if i was Mussorgski, i would write a symphony

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they discuss Putin & Obama
heated up a bit, circling round a piece of art,
set up on a table

creativity beats war

we eat trash&electricity
as tiny soldiers make their way
across a paper tablecloth
over a filigree invented script

the gnarly mill shares secrets–

“if you switch off the tv and have nothing more to say
to your spouse, your kid–“ the artist says
“or to yourself?” i suggest

art can be a series of awkward moments

the lady with an eastern accent asks question after question
while i bathe
my barefoot-in-blue-converse feet
in speechlessness,
the kind that holds you above water
in a siege&

later in the old town we sit by the stream,
“we could share a meal” i say to my husband

take his mobile//snapshot
pic by pic of him in front the stream,
how he leans into him

“i’m not much into politics//nor art” the river says
with watery tongue, a wanderer
between a world of frontiers stretching weightlessly,
he taps his gurgling hat// nods

&then simply disappears
just so
in thousand vortexes

around a bend of crossroads

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i’m guest-hosting at dVerse tomorrow and the theme is “layers” in the sense of poetry that doesn’t reveal everything on the first glimpse but consists of some layers that give it enough depth to hold more than one thought and make several interpretations possible – mine’s a little snapshot of an exhibition i went to this weekend…

if you ever get something packed and wrapped by me, could be it looks like fallen off a truck at the camino de la muerte

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the night wraps loose strings round my chest,
packing tape, the smell of cardboard
hubs peeks through the door
“you ok?”

when i was small
my mom made little bedcloth parcels
neat, tidy &
i thought once i grow up i’ll have inherited the spell

it passed me by

&went straight to my daughter
who devotedly wraps packages in a toy store before christmas,
perfect, shiny boats
that happily set sail into a child’s long waiting arms
too beautiful to tear ‘em open

maybe it’s my love for mud when i grew up
of things a little off-frame, bumpy, cragged
much of me, my fears, unsteady self
goes into each new wrap

“i’m gonna learn this one day” i say
“i’ll clean up tomorrow”
&he helps me fix &close the lid

“maybe you can ship them mid-week” she types

i suggest this
to the paintings that press chest to chest
with soft breath in the dark
“no. we need to go Now” they say stubbornly
“despite the risk?”
i feel their eyes on me
through every corrugated cardboard sheet

“i know” i say
&load them careful in the car trunk

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for PU

words &ash will find their way– even without map, scribbled by a chinese waiter on a napkin

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city on a hill

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the birds in front the window chat//casually
leaned against a pillar, smoking cigarettes

& flap their wings against the rain

there are multilayered facettes to the everyday
touch ‘em
tender with your thumb, breathe in&
take a pen—

there’s a scent to every scene
like the painting that i finished last week
which smells heavily of coffee

“will it fade?”

“i cannot promise” i write
“if you buy it, it’s a risk–“
it always is

— the raw and unplugged
that i fall for– genuine

like a woman in the evening
her face cleaned of all make up
red spots, little veins,
uneven– beauty
in the small bumps on her skin
zooming in

i stand in the garden in my jammies, sieving ash
from last night’s barbecue
which will go into a tupperware, from there
into a painting
or a poem

or just fall
onto the raven’s nose
&make him sneeze
or smile

or both

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today at dVerse we’re writing about or in the style of the poets that inspire us i love the poetry of charles bukowski and bob hicok – my fav poet though and the one who taught me a lot about seeing the specialness & magic of the everyday is my good friend and fellow poet brian miller… so i just wrote about the everyday… or so… smiles

cops &robbers& –all in between

i’m from thin walls in a worker’s suburb,
a lawn between appartment blocks that morphs
quick as lightning into seas, a lake,
spaceship or deserted moonscape,
campingground & university for cloudshapes

i’m of branches like a cradle
arms and legs, scratched
heavy storms passed,
of a nearby highway where we climb
illuminated signs at night,

i am from stolen fruits,
potatoes we roast in open fires on construction grounds
smell of fresh cement and steeldust in our nose

i’m from a white dress
messed up on the first day

i am endless bikerides to the river
where we play robinson&friday
between chemical drainage and shards,
rescue helper
to a million earthworms

counter of the dots on ladybugs// y’ar highness? please,
is it age you carry sprinkled on your back?
(picture this ina sophisticated english dialect)
most of us survived them

some years at least

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where you’re from? is mary’s question for us at dVerse today…

he reminded me of where i’m from

his eyes are of a blue
that haven’t unlearned skies&color yet,
little feet in sports shoes
dangle from the high-seat of his shopping cart,
i line up at the checkout,

eaten
by the days end queues &unnerved customers
he looks at me

“hey–“ i smile
like a bird with fragile wings
he holds his hands before his eyes,
hides
then slowly peeks,
i do the same
while piling groceries onto the black conveyor’s chest
he chortles, lost

inside a moment on a stage he’s not aware of,
people watch
the lines around their eyes turn soft like cotton wool
&it’s just us

a hundred miles away — his dad smiles
pushing the overloaded cart towards the car park
“say bye-bye to the woman”

the boy laughs, waves his little arms
embracing thousand unseen stars,
a sailboat in distress
&me

“cash or card?” the woman at the counter asks
but i’ve drifted way too far
to really hear her

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for PU

wondering if mr. beuys would call me a dead hare

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yep…i’m not much into straight lines…. smiles

 

after struggling for a second
i leave my high heels in the car
looks versus mobility,
the need to move,
ligHtweiGht
among painters (he points out more than once)
making a living from their art
so here’s a gap– ha

the curator talks about their studies,
artawards, exhibits
over a glass of sp aR*k LiNg wine, one of them
smiles
“a living?
it’s all relative you know– and honestly— “

i was suspecting this
“how do you start?” i ask

because i love beginnings, empty canvasses
&space to make mistakes, create

i try to talk to all of them,
forget to eat
&drink just water for a cool head,
for not falLiN g into traps of–
hedgehog or a hare? //i’m calm
&nonchalant

the short old man has friendly eyes
“are you an artist too?” i ask
“or let me guess– a city mayor?”
he laughs, shakes my hand
we talk forever

“you enjoyed yourself – right?”
a colleague asks on the phone the next day
“ha – how do you know?”
“someone told me— you looked sweet”

i browse an excel file&smile

the curator with a weasel’s eyes says
in his art, he leaves nothing anymore to chance
that each line has its designated spot,
perfectly placed
“ooohhhh” i swallow the “how sad”
that bounces bonkers on my tongue

cause i’m a stranger in a foreign land
with buckets full of awkward lines, unripe
misplaced&heels
that poutingly twirl thumbs
long forgotten//fog-faced

in the car trunk

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linking up with dVerse Poets‘ OLN tomorrow…

i dunno if you heard about the secrets of a moths’ eye yet

the night
is spring pul/sating
on my arms and legs,
a wooden bench
and moths rotate in weird circles round the streetlight, dancers
their tutus half-burnt

my fingers trace the pattern of—

i need to mow the lawn i think

&learn

how bats fly //sky-dive, be the captain of a spaceship
kiss

the moon’s cold ragged lips
regardless–

he may taste
of kitkat with wasabi,
of a word, unsaid,
of dough, knead in a child’s warm hands,
of me?

a colleague walks up to my desk
“you’re a good strategic thinker”
“huuh?”

i stretch

into the quiet of a cat that looks for prey
&watch my shadow disappear,
a thief with pockets full of game

“do you Need to write or paint?”

i’ve no idea i say
to the moth with nanostructured eyes
&that all bad things start with expectations

bow&arrrow lose around her hips
she stops //and looks at me

for a long, long time