i’ve yet to find out why they’re called blue rider

on an early morning
in the heart of Munich
near the red cross stop,
i build a babylonian tower
(with the dishes),

as it crashes,
mug in claw
my coffee floods the scale,
floor– board–

—-& even trickles
——–through the small slits
——-of the fridge,

——-(his tea falls

—–for no obvious reason),

1:1 //Draw (ha,
mine was better placed though)

we talk travel, life & art,
over a glass of wine.
“see–? this painting has two suns–”
i search the sky

“look at the shades”

“very cool, you think
there’s a message in it?”
“no, just poorly painted”,

&i wonder
at the shades of life,
equally uneven & confusing
sometimes,

from above, the kitchen lamp,
a grass-green ufo, showers light rays
on the antique table underneath
(& it may beaM Me uP
inTo the womb
of a gigantic space ship)

“i lined up for an hour in the rain
to get into the Lenbachhaus”, i say,
“well worth the wait”,

“so, have you heard about
Kandinsky’s art group,
the blue rider?”

& it happens
that i lose myself sometimes,
like soft breath,
exhaled from a horse’s nostrils,
blending with the cool air
at some point along the way,

& life & art is never separate,
but continually intermingles
with the shades it throws,
in awkward angles, so–

“did you like living in Dublin?”
“yeah, it’s a cool place”
“&Luxembourg–”

we travel
‘round the world,
stopping here & there
just long enough to take
another sip of white,
then move on,

the munich rain outside,

humming a quiet night song

.

over at dVerse it’s OpenLinkNight again and we spill poetry all over the place..so…grab your pen, write a poem and join the fun… doors open at 3pm EST

in Munich & a painting by someone whose name i can’t remember

munich, karlstor

.

it’s the depth

as if you could
Crawl into
a careful painted landscape,
rest your head on–

& i do
forget
the world is round,

we’re moving
on the surface

mainly

a few feet up or down
seldom make it
to the core (of things)

you say:
it’s just a painting
(estimated 4 hands wide,
3 high, i never
get the math right),

in a city of a million raindrops
splashing
on the concrete,

i press ear to breast,
trembling, deep sighs
of her roots cause

there are things
the sun can’t teach us,
(even if we’re listening
closely–)
& i stay

3sub stops from the center,
which is What

eXactly–

soaking wet
& freezing,

there is something
in her gaze
that makes me take down
the umbrella,

turn my face
toward the drops’ wild tumbling wombs,
invite ‘em
for a roller-coaster ride
on tousled curls we loop
arms up—up—Up

until we’re crazy dizzy,
(& a little breathless)
with the magic
——–of the day

.

it’s raining poetry at dVerse OpenLinkNight today…write a poem and join us at 3pm EST…

Ferdinand Hodler exhibit // proportions & the view on life is so subjective

my roadbike at the entry to the Hodler exhibit

.

a mountain chain, extensive,
blue (the only color we endure
in large amounts), thin stripe of green
few earth brown cows, (tiny)
along the lower margin of the painting,

i sink in, digesting what i heard
about his childhood,
mother, dad, five siblings,
lost to tuberculosis, all within a few years,
&before his eleventh birthday,

in another room,
a picture series of his lover, Valentine Godé-Darel,
1913, beautiful, neck like a swan,
circling on a summer evening on a swiss lake,

1914, cancer just about  to wake, 
holding her baby daughter, an apparition, sketched

1915, in her sickbed, hair dissheveled
eyes that ask thousand questions, looking–
looking at him

as he paints (She, sHe, shE), obsessively
trying to hold–

eye contact //inteR-
Rupted, tension robs my breath,
& i imagine,

sitting by her bed// silently?, brush in hand,
she, thinking of her kid,
trying to withstand
the pulling–

on the deathbed, clothed in a light-green dress,
tiny feet, shoes with fine, brown straps,
hands folded, rosary entangled fingers,
on the wall behind her three, blue lines,

how long did he sit before
packing away the paint, hope–
Paulette, the little girl, he takes home, raises her
with his wife, & life disturbs me,
someTimes more than death,

a mountain chain in blue,
(the only color we endure
in large amounts, he said), a stripe of green
few earth brown cows, (so tiny in relation)
graze along the lower margin
of a— life

is never smooth, it’s spring
& people drink café on chairs that turn
their face toward the sunshine,

as do i, unlock my bike,
& cycle home,

———-escorted only

by the shivering creek’s moist whisper

.

a little snapshot of my visit to the Ferdinand Hodler exhibit in Basle last sunday… linking up with dVerse OpenLinkNight where Tony is in charge of the mic today.. write a poem & join us when the doors open at 3pm EST..

i have to name them yet–

 .

the meeting strands,
viscous discussion, clock ticks
dozily, Camille,
my french colleague’s
ten year old daughter
at the table next to me

pencils math equations
against boredom (i prefer
boredom over math, ha!)
fold a checked page in the center, draw
a cat, a rabbit, “psssh” & shift it
towards her, she smiles,
just between us,
(we’re allowed
to bring the kids 2work today),

the next presenter
gets up, (her dad)
she takes the crayons,
paints a butterfly with purple dots,
striped fish with a navy collar,
blackish tail

& writes on the upper margin
“de Camille
pour Claudia”

i push back the chair, my turn
to present, start the computer, grin,
the touch of butterfly wings
on my cheeks,

bubbles on the screen &
floating seaweed
defragments the meeting room,
entangles my hair,
i wink at her,

“if you have no more questions–
thanks”

close the file–

i didn’t realize it first,
but singapore’s an island.
(saw her skyline from the plane
on my stop-over to Australia once),
thousand little boats,
a sunset fairy tale,
i sigh, check my emails & return
Adelene’s weekend wishes,

look at Camille’s drawing,
pinned over my desk
(my colleague says,
“she talked of you
quite a bit”)
Mr. Fish & Mrs. Butterfly, both smile,
what else could you ask for–

then step out
into the sunlight

.

smiles.. just a little snapshot of my day for OpenLinkNight at dVersePoets…doors open at 3pm EST

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..

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

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

the sun//picasso & we got lost// in the woods today

i say “bad poetry is in the eye
of the beholder” and she scribbles
with her yellow fingers broken patterns on the floor

“even picasso sucked at times.”
we walk kneedeep in the mud, scattered trash,
the hounds are after us, a rubber package
on the forest floor
“gosh, not a place where i wanted to have sex”,
i say to my husband,

there’s weird graffiti sprayed on the tunnel wall
and just a tiny hint of sun lightyears away,
“i could trace us down with google maps”
that’s what i suggested a decade ago, but we’re adventurous
and shun the beaten paths

scent of ramsons, primrose–
woodruff pokes their little heads out of the soil,
the trees face north// there are certain clues
in pablo’s works, sometimes just a nose shape,
if you know, you recognize,

i wonder what he really saw
“his eyes were piercing” she says in the interview
“after acting as a model, only
by him staring at me, i felt drained, sucked out”
i met her in lucerne once. she was old and beautiful.
“my father never took his eyes from us.
he didn’t trust him”

“fear” i say “and art is so subjective”
& she wrinkles up her golden nose “it’s so cliché, but
there’s an end to every tunnel, and it’s bravery and hope
that makes you go– broken, fragments,
nothing you can line in rows on shelves though
we would love to.”

.

inspired by a walk in the woods & a picasso exhibit in basle yesterday & yeah, it’s OpenLinkNight again where we get all dizzy with poetry, come, write a poem and join us at 3pm EST at dVerse

the dreams we paint on un-illumintated sheets

“just imagine how it is” i say,
“agravic,
light ‘n color pouring
from the pores,
like a Chagall painting”,
& i wonder why he did this–disconnection
from the ground

off the highway,

things look different, we lean
into night’s dark chest.
i don’t write in bed, usually,

“you taste of cocoa”,
“yeah”, i smile “that’s my new lipbalm”,
“nah”, he shakes his head
“it is the soul”,

“–so strange”, i say,
“there seems to be more weightlessness
within a given space”,

we shake the last thick snowflakes
from the duvet, then build nests,
wait for the cherry buds

to burst, breathless almost–
& the night is quiet– sated child,

mothermilk drips from the moon’s
full breast, my keyboard
clacks, clacks, clacks, ghostly,
in the half-dark, & i stretch, a purring cat

along the universe’s wide womb,
& in the falling catch you

.

it’s OpenLinkNight again where we get all crazily poetic & the pub bursts with verse and laughter… write a poem & join us at 3pm EST at dVerse when we open the doors

Don Quixote & things we don’t see on first sight

it snows in Berlin–
i think of Dali, the army
in Don Quixote’s chest,
only visible for those who know

the magic of how things
appear that weren’t seen
before like when you blow
against a window on a cold day,
i am freezing,

there’s warmth still
him, leaning into me–

“you coming along?”

his breath, strong hands
pressed against my back,
keep cracking under
too much weight–

it’s late already, i write up
the meeting minutes, muted
neon light, office empty
& my head aches

giant windmills
spin, sPin, SpIN,

i see him, riding horseback
over open fields, stick in hand,
arms scratched, a whirl
of graphite energy,

& the cursor on my page

——-blinks black

.

inspired by a Dali painting of Don Quixote i saw in Berlin the other week..on first sight it’s just Don Quixote but on second look there’s a whole army penciled in his chest.. really fascinating.. and yeah…planning to kidnap hubs to berlin.. but pssshhh….smiles… it’s OpenLinkNight at dVerse.. come, write a poem and join us…. doors open at 3pm EST