and peace that blinds.
No, I would not think of the kisses so much if not for this subtly silent lake.
somewhere at a lake, too late summer
Already drinking too early or maybe it is too late?
A morning wine, just in my bra and with bike badly locked at the bar.
It seems lakes like to pretend that summer has arrived,
when in fact it still lures deep within the tides.
Lingering in the background are faintly foreign voices;
when caught in the slow motion of a lazy day they become somewhat coy,
stunned, softer in the way they let themselves be heard and carried on.
I can click them on my tongue and make them dive.
I want to make them mine, own these memories that found their way inside
of my senses caring not for what mess they have done.
I try to hold them nearer, mold them warmer, make them dearer.
Since I know that no image taken will make them any more alive.
What is it with this strangest air that my focus seems to shy away
at the slightest sight of strain? Wide gaping gaps hide in this seamless summer day;
invisible fish eager and so ready to be golden, promising small miracles,
teasing my hair slightly with fins stretched out in question if I will make love to you.
This lake, oh you, lake, you are making me escape when I should stay chained
to the ground. I would not think of the wrong lips and eyes if not for you,
with all your sunshine glitter, glowing fish scales and peace that blinds.
No, I would not think of the kisses so much if not for this subtly silent lake.
somewhere at a lake, too late summer
I often remember my dark-haired friend
in songs that we used to be bitter to together
in the evenings, with another glass of wine.
Sometimes he had stopped smoking for the time
and I had not yet started.
I often miss my dark-haired memory of when
things were not any clearer, but the air was saltier
from the Scottish sea; with biting breeze and chunky seals.
All this salt, it made us hover above the ground for the while,
as that was always hard for both of us
I have not yet known (did you?)
that years will go hand in hand with words, yeah, still there,
but not the ones you can hug from the distance.
I should have laughed more back then but I didn't know
it will be so hard to lock friends up to keep.
My Happy Stomach Lining
Happy, so happy at moments I feel like
something must necessarily burst on the inside.
Back home we have držťková, a soup made of
cow’s stomach lininig. There are times I think it would not be that bad
of an end for a vegetarian. From nose to tail, they say.
But - not yet, not yet.
Let me stay like this for a moment beyond.
Let me keep still, silent, sashaying over my two bridges
like a little full speed ahead steam train, high on snow, snow-higher as the wind chills.
(So excited: Look, look! This is the winter, the real Swedish winter!)
Let me long longer,
let me breathe fuller, let me blow the soft balloon further out of
all perspective, with the air coming from the hot healing springs
guarded by the Swedish trolls (who are not really trolls:
they're the Moomintrolls).
Every day passing
the birch alleys,
the broken sea,
the old mill,
the Globen curves, gladly over-exposed in a golden haze.
Touch them let me.
On the metro a real smiling baby, still allowed to be loudly happy -
- on public transport ! - despite its genes of serious swedishness.
We wave at each other and I show it
my new book that made me miss the birch stop yet again
as I held my breath in expectation of how will the trial end.
(Guilty? Not guilty? Siberia? Biting the already bitten lower lip.)
Unbelievable, you say. All this for a dog-eared book?
But...they like it, the addictive softness of a dog ear nuzzling on the skin.
It makes them feel needed in the moment, knowing
that I will come back before falling, with the need to caress
what happens on the page 563 and then, gently,
on the pages of the next books. Who cares for your scorn?
I will make new shiny puppy's velvet ears to keep
in my hands as the epitome of happy, today so easy to contain within
a) Paperback Russian novel read just on the train with passion
and baseball cap worn so low that you can't reach me.
b) For lunch near black rye bread dipped in strong coffee,
the smell lingering in the kitchen for hours on,
snugly dressing my happy stomach lining.
Happy, so happy at moments I feel like
something must necessarily burst on the inside.
Back home we have držťková, a soup made of
cow’s stomach lininig. There are times I think it would not be that bad
of an end for a vegetarian. From nose to tail, they say.
But - not yet, not yet.
Let me stay like this for a moment beyond.
Let me keep still, silent, sashaying over my two bridges
like a little full speed ahead steam train, high on snow, snow-higher as the wind chills.
(So excited: Look, look! This is the winter, the real Swedish winter!)
Let me long longer,
let me breathe fuller, let me blow the soft balloon further out of
all perspective, with the air coming from the hot healing springs
guarded by the Swedish trolls (who are not really trolls:
they're the Moomintrolls).
Every day passing
the birch alleys,
the broken sea,
the old mill,
the Globen curves, gladly over-exposed in a golden haze.
Touch them let me.
On the metro a real smiling baby, still allowed to be loudly happy -
- on public transport ! - despite its genes of serious swedishness.
We wave at each other and I show it
my new book that made me miss the birch stop yet again
as I held my breath in expectation of how will the trial end.
(Guilty? Not guilty? Siberia? Biting the already bitten lower lip.)
Unbelievable, you say. All this for a dog-eared book?
But...they like it, the addictive softness of a dog ear nuzzling on the skin.
It makes them feel needed in the moment, knowing
that I will come back before falling, with the need to caress
what happens on the page 563 and then, gently,
on the pages of the next books. Who cares for your scorn?
I will make new shiny puppy's velvet ears to keep
in my hands as the epitome of happy, today so easy to contain within
a) Paperback Russian novel read just on the train with passion
and baseball cap worn so low that you can't reach me.
b) For lunch near black rye bread dipped in strong coffee,
the smell lingering in the kitchen for hours on,
snugly dressing my happy stomach lining.
Love Note no. 1
I want a
soft fluffed-up love with a bit of stubble that is not
going to bite or just a bit on the side.
I want it
just twice a week on the good days and maybe
three times when things go slightly bleak.
It should
give me kisses on the ear and neck and all types
of blanket fun but just when and how I need.
It won’t have
any say in what love is all about, or me,
or how the world should be, for us.
I need to
run away from it any time without guilt
or words aimed to hurt where it does not show.
No being told
that I can’t do what I feel and it won’t mind
any bedroom screams. I would like that.
I want a
soft fluffed-up love with a bit of stubble that is not
going to bite or just a bit on the side.
I want it
just twice a week on the good days and maybe
three times when things go slightly bleak.
It should
give me kisses on the ear and neck and all types
of blanket fun but just when and how I need.
It won’t have
any say in what love is all about, or me,
or how the world should be, for us.
I need to
run away from it any time without guilt
or words aimed to hurt where it does not show.
No being told
that I can’t do what I feel and it won’t mind
any bedroom screams. I would like that.
Když mizí bílé včely
Už zase si čteš ve své knize lásek, lásko.
Laskáš stránky lesklé vlhkou tuží, kam připsala sis
další jméno blázna co nabízel ti srdce,
a ty mu na to, že maso nemáš ráda.
Se zvlněným koutkem vzhůru, lesknou se ti oči
chtíčem dálných světů. Tvá touha není sladká
jako jiných slečen. Ne, tvá touha táhne k zemi
a omamně voní těžkým rudým vínem
a kdo nechce pít, ať klidně táhne. Mámí tě
pořád ty tvoje dálky, znám to příliš dobře.
To něco, co nenechá tě za tmy spát a mučí
tvoje příliš smělé tělo dýmem děsu:
že nestihneš, že neuzřeš, že nebudeš milovat
všechno a všechny, a nejlíp hned a honem naráz.
Ze sna vzlykáš, že nikdy nepoletíš hvězdným
nebem, vstříc plánům zosnovaným každé nové ráno,
co načneš. Pláčeš, vědouce, že marně, pláčeš,
nad nikdy nerozlitým mlékem, nad nevyřčeným
slovem něhy, nad gestem, které bylo jasně dané,
nad polibkem, co nenastane.
Sníš příliš, milá, lásko vadná, dítě moje nepočaté,
Sníš příliš směle, mají pro to mříže. Když křičí
snílci rozlije se kapka rosy
a pohltí další bílou včelu.
Podzimní
--bráškovi
Co bude zítra?
Zrána zeptala se tiše moje duše
a zněla přitom příliš znaveně a hluše na to,
že ruce se jí zatím třesou jenom v žáru lásky,
a že když pláče, tak neví ještě dost o skutečném žalu.
Řekla jsem jí, že zítra bude.
Že možná bude pršet, a vítr smýkat stromy
a možná, že snese se na vratké větve sníh.
Vždyť je to už pár týdnů zpátky, co podzim zmatněl severními stíny,
jež listí odnesly si do svých chladných síní a sní o věčném mládí.
A proč bude?
ptala se mně dále, hledíce krapet stranou,
jako by se bála, co jí řeknou moje oči, nechtíc ranit.
Proč… Protože zítřek neví jinak, drahá.
Protože bylo nám tak dáno.
Protože musí být.
Dravá řeka teče směrem od pramene k moři,
strhávaje sebou srdce, těžkopádně budované hráze,
za kterými tajně teskní nejen hora. Za náš bol je jí stydno
a touží býti ledem, zvolna tajíc tíhou zašeptané viny.
A bude lépe?
Nevím, snad jednou, po zimě…
Ale nikdy nebude už včera,
nikdy nevrátí se pramen k hoře.
Co bylo tvé, bylo jenom půjčkou.
Už zase si čteš ve své knize lásek, lásko.
Laskáš stránky lesklé vlhkou tuží, kam připsala sis
další jméno blázna co nabízel ti srdce,
a ty mu na to, že maso nemáš ráda.
Se zvlněným koutkem vzhůru, lesknou se ti oči
chtíčem dálných světů. Tvá touha není sladká
jako jiných slečen. Ne, tvá touha táhne k zemi
a omamně voní těžkým rudým vínem
a kdo nechce pít, ať klidně táhne. Mámí tě
pořád ty tvoje dálky, znám to příliš dobře.
To něco, co nenechá tě za tmy spát a mučí
tvoje příliš smělé tělo dýmem děsu:
že nestihneš, že neuzřeš, že nebudeš milovat
všechno a všechny, a nejlíp hned a honem naráz.
Ze sna vzlykáš, že nikdy nepoletíš hvězdným
nebem, vstříc plánům zosnovaným každé nové ráno,
co načneš. Pláčeš, vědouce, že marně, pláčeš,
nad nikdy nerozlitým mlékem, nad nevyřčeným
slovem něhy, nad gestem, které bylo jasně dané,
nad polibkem, co nenastane.
Sníš příliš, milá, lásko vadná, dítě moje nepočaté,
Sníš příliš směle, mají pro to mříže. Když křičí
snílci rozlije se kapka rosy
a pohltí další bílou včelu.
Podzimní
--bráškovi
Co bude zítra?
Zrána zeptala se tiše moje duše
a zněla přitom příliš znaveně a hluše na to,
že ruce se jí zatím třesou jenom v žáru lásky,
a že když pláče, tak neví ještě dost o skutečném žalu.
Řekla jsem jí, že zítra bude.
Že možná bude pršet, a vítr smýkat stromy
a možná, že snese se na vratké větve sníh.
Vždyť je to už pár týdnů zpátky, co podzim zmatněl severními stíny,
jež listí odnesly si do svých chladných síní a sní o věčném mládí.
A proč bude?
ptala se mně dále, hledíce krapet stranou,
jako by se bála, co jí řeknou moje oči, nechtíc ranit.
Proč… Protože zítřek neví jinak, drahá.
Protože bylo nám tak dáno.
Protože musí být.
Dravá řeka teče směrem od pramene k moři,
strhávaje sebou srdce, těžkopádně budované hráze,
za kterými tajně teskní nejen hora. Za náš bol je jí stydno
a touží býti ledem, zvolna tajíc tíhou zašeptané viny.
A bude lépe?
Nevím, snad jednou, po zimě…
Ale nikdy nebude už včera,
nikdy nevrátí se pramen k hoře.
Co bylo tvé, bylo jenom půjčkou.
Poslední léto
2015
Už snad pár měsíců se táhne srpen,
S ním dusné léto nocí příliš teplých.
Tíha žáru tahá nahá torsa k půdě
A vlhce svazuje nám dlaně k sobě.
Na kopci kupka sena skrývá vůně výhně
Tebe i mě vděčně skryje v lůně.
Záře slunce, žlutě zprahlá pole
Někde blízko cvrká cvrček líně.
Pár polehlých klasů dala jsi mi za košili
Nazpět nechtěla jsi ani věčnou lásku.
Prý ti stačí za víčky, že svá štěstí máme
A že z drobných ňader zlehka slíbám tvoji krásu.
Je poslední léto, jediné co máme, stále horko.
Už teď na něj vzpomínáme vleže, nazí, ty
A tvoje bílé paže. Bojíme se zimy, jak se blíží,
jak se plíží krajem podél hráze.
Oba víme, jak se sněhem tvá něha studí.
S jinou vůní, na jiném místě, místo mě zas jiný blázen
kterému, jak jen ty to umíš, za košili na horké srdce
Zvolna vložíš ledové své ruce.
2015
Už snad pár měsíců se táhne srpen,
S ním dusné léto nocí příliš teplých.
Tíha žáru tahá nahá torsa k půdě
A vlhce svazuje nám dlaně k sobě.
Na kopci kupka sena skrývá vůně výhně
Tebe i mě vděčně skryje v lůně.
Záře slunce, žlutě zprahlá pole
Někde blízko cvrká cvrček líně.
Pár polehlých klasů dala jsi mi za košili
Nazpět nechtěla jsi ani věčnou lásku.
Prý ti stačí za víčky, že svá štěstí máme
A že z drobných ňader zlehka slíbám tvoji krásu.
Je poslední léto, jediné co máme, stále horko.
Už teď na něj vzpomínáme vleže, nazí, ty
A tvoje bílé paže. Bojíme se zimy, jak se blíží,
jak se plíží krajem podél hráze.
Oba víme, jak se sněhem tvá něha studí.
S jinou vůní, na jiném místě, místo mě zas jiný blázen
kterému, jak jen ty to umíš, za košili na horké srdce
Zvolna vložíš ledové své ruce.
|
Granny Smith Anus
Have you ever properly looked at the calyx of an apple? Down its little dark hole; it is obscene like a tight anus with rough age spots and hair sticking out of the wrong places, all surrounded by white crispy flesh of slightly sour Granny Smith aftertaste. I never did - who cares what is the name for the bottom of an apple? But yesterday, I was hungry for words. I asked my brother if he knows and if he saw the beauty of how it carries its past flower life within, the memory of the whole apple history cherished, rarely eaten. Ha laughed and said no, but that he is wiser now and if I don't have better things to do. Since then, every time I look at an apple I can't but long for my own stamens and sepals to preserve all day dreams and memories gone void into proud albums on the mantelpiece. My very own calyx with blooming petals that would remind me who I once was. |
|
as it was
There was a loneliness
of one
and there was a loneliness
of two,
and then there was solitude
for both
and there was blame
for them too.
And so they wept,
oh how they did,
with eyes grown long,
backs a bit stiff.
Yet they kept it still,
the wee grass-fed tent,
to prove someone's will,
to show lack of faith.
But that wasn't enough
as all ever was
there was a loneliness
for one.
|
When the woods weep
There is a rugged grass-fed river floating past this house alongside a railway barely used by deer for cold chase runs. I saw three at once the other day, too fast to follow far enough or to escape by one long jump across the steam. There in the woods full of wooden stillness I then felt for them. I fell and felt The fear on our tongues and sweat when hoofs stamp too deep in the mud we go down with the river hollow fall and soundless bleating of our childless widowed mothers. Hear us out you will not, oh sweet soft river bride what is a deer, a man, a stone for you? Hurried up hard steps and back and crawl away; we try to run not seep inside of you, who seems as if at least a thousand kisses deep the pasts have drowned where the woods still weep for forgotten deer mothers' dreams. (2015) |
|
Parents’ Hands
Back then home was the simplest word
There once upon a time when Words
were still read with a capital
and made sure things felt alright.
It’s a mess now.
We all know we ain’t gonna find home again.
Forgotten on purpose; we did
everything that we could have to lose it.
And yes, you say we will make a new one
and a good one it will be, with locks on doors
and with young trees in the garden
and far away, as far as it can be.
So why do we still mourn for our parents’ hands
their gentle touch the words gentler yet?
Who gives a damn about the trembling fingers
when their caress is the only one that cares?
Back then home was the simplest word
There once upon a time when Words
were still read with a capital
and made sure things felt alright.
It’s a mess now.
We all know we ain’t gonna find home again.
Forgotten on purpose; we did
everything that we could have to lose it.
And yes, you say we will make a new one
and a good one it will be, with locks on doors
and with young trees in the garden
and far away, as far as it can be.
So why do we still mourn for our parents’ hands
their gentle touch the words gentler yet?
Who gives a damn about the trembling fingers
when their caress is the only one that cares?
my-self has left me inside
Tonight there’s just nothing
to be said.
I left my-self outside and I’d rather
Not let her come back in.
She is
in a weird mood,
she is
beyond herself,
a lunatic. And it’s full moon. She is mad,
Madder a bit more than ever, maddened with
her grief for what she lost by splitting us in two, maddened
by desire for her own kind of cross-breeds
to mate dog style that is rough enough
for her furry midnight madness lust.
She’s grown stronger, she eats a lot of meat and
drinks bitter ruby coloured wine that stains her teeth but
she believes that with it her blood thickens and then
she might over-run the wolves
after they have fought for the juiciest bone to chew.
Maybe if she keeps out in the cold dark for a bit it will
cool down her burning thighs and make her want to
come inside. Will it make me want to
let her in? Is that what we need? I know her
She is not
an easy one to appease with the whiteness of white snow.
She’ll try and piss her name on it, smear with blood-stained spit
and then roll in and out barking at the moon.
(She’s just a little bitch in the end,
no wolf would ever howl with her at midnight and oh she knows too well.)
But she just doesn’t care. It’s good to be an under-dog,
is it not? Pray tell is it not better to be full of life even if you’re running
out of line and gently, slightly mad?
Because
when I look at her rampage here from the windowsill I just
don’t know which one of us I feel sorrier for, who has really won it all?
You know, I used to try to calm her mad eyes down,
pat them with tender touch and poke with
birch twigs soaked in nettle broth.
I asked about her life and forced my voice to sound calm:
‘Maybe tonight you could try and come inside?
Let’s have hot chocolate or tisane and talk
about how we used to be in love
And how the missionary sex was nice
And how we did not twitch when we turned
around to see (what?
What was there that made us twitch the first time?
Do you remember because I forgot since, there were
too many to make us sink down sick.)’
It must have been the cut we made in the middle of the night
and it was then when I gave up and drank the broth myself.
Really,
there’s not much left to say tonight.
As
ever.
We are whispering nothings
through the keyhole.
Was it I, was it you?
You locked my-self inside so well.
INSOMNIAC'S BACKYARD
And the window was (again) open, calling out to the animals in the backyard.
Calling out to me, also, ambiguously. I couldn’t move but I could see them
Swarming, half crouched, two legged and four legged or just swirling on the ground in
Hunger and desire, or was it fear? They crawled and pulled on each other
And the sea breeze brought in the sweet starchy smell of their perfume.
It reminded me of something and I couldn’t recall until I smelled my armpits and
It was the very same odour of stale youth and potential smeared with shame.
Out there this live mass of thick movement; the black bodies emitting some sort of
Inner lucid light, so bright in the undecided colourlessness of the hour of the wolf.
There was something about the spectacle why I couldn’t take my eyes off in disgust.
It was hard to say if they were enjoying themselves or fighting or just being.
And what was I doing, watching fascinated the life happening just a dozen metres away,
Unable to raise my hand, get up, stand, jump, let myself get carried away, somewhere,
Nowhere (-else) but so willingly on their sleek scaly backs?
And why was I tied to the bed with dust in my eyes and mouth filled with sticky hatred
So sweet not even wine mellowed with soap and sugar could wash it away?
(‘You have to soak onion in milk overnight and drink it will help you’ my grandmother used to say
and
where did it get her?) You are here now we don’t joke like that. Tell me how,
Why did you get to know me, why would you even want to, why did you choose my backyard?
Up along the street there are many of them; the one next door with yellow flowers and a dining
table
And happiness springing from every single little hole between the planks.
The neighbours are nice young people, a couple with a boy of five with straight straw hair
He always smiles at me and I smile back and at moments like that it’s easy
To feel alive and present and with limbs that function alright.
Really they wouldn’t deserve to have their groomed grass patch soiled with black tar dripping
From your toes and saliva shooting from your big open mouths in a grotesque grimace
Of feelings. Are you really so bad at imitating or is this us in all our beauty?
It is just a play for you; ‘that’s just children’s game’ they say apologetically.
And the ropes are still tightly secured around the head of the bed and tied and twisted
Underneath my back and bottom, sliding between my thighs and further on,
Cutting off the blood flow from the ankles. And it feels good, like an extension of this body
The pleasure when they slide the rope until you hear someone screaming, and who is it?
Freedom becomes futile with the occasional reminiscence of what it used to be like
And then touching my face, touching deep inside with an invisible hand (the nails grew a lot),
Thinking: ‘Reality never used to be so good’ and obstinately giggling through the gag.
Finally here they come, done with their sad orgy sliding over the window pane bringing the new day.
‘Happy white bleached day, brand new shiny day without any ties, day that
Makes you dance around if you ever get untied’ they laugh and drop slime
Over my wooden floor that has never been swept before, not even by hundreds of
Long lanky legs. And the smell becomes unbearable as they all cram into the room
But I am glad; they have a shy look now, white walls make everyone like that yet I am
Pleasant and skilled in social conversation as usually and invite them in my bed.
‘Come, it’s cold outside, we can all fit in and would you like to tie yourselves up too?’
We all get cosy, bound together by a piece of rope and where our skins touch we merge together
Oozing
juices into one beautiful newborn being; animals together, now we trust each other,
We trust everyone and I can again ask: Why here with me with this stench (and now and not then)?
You already know that I knew too well so pushing your little dark fists in my mouth, in my ear
Whispering wetly for this is what we don’t want the walls to hear, my dear, you should
Shut up for once, sleep or soon you will see; for you we would double in size gladly.
seaweed song for you dear swimmer lost long time ago
How thin can a thin line be line threaded carefully and a dreaded one between when she
walked on the riverside and between when someone jumped over the bank and my pace
was not fast enough to catch her. the empty space and a face flowing dreamily smiling
gently caressed by little seaweed hands and here a small peck on the cheek from
a young loving seagull or let’s say he is hungry his mother has not fed him well today
meat is good for you they say and he knows it way too well to be a vegetarian.
How did the water feel? good? did it chill your boiling bones with coal on coal that's the grownup way
they say you
were weak that you just ran away I am so fucking sorry that I was not there but if I were I would
what would I do jump too? you were too hot to touch to try to save you'd long ago burnt inside
insane insanely in love with all your men in pain but you just needed them to suck you in and out
To feel alive just a bit more but every day less and less instead stunned with the boredom of it all.
At least you had fun haven't you had so much? we can't all say that about our stupid smalltown lives
Just let them gossip whisper wetly in each other's ear smearing spit and spite about how you
liked men just a bit over-the-top who cares? old women's jealous tits can't help themselves
we were all in love with your glowing skin and lips oh to kiss these lips all the girls we were jealous
until we saw how the glow seeps in and slowly drip drip drips burning acid bits leaving
marks on your arms and a peephole burnt down there through which you let them squeeze.
Oh how thin could that thin line be it must have been too thin to let you think in a blink of an eye you let it
all go I wish we could all sink in the seaweed and look so beautiful as you did.
How thin can a thin line be line threaded carefully and a dreaded one between when she
walked on the riverside and between when someone jumped over the bank and my pace
was not fast enough to catch her. the empty space and a face flowing dreamily smiling
gently caressed by little seaweed hands and here a small peck on the cheek from
a young loving seagull or let’s say he is hungry his mother has not fed him well today
meat is good for you they say and he knows it way too well to be a vegetarian.
How did the water feel? good? did it chill your boiling bones with coal on coal that's the grownup way
they say you
were weak that you just ran away I am so fucking sorry that I was not there but if I were I would
what would I do jump too? you were too hot to touch to try to save you'd long ago burnt inside
insane insanely in love with all your men in pain but you just needed them to suck you in and out
To feel alive just a bit more but every day less and less instead stunned with the boredom of it all.
At least you had fun haven't you had so much? we can't all say that about our stupid smalltown lives
Just let them gossip whisper wetly in each other's ear smearing spit and spite about how you
liked men just a bit over-the-top who cares? old women's jealous tits can't help themselves
we were all in love with your glowing skin and lips oh to kiss these lips all the girls we were jealous
until we saw how the glow seeps in and slowly drip drip drips burning acid bits leaving
marks on your arms and a peephole burnt down there through which you let them squeeze.
Oh how thin could that thin line be it must have been too thin to let you think in a blink of an eye you let it
all go I wish we could all sink in the seaweed and look so beautiful as you did.
Small moments
Sometimes when you expect it the least
here it comes without fanfares
a little moment of personal grandeur
that might briefly fight the beast.
And maybe it is good that they are so rare
We do not deserve much more anyway
And our monsters they have the right to live
With their big sharp teeth and empty stare
and slightly foggy brain after a day's long shift
And their own fears and their own mind games
Of solitude and life's despair and love and stuff
It's hard to stay and still play sane not lose the grip
Sometimes when you expect it the least
here it comes without fanfares
a little moment of personal grandeur
that might briefly fight the beast.
And maybe it is good that they are so rare
We do not deserve much more anyway
And our monsters they have the right to live
With their big sharp teeth and empty stare
and slightly foggy brain after a day's long shift
And their own fears and their own mind games
Of solitude and life's despair and love and stuff
It's hard to stay and still play sane not lose the grip
|
Nejsme nikdo bez viny Abel Kain Krev beránkova Prolévána Zas a znova Adam S Evou Lstiví hadi Vždyť se měli Jenom rádi Ó Salomé Ó Herode Slizká touha Chtíče Bude vaše zhouba A vina ach bože tak tíživá Ženám ovisá ňadra A mužům ohýbá záda A lidi pohřbívá zaživa |
Marie A ty Josefe Neodvracej hlavu slepě Měl sis ženu Hlídat lépe. Ach Noeme Ty naivko Na co bylo třeba lodě? Kdo dal ti právo Vzít smrt vodě? A ty A ty A tamten taky Hážeme kamení Hážeme špíny Plivem si do ksichtů A přece jsme vinni. A vina ach bože tak tíživá Ženám ovisá ňadra A mužům ohýbá záda A pohřbívá nás zaživa (2011) |
