history

… and when I’m asked upon the life I saw

and thought, and felt, and cast in line and rhyme

amidst this world – immediate to God:

I did not less, perhaps, I did not more,

but sat and span my yarn, assembling time…

The one

The one, who smiles nonchalantly

and replies to the stories of childhood anxieties

with that soft „that was long ago, ey?“ –

which suddenly works,

and you stumble and blink and – then at once, you can breathe again.

The one who stammers himself,

when touched deeper on his own demons,

as if no one ever cared to ask twice when he says everything´s fine.

The one, who steps up and draws back far too quickly

for my overcautious mind to react just in time.

The one who never comes too close and is never away,

who shares the tiredness, excitement, energy,

and cranial hunger of a raging spirit,

and yet fills you with that meek, quiet, and despicable peace,

that makes your every cell smile like a Cheshire cat,

the one who brings you light.

Légèreté de l’être

And so I´m back…

Back where?

Back to the track?

Back to black?

Back searching for some ephemeral illusion

of human – freedom? peace? of happiness? of hope?

Back to the question marks with no solution?

 

Back to this dizziness of flight – or fall

– no safety ropes

could hold me, but my fear.

This simple human thing,

mixed with adrenalin and blatant fascination.

No longer searching for futile salvation,

Who cares! – I live! I feel! I think!

…I think I´m out of any causal link,

unbound of any worldly gravitation,

compressed,

expanded,

twisted,

newly formed by this

unbearable lightness of my being…

 

Erised

All of my recent self… these words, these worlds, these feelings,

all of my joys, my longings, and my strives,

all of these shiny trifles that comprised my settled life, –

„so are they all! all honourable…“ things…

 

all this that seemed to stay, to everlast,

bled white with ink, bleached out and withered.

The spirals of my tired spine unweaving:

If everything goes, why, then my life has passed.

 

And everything I dreamt I felt or had

Was neither carved in stone nor sealed by action,

`t was never mine, not ever, since its inception,

´t was just a mere illusion in the Mirror of Erised.

our rags of light…

Puzzling and humbling:

living them through,

these stolen moments of peace,

of sacred shared-ness

amongst the daily roam.

These tiny emeralds of easiness,

of unexpected fun

of being

simply me

or

simply you.

Cheerful recognition

of those

rags of light

smiling back in the eyes of the other.

 

 

Hangover

… and this crippling awareness emerges,

and the oyster, devoid of her shell,

grips for pieces of it in an urge

to re-cover herself. All meant well,

yet the pieces lie fallen apart.

.

Every breath feels so dizzy inside.

Pumping blood open-air, her heart,

unprotected for any more surges,

gapes for silence, and comfort, and light.

De-oyster-ised

Not that I´d never breath´d before,

Not that I´d been deprived of human warmth,

Not that I had been deaf and heard no music. –

And still this silent tune of yours is finer.

I am all open now.

Come round and have a look.

I feel and sound,

I´m reaching for a thin air,

I´m humbled in my will:

I have no voice to call your name,

I am confused,

I know no more.

I don´t know where I am, –

This wood between the worlds:

No end and no beginning.

Completely out of my shell.

De-oyster-ised and gaping

For your quiet light.

Between the lines

Lost so deep between the lines,

Far too smart for implications,

For unwise insinuations

Far too earnest, far too fine.

 

Lines with lead still feel so light,

Following your shapes. No touching.

Modest, decent. Am I blushing? –

When the lines collide…

Silence

Take off your face and put it over there,

Beside the mirror. Right!

No pretence accepted.

Just look me in the eye,

Don’t speak, but listen, feel it in the air:

The perfect silence…

 

The heavenly present of muteness

Upon the lips that joke too eagerly and far too often,

Upon the mockery of human voices, high and low,

Upon the comedy of human drama.

The tears that never felt like weep,

for no one knows what proper tears feel like.

We learn to bear that cheerful empty face,

that crunches over senseless petty causes;

we know no longer why we came and where

shall we all go, –

And so we talk,

for talking cures the holes inside us,

oh, does it really? –

The holes that can’t be truly stitched by words.

 

Let us be quiet and inhale at last

This little blessing of

Letting them go: the masks, the words, the actions,

Just letting us be us,

and breathe,

and live.

 

If I can trust

I do can push you off the way.

You know not what I am:

I can be strong, I break the walls

if needed

with my head and will,

I could eat nails and broken glass.

I can command.

I scare you off,

Don´t touch me,

Don´t come closer! Run away! I´m hazardous! Keep out!

Yet if you stay and wait,

Not driven out by the storm of furious angst inside me,

If you keep quiet, till the blizzard´s over.

The roaring sea subsides,

The shore is calming,

I´m not afraid of you,

You can come in.

Look! I can show you what I have:

Those little joyful shiny things,

The sparkles of the morning sun,

So irresistible and calling

Across the meek and peaceful water.

If I can trust,

Oh! What a blissful pleasure to be simply me,

To sail away, so uncorrupt and free,

To be and to belong,

To be so wisely stupid.

If only I could learn to trust…