Summer Field

Enchanted is the hour
before the break of night:
Illuminated lies the fading day
with weight upon our hearts
as darkening dream.

In stainless blue
the skylark tweets
as if a mockingbird
jeered the futility
of our souls' striving.

The corn stands bold
amidst the waning heat
awaiting scythe and mill
nurturing those who can
no longer feast on words.

A golden glowing eve:
corn poppies' fragile sway
in sighing wind
caught in those countless ears.

You are a summer field.

vacation diary (II) - urlaubstagebuch (II)

glückfriedlich träumt
im spiegel glatt
die kleine meeresbucht.

im oleanderzwitschern
blühen die vögel.

im kiefernduft
zirpen die grillen.

schafe mähen
das gras
und in die stille.

der halbe mond
zum trocknen
in den cirruswolken.

mücken surren
schläfrig noch
den abend ein.

altgewohntes
ist wie immer

neu bestauntes wunder.

A Note on Death

Right from the beginning there is this shadow walking behind us, invisibly waiting, patient and calm, a warrior anticipating the fortress' fall without fight, facing defenceless inhabitants. When the lights fade the shadow shows up in full fright while we darken, finally merging with us, consuming, becoming us.



(This emerged after I almost finished reading the exquisite novel The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger - spontaneously I was thinking, "Why couldn't she write a more fortunate end?". Books mostly end before the end; eventually it's life that writes the stories.)

Embers of Dawn

Risen from blue embers of dawn
garlanding hilltops of verdant grass,
in a crevice, concealed from the clamour
of the mundane, she fills her well
with fresh waters, pure as autumnal snow.

Enclosed by the mountains' range
her valley is flooded with birdsong
weaving soft sunlight among the trees
that keep secrets of old, untouched
by whispers of malignant weeds.

At eve, with beckoning chimes of
the chapel's bell, her prayer lifts
the spirit of those who are gifted
with the balm of her verses,
bathing in warm vernal breeze.

Soft-pawed comes her footstep,
lithe as the fragile birch
keeping watch at the sea.


(for my friend Yelena)

Adriatic Morning

the scent of pine trees

wrapped in morning air

dawn lingers beyond

distant mountain verge

a breeze from the sea

stirs the twigs' melody

entangled in the beat of the waves

their songs fill the roots

preserving a gem

of ethereal light

Fleeting (edited)

Never was almost anything but nothingness.
Imagine the infinite void between planets, between stars, between skins.

Who are we anyways?

We are fleeting whitecaps in a sea,
wavelets, skeins of seaweed,
emerging for a billowing moment,
rushing to catch a glimpse of sky,
drowning with a last stroke of breath.

Eternity.

fathomless

fathomless sea,
bare of a shore,
above just fleeting clouds
meant to dissolve in rain

skyless air
the most waning of moons
fallen behind a cliff,
eclipsed eternally

my heart sinks
to a darkened depth
without a ground,
a leaden shell,
unchained, unwound.

#40

On rainy days

I carry sunglasses with me

as I don't trust the rain

On sunny days

I carry an umbrella with me

as I don't trust the sun

But each day

I carry a rainbow with me

in confidence

the moon

will smile in the sky again

Rise

*
I

never

had a garden 

but a wildflower

gleams at the seam

of star-strewn night

 and amethyst dawn

embraced by night

yet a silvery winged

pure morning star

scintillating in

the rising

sun
*

~ for Yelena ~

never the less

seamless sea

cutting blade

of an edgeless
moon straying

in horizonless sky 

shipless haven
(fog banks and silt)

anchor and beacon

tied to a blue

timeless heaven

Moony

blown by a gentle tide in flossy sky

her cloudy dress an amber gleam

fragile and delicate

she comes on, sailing with the moon

pouring her milky light upon my waves

while wintry trees reach out their arms

 to grasp a glimpse of smiles

she passes, swaying on the moon

a diadem of light garlands her hair

wrought of harvested falling stars

guiding my sickle boat of dreams

she fades, wafting with the moon

I soar

and sail along with her

 under my keel

a pulsing stream

(...)

holding the heart

in her hand

she melts ice flowers

alighting on her window pane

perfuses white curtains

silken and lace

on a weightless wing

of a soft piano melody

she soars to universal skies

on a prayer to heaven

between fierce tempest and serene hues of dawn

beckoned by Venus

in a cradle of feathered clouds

to gift divine words

served in a phial of hope

holding the hand

in her heart

(for Yelena)

Vorherbst

Der Sommer geht –
bald wird die Zeit sein
da Nebel aufzieh'n in den Gründen
wenn spät der Morgen taut.

Bald wird die Zeit sein
da sich in Auen Kühle frisst
und Feuer in den Häusern zünden.

Bald wird der Pfeil der Vögel flieh'n
auf Flügeln schwer, der Sehnsucht nach,
ins Land von Gold und Purpur.


Bald schon muss spätes Laub
fallen von starren Zweigen,
blutrot im Sterben steh'n.

Bald wird die Zeit sein
da in den Straßen, leergepeitscht vom Sturm
kaum noch ein Schritt verhallt.

Bald werden schwere Wolken jäh
die dunklen Wälder schütteln,
verwelkten Sommertraum verweh'n im Wind.


Wieder ist Zeit
da um das Herz sich Schweigen legt
im Nachtfrost.

Sea and Sky

                               Outreaching far, the sea
                               in me, and tide and longing in her
                               Above, around: just sky
                               grey shades in blue, deep luminosity
                               containing all, entwining you and me

                               But who has ever grasped the sky?
                             
                               Who held an ocean in their arms?

Evening Clouds

How peaceful evening alights!

Contrails painted with orange hues

As if somebody blessed their flights,

Enchant' their destinations.

Below, released of weight, an elephant,

in drift reshapes into an ape,

like on a river's raft.

How quickly Cyprus floats

And turns to Ibiza!

How quickly fantasy burns!

A backwards swimming fish,

dissolving in the steel-blue dusk

blows away like our dreams.

How woeful days expire.

Hope

                                It is the thing with feathers
                                fallen in angels' flight
                                wearing this air of sweetness
                                that peacefully resides;

                                It is the fragrant garden
                                I walk through in my dreams
                                of flowers in blissful shadows
                                beneath mild sunlight's beams;

                                It lies beyond the you and me
                                beyond the crooked path,
                                the wounding stings,
                                the daggers in our chests;

                                It understands, forgives and sees
                                it is the Yet, nevertheless,
                                truth, trust, belief,
                                the final reason;

                                It feeds the sky from a small heart
                                where it expands to, free and bound
                                ― and it grows trees
                                from smallest seeds
                                that hold a heaven in their arms.


This poem is inspired by Emily Dickinson (314).

The Passing Of Time

waiting for the train to come

we lost ourselves imagining

the luscious destinations

when we recognised we

were on the wrong track

the timetables had

already been

canceled

Photos: Rheydt-Odenkirchen, Hagen Hbf

Nachtzug nach Lissabon / Night Train To Lisbon

Unser Leben, das sind flüchtige Formationen aus Treibsand, vom einen Windstoß gebildet, vom nächsten zerstört. Gebilde aus Vergeblichkeit, die verwehen, noch bevor sie sich richtig gebildet haben.

Our life, that is fleeting formations of quicksand, formed by one gust of wind, destroyed by the next one. Constructs of futility which blow away, even before they have formed properly.

☆

Cabo Finisterre. Finis terrae. O mar tenebroso.

Más allá no hay nada más que las aguas del mar, cuyo término nadie más que Dios conoce.
»¡Siempre derecho, más y más – nada!« rief er in eine Windböe hinein.
»¡America!« rief der Mann. »¡America!«

Cape Finisterre. Finis terrae. The dark gloomy sea.

Beyond this there is nothing but the waters of the sea, whose limits are unknown to anyone but God.
»¡Siempre derecho, más y más – nada!« he shouted into a gust of wind.
»¡America!« the man shouted. »¡America!« 

☆

 from: Pascal Mercier, Nachtzug nach Lissabon • Night Train To Lisbon
(The book quotes Spanish and Portuguese, so along with my English translation it got a bit complicated ...)

Wikipedia

Night Train To Lisbon is a philosophical novel and a book within a book. One of these books I would like to take along to a desert island.

Todo pasa ...

Todo pasa y todo queda,
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo caminos,
caminos sobre la mar.

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino, y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
sino estelas en la mar.


(Antonio Machado)


I stumbled upon this poem accidentally in a Spanish textbook, as if it wanted to find me ...

The Call That Never Happened

Maybe the cables were cut or
the satellites were busy with dreams
while watching the stars playing
hide and seek or playing tag
with moons or simply gazing at
man's faults and agonies and trying
to shake their heads, tangling their wires, losing
their connection to Earth, ignoring all those unfulfilled
dreams soaring up to the sky, all those imploring
pleas, unheard supplications, silent sighs, cries of wounded hearts.

Maybe it was like that.

Maybe an inner voice refused a connection.