FormForAll: two sijo

how to keep ‘em quiet // propaganda

we throw rocks from bridges into the ferocious, roaring mawl of
(dangerous-for-the-system) dragons, lurking in the crash of the fall (that’s what they tell us)
as if constant feeding silenced them// like it does// silence us (sometimes)

 

this morning on my way to work

i feed my road bike spokes with juicy, fresh plucked morning sunlight,
spin, spin, spin (tongue thick with pollen) along yellow yawning fields
a thousand dew dipped spiders pull their hats, silently greeting

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we’re writing “sijo” at dVerse today, a popular traditional Korean form… consists of three long lines, one main thought each line (roughly thesis-development-conclusion), 14-16 syllables per line, 44-46 syllables in total.

i wanna turn back time to where trust got lost//back in the garden

“you know what this is–?”
a hint of french in his flawless german,
“yes”, i say, flipping open the guide book
“should be the opera”

“no, i mean the pipes” he smiles,
i look at where he points,
they weave pink and blue in loops
along the roadside,
“looks like artwork, but, no, no idea”

“berlin’s built on sand & water”, he says,
they extract it from the ground, use the
pipes to pump it to building sites”
“wow, how do you know?”
“living here for 22 years”

we sit on a bench– half-shade,
& i’m not prepared to talk to someone,
so i fall silent, sun paints
flickering shadows on the boardwalk,

two japanese girls walk toward us,
ask him for directions, he explains
in perfect english, they smile happy
& exhausted “ah, the walking–”
“yes”

he turns to me again,

“i’m from Lyon originally”
“so what brought you here?”
“a friend”
“right”

& he tells his story, funny how
life develops sometimes, takes
us along roads we never thought
would be an option
“while you’re here, apart from the
main sights, you should–”

i take notes, tube stops, little drawings,
he’s funny and we laugh a lot
“don’t waste your time with me”, he smiles,
“go, explore her, it’s a fascinating city”
“thank you”, i get up
he clears his throat
“if you like, i could show you around a bit
tomorrow–?”

“hmm” i say
& hate the film that starts now, me,
tied to a pole in some forgotten cellar,
raped & murdered on the bottom
of the Spree–
“that would be nice, but, no, i can’t,
i’m sorry–”

in his eyes, a ping of pain, (read
my thoughts– ? probably), this world
fell deep, shaTTerEd, loST trUST// brO
kEN innocence, & we all suffer, suffocating,
poisoned, from its tainted fruits

.

it’s this time of the week…OpenLinkNight again at dVerse… smiles..write a poem & join us at 3pm EST..

spring in berlin // undivided

“i didn’t think berlin’s that green” i say,
“actually–” he smiles,
“it’s a forest with some houses”

my bike purrs peaceful,
stretches like a cat into the spring sun,
handle bell jingles softly,
shivering over cobblestone,

kreuzberg, west, on eastern territory,
cheek to cheek with the dividing wall,
——-tulips,

Osman cleans
the small spot off the rubbish that a punk left
& plants vegetables, sells them on the market,
in between land,

there are a thousand faces,
& a billion stories,

i stare at polaroids of those,
brave enough to fight a mad regime,
bled to death, shot// left lying on the strip,
border between east & west,
he was only 19

on the pavement,
on a shaky chair, opposite the church,
i eat rice & tofu,

a little japanese boy
tip-toes after me as i go to the bathroom,
waits in front the door,
mumbling in his own tongue,
knocking secret morse code,
&smiles brightly
as i open it again,

he plays with Milow
(rescued from a splintering chicken bone)
on the cobble plastered place,
chasing sun rays,
barefoot on the grass,

you never plan
to fall in love, it happens,
like a sunrise, rain, natur(e)ally,
un-dramatic,
much like evening leaning casually
into the night, i drink my tea

& on the walk back,
from the darkest corners of her past,
hear this city whistling,
brave and unbowed
into spring’s awakening face

.

we’re writing spring today at dVerse…so dip your pen into a ray of sunshine, write a poem and join us when the doors open at 3pm EST..

i can’t forget her eyes

i say “i didn’t bring my perfume
cause i think you should smell
a city”, eyes closed, cheeks pressed
on her chest, the good, & bad,

topography of terror, berlin, i stare
at her face, head shaved,
they bound her to a pole, mockers
in state uniforms //on another pic,
black/WhiTE

six men, striped prisoner suits,
——sNap–
head in a looped rope,
——Snap–
construction kicked away
——snaP–
lifeLess, i sCrEAm

“nO, NO, NO; NNOOOO”

the scent of death like acid in my nose,

(a bleached poster on the next wall)

60.000 Reichsmark is the cost for
this disabled guy during his life time,
that’s your money– FoLK–!!, those
that can’t work, dON’t /We!! doN’t feed Them–
hot, TEARs, in the park,

no words, just terror on the wet face
of the Spree, my back preSSed hard
against a tree, rough bark
scratches mark wounded skin, i CRash,
biting ants under my shirt,
puSH harder & the sun falls
FaST– FasTer,

NoWay

i could catch her

.

just coming back from berlin.. was visiting the topography of terror, a museum in berlin on the area of the former Gestapo and SS headquarter.. really hit me hard.. linking this to dVerse to Anna’s prompt – the unfathomable

where the words live

berlin airport

.

“so this is poetry?” she inquires,
we sit at berlin airport,
our reflection blurred against
the panes

“it’s everyday”
“it is, yeah” &

i usually don’t like
someone looking over my shoulder
when i write

“nice that you put the monk in”
“hmm”

i pull bukowski out my bag,
open on a dog eared page,
“that’s my fav by him”

she reads
“oh i don’t know”

“it’s just, i find me
in his verse”

each page, a soft weight
in the curve between
palm & thumb,

“flight’s delayed—fuck,
it’s the same all week”
a guy grunts next to us,

i hit the keys,
press my fingers on
a tint-black pulsing carotid,
feel the goosebumps
on its trembling skin &
don’t look up again

until the boarding call

.

smiles..that was re-surfacing from my last trip when packing my bags….just arrived in berlin again & will be tending the OLN bar at dVerse from here…off to explore the city now and i try to be back when the pub doors open at 3pm EST..smiles

don’t play with ‘em

“no” i say
“the moon looks like a pancake”,
(those, only my mom can make)
fat & yellow
in a black jack sky,

see, usually
i wouldn’t talk to them
(it’s hopeless)
their view on life is fuzzy like their fur
we meet on crossroads,

one ways
& on lawn chairs
set up on a dead end street
(or traffic refuges)
play a game of chess
(i make the moves, you guess why)
then we go our own ways

don’t attach to them
too closely
watch ‘em on a poker table
& you understand
it’s wise advice,

we play roulette tonight,
“rien ne vas plus”
i put 4000 on 29, (mad, i know),
the bullet rolls, silver—

cliNk, cLink, cliNk, Clink, clinK

& stOPS–

they stare at me, furry lips,
close to my ear, breath wet,
“lucky streak , let’s try again”

i taught him how to twiddle thumbs once
in return for (no, won’t tell)
but mostly we’re inventing stories
in the tight loops of a traffic jam

“you’re right about the moon” he says
“ya bet” i smile,
then take my coat
—–& leave

.

we’re writing monsters at dVerse today.. cute cuddly monsters, monsters under your bed, scary monsters, misunderstood monsters…grab your pen and join the fun when brian opens the doors at 3pm EST

shades between compassion between shades

just or not is what– exactly?
sit on rot, suj/ets
things that make no sense (to us),
no, make that (hidden) things seen,
doesn’t matter which direction,

she works with disabled kids,
& we eat sausages, drink red wine
on a bench without a backrest, things shift,
shift things back(to)rest without–

“she’ll be blind soon,
we’re preparing her for it– best as we can”
fragile, shards, moths with velvet wings,
my wings velWet with (splashed) moths,
we try to stabilize, ezilibats (yeah, i told you,
it’s difficult if we don’t see with the heart)

turn it around, circle around it, turn/
her eyes, shades between compassion–
& compassion between shades of what is
hard to understand,

“i admire what you do” i say,
& say, i do spell it backward, trying to
understand too hard is what shades
between compassion’s left/maybe

.

we’re writing palindromes at dVerse today where things can be read in more than one direction, be it words or lines– i embedded mostly line palindromes here.

the poem was sparked by a conversation at a party about a friend’s work with disabled kids, she told me a bit about the 2-6 year old kids in her group and it really hit me hard, i didn’t talk much that evening, was just listening and really admire her for what she’s doing 

i tend to drown// between the fragments

“where i learned to slice them so?” he grins,
“that woman in cambodia–
she always made me mango hedgehogs afterwards”
“boAHhh–”
i chase him round the kitchen,
still in my pajama, morning catches us,
lightweight, promising,

i love how easily he makes me smile
“did you know? picasso–”
“oh no” he covers up his ears,
then throws both arms around me, “what–?”

“in that pic, the start of his cubism phase,
he exchanged people for a bread, glass, breasts for fruit,
you can see some of their legs still though”,
“what a mad man”

i, as well abstract life and continually drown in it,
he rescues me, without realizing,
“i’m not going to that exhibit” he says
but bikes with me to basle, hands me over to picasso
after making sure my bike is tied

securely to a lightpole
“try and pull the lock through the back tire as well”
“you not gonna change your mind
and join me?” “no”
& it’s ok.

later in bed i say
“dunno how you do it, but you fix
the shattered pieces of my life
with just some well-placed turnscrew twirls,
kinda magical” he turns around
“sounds reasonable”
“haha, yeah it does, sleep well”
“you too”
& we switch off the light

.

it’s OpenLinkNight again at dVerse where poetry’s the art of choice.. grab a pen, write something poetical and join the fun… doors open at 3pm EST

how pirates really look

she pulls heavy wooden oars
through sky high waves, muscles ache,
red-blond hair a tangled mess,
a ragged canvas sail hangs
limp from splintered masts,
she checks the wind– “north” she says,
“north east, portside has a little leak”,
& stinking pirate spit
still clings to the boat deck

yet she made it

neptune smiles
from emerald depths with charcoal velvet eyes
and yellow teeth as she leans wide
over the railing, cool spume
on her burning face,

“day 11″ she writes in her logbook,
“i can make it before daybreak–” &

“mommy, please”, she says
(chestnut speckles in her eyes)
“can i get a bit more foam?
also the water seems/a little cool now”

.

smiles..a little fun for poetics… we’re writing anecdotes with kelvin today…see you at 3pm EST in the pub

maybe it’s the brokenness//picasso exhibit at basel art museum

“the irony is in his hair”, i think
“yeah, he did this with a steel comb,
similiar technique that you use
to paint fake wood with” he says, “oh”

i stare at pablo’s le poète
held in brown & black shades to put focus
on the form, reality dissected,
put back together in a way
you don’t expect–

“ok” i say, “i prefer poets tousled
& more colorful, disarranged seems fine though”,
he chews on his pipe,
a bit amused, wrinkled forehead,
looks at me with geometric half-moon eyes
“don’t judge by what you see–

or not” & blows diffusing fume clouds
towards me,
“non-smoking here” i say
“you bore me”
“sorry– i identify
with fragmentation though” &

there’s this spark of fire sale rebellion
in his eyes–
“the irony”
he says “is that there’s much more hidden
than you would suspect– keyholes, shades, dare
to see &–“

“well, i need more time”
“that’s not the problem”
“no?”
“learn from me” he sighs (heavily)
—–“try & look
———–a little more-dimensional”

a custodian’s strolling by,
“you’re not talking to that painting, right-?”
“well, yes– No, hecK, as if– “ he sniffs,
“and did you smoke?”

.

smiles..i had a little fun with this…Victoria has us writing Irony in the pub today…wanna join..? doors open at 3pm EST