i didn’t dare to draw the shades yet

from the ground,
you do not see them //hairline
thin&i climb, paintbrush in my hand
from the ladder to the worktop, balance
on one leg//stretch towards the upper rack,
the kitchen small //below me
raindrops

hit my face, a chilly breeze,
shriek of breaks “oh no”
the piercing whistle of a train

“JjuuUUUMMppppP!!”//

“what ya doing?” she says
“walking onda tracks in such a weather– dänngorousss”

“i lost my brush” i say, rubbing aching elbows
&her head winGs like a pendulum

“are you– i mean—?” trying to sort my bones,
“oh, i’m collecting thoughts” she says
“–but have no answers”

drifting
like a big balloon she smiles
“i was about to paint my kitchen” i say
“on the tracks? how silly”
“oh, there were none when–”
she nods

&night falls thick around us, trees roll
eyes as big as teacups
to the sound of rain

“you’re painting sunsets?” someone wants to know
&i’m not sure but
start in hues of red and gold//waves break
on my face&soundless gliding fishswarms–
ticK
tiCkTocK

i look up

the rain’s stopped
a rustling sound of leaves,
she’s gone, the trees
have shut their eyes, stretching quivering limbs
towards the sky &in their sleep sigh
blowing warm&pine-scent breath
upon me

.

Anthony has us step into a fantasy world a bit over at dVerse today… pub doors will swing open at 3pm EST… and yeah… i was painting the kitchen last saturday…

–i still smell the lips of him who blew it//into being

clicK //cLick cliCk
he likes me
likes me not
cliCk
he–

“what ya doing?”

head bent in a 35 degree curve, light
flashing my face, then shade
fingers ‘round a bead of pearls,
triggering the switch
a silent silver moon // tightly screwed
against the tiles

“it works”
“of course it does”

i was a witness
first row, as the driller bit
sharp teeth&metal cuttings spread
transformed to thousand curls
like daisies on the floor

somewhere in a factory
a yellow planet’s born//
to the beat of a machine

&in the attic of his gramma’s house,
a little boy
hangs it with spider threads on a blue washing line
amidst a sea of fellow galaxies
his granddad
from the far end of a dream smiles bright//
&wrinkly

“tell me–” i say, ear pressed
to where light leaves a thin shadeline
underneath her breast

“i smell the boy” i say&

“will it hold?”

“i fixed it with a screw in the right corner”
“hmmm”

i pull the bead
clicKCliCk
&i’ve yet to grow to fully//
understand
the magic

.

Today at dVerse, Björn has us write about objects or situations as if we see them for the first time, trying to convey the feelings and wonder that go with them – one tool can be defamiliarization in the way of Viktor Schklovski or writing from so. else’s perspective, by using an unfamiliar poetic voice or by describing without naming.. pub doors open at 3pm EST

after laying down the portable electric drill

an unhinged carpet stretcHes paws
from thousand&anight to—
it can’t fly though

&i’m peeling tangerines
cross-legged on its tousled face,
a bohemian floor lamp//
on one foot, her head bent knowingly

a jubilating frame, simply/holding
what is in its hands
&piles of clothes, waiting to be put into the wardrobe,

just above the bed, sing-me-the-blues-joe spider
spinning threads that glisten girlish
in the lamplight
happy, felty clogs with a red dot from my last coloring experiments

a sugarcoated moonflower drape.
skirt slightly askew
so you can see her legs if you look closely

one short-tempered 23:40//on the clock
in scarlet-red

a power plug, hot-blooded, waiting for the switch to
re-establish contact

heavily hypoglycemic tea mug, blossoms strewn across her womb
&in the corner by the wall

a furry-eyed and rusty pipe,
filled to the brim with notes//the kind
that you struggle to eXplain
humming slightly offtune//B-key

tempered melodies 

 

Marina over at dVerse has us make two lists, one with things around you, another with adjectives describing emotions/feelings. Cut them up, randomly pick pairs and weave them into a poem without using abstract nouns (such as love, passion, jealousy etc.).. pub doors open at 3pm EST…

what i learned about wardrobes today

it’s not only that i have no furcoat
but the wardrobe smells too new,
alumium frames &doors slide
soundless almost as they
ssshhhhccchhhss//pLopp

i sit on the carpet
think about the cat, sneaking on soft paws
from one end of my notebook
screen to–
&who knows
i never asked her
&she never says a word

so far we put 12hours into building this
miles to go,
a thousand little parts, strewn across the floor,
my knees and back ache,
hammer in one hand,
a battelfield of tiny nails dancing steel-jazz melodies

“we need the left nook//next frame” &
i grab an allen wrench, swirl faceless maggot screws
into a sea of fitting holes

&rain pours on the rooftop

it was snow back then,
a misplaced streetlamp
in a wondrous forest
&my heart exploded in my ears
the fear
of first steps

“can we turn// the frame?”
in the milky glass i see my face for only–

“did you sketch the lamp?”
“i//no but–“
“did you talk to anyone except–?”
“there was a poem– ” i say,
pausing on the flakes soft surface,

“it had wings and in a way it felt a bit like–
it got never finished”
“doesn’t have to?”
“yeah, but”

“think we’ll fix the right door first &”

“is it deep enough?”

a puff of wind, scent of trees
&woodsmoke
“two more clamps to go”

&a lion’s wild, majestic roar//

somewhere
in the distance

in fact// i put the brush aside to write this

FullSizeRender

i cut red cabbage into tiny slices, onions
add a glass of red wine, chestnuts,
on the other plate
simmers a pot of venison

a starry sky so different from van gogh’s
of paint dots in my hair, arms, cheeks

“can we finish one thing properly before we start the next?”
my husbands says, a little angry&
i try–

my shoulders ache
from painting overhead
potato stamps wait half-cut, watercolor, brush
“not sure if this works out” i mumble,
wipe my hands, lay the table
“i invited miriam” i smile,

balancing around an unhinged door,
bathroom mirror//
on the floor, three paint pots
“has to dry now– will continue later”
&it’s close to midnite
cleaning-rags dance in a tight embrace
with spilled paint, cobwebs,

drapes breathe in the night air, flower fields,
the ones, that i sewed yesterday,
that look like little moons
in abstract landscape
&the humming of my old machine
as threads slide through a mace of steel

touch story after story
listening, my hands brush over seams
of dresses for the girls,
piles of pants for tim//for me

&all that’s whispering along
her patient melody

.

for dVerse where Victoria has us write ART..

i think a man who cooks is frickin’ sexy or//show me how you cook&— or//a messy cook’s a messy lover (not//that i would mind–) smiles

i sort my tastebuds in the shape of continents,
of lands with rugged hills&cliffs,
the scent of sheep
coconut woven like beads along the ocean’s smiling lips
the salty touch of oysters on my tongue

food is never just a sum
of its ingredients

my kids with rivulets of warm milk
on their cheek//still on my breast
the power of chasing dreams,
a tiny rat in paris
who refuses to give up,
perestroika & glasnost
politics & cultures that are strange for us

pink kitkat on my desk, fresh from japan
and pumpkin in a butterbed
sizzling joyful in a pan while i sew drapes

memories of scarred knees, picking berries
in the forest with my cousin
taste of sour dock while hiding in the grass when
playing cowboys and gendarmes
rivaling the scent of daisies

the grease-film on your lips after chinese take-away
the urge to–

&the starry sky of dripped-down döner sauce on new, blue jeans
U2 playing on a rooftop in SF
the taste of dust//of nameless streets out in the slums
the first real meal after a surgery

home-cooked peach jam,
currywurst in kreuzberg where the wall once ran,

it’s history& yet-to-come
olive oil&fresh bread on my tongue,
it’s heimweh*
&the need //to strap a rucksack to my back
to breathe the scent of pines

it’s cake crumbs on a market place in rome
john, chapter one

&longing

for your word
to feed me

 .
*heimweh = homesickness
for dVerse where Abhra has us write food today..

still two weeks to the wardrobe//and you never know where this will lead to

“feels a bit like students in a first flat” he says

bedside lamps lie unfixed on the floor
the walls&wood smell of fresh blue paint
clothes scattered on the floor,

a set of new drapes, lightweight, way too long
the entry to another world
&there’s a secret code for opening– pssshhhh

“the clothes thing freaks me out a bit” i say
“i can’t find anything”
&in the mornings ruN up and down the stairs
to dress for work//mostly black now

there are new sounds
&the rain is just above our heads

“blue is not a good color for a bedroom” said the painter
“cause it’s rather cool”
ohThat is not our problem i thought
didn’t say it though

“we need to move the bed a bit”
“i won’t move anything until we have that wardrobe”
“hmmm”
“did you hear the birds?”

wisteria and roses have long occupied the balcony
“it will need cleaning”
“they will close us in once spring comes”

just//like in a fairy tale//
i sigh
“&if there is a prince—
&if– you know– to–“

“yes?”

“i booked a flight to hamburg” i say
“oh i knew you would–“
“i knew you knew i would”

“i’m glad that wall is blue”

“I NEED A PRINCE– ” i shout through thousand clouds, face in the wind,
a fierce monsoon breaking the boat//apart
as i roll to the bed’s most far out rim
“to saVe me from an eNdlEss sLEEp//or such”

he rolls his eyes&tRaPs the northwind with bare hands
jumP//throWs his weight
boldly in the raGing waves
&gets there//

just in time.

to catch me.

.

smiles… just a bit of weekend fun…