Veröffentlicht am

Anthony Lawrence

Country Poems

Cro-Kill

We had this stuff that Wayne found in the shed:
a tin of white powder called CRO-KILL.
It had POISON in big red letters on the label.
Wayne said his dad used it for killing crows.

Pissy Paul the overseer had shot a bullock
and left it out in the horse paddock,
so we went out on our bikes, and the crows
took off as soon as we came through the gate.

The bullock’s guts had burst, its intestines
coiling like blue shaving cream in the grass.
The crows had already removed its eyes,
and the blowies were spawning their busy line.

Wayne used his knife to lift the lid off the tin,
then sprinkled some of the powder
into the red cave of the animal’s stomach.
Then we rode off and hid behind a wind-break.

Crows are suspicious things, and it took
a long time before they came back.
You can walk out with a rifle over your arm,
and the crows will fly away.

If you walk out with a long stick,
they just throw their black laugh at you.
Anyway, finally one came down: a mean bastard;
a surgeon with a mortician’s grin. It settled

on the swollen stomach and lifted out a length of gut.
Then two more decided things were safe.
Then twelve birds were cutting and fighting over the carcass.
We waited. Nothing was happening.

Then one of the crows fell over
and flapped about on its side in the grass.
Soon they were all dancing and jumping around
as if they were drunk.

Two of them managed to get off the ground.
They were like sick black planes, their undercarriages
blown away. They sat down in a nearby tree
and began to cry.

It was terrible. Smoke began pouring
out of their beaks before they fell, their eyes melting,
their wings on fire, and we just stood around
and laughed at the death of crows.

Krähentöter

Wir hatten dieses Zeug das Wayne im Schuppen fand:
eine Büchse weißen Pulvers namens CRO-KILL.
Sie hatte GIFT in großen roten Buchstaben am Etikett.
Wayne meinte sein Vater hätte Krähen damit getötet.

Der besoffene Aufseher Paul hatte einen Ochsen erschossen
und ihn auf der Pferdekoppel liegengelassen,
deshalb fuhren wir auf unseren Motorrädern raus, und die Krähen
flogen auf sobald wir durchs Gatter kamen.

Des Ochsen Eingeweide waren aufgeplatzt, seine Gedärme
ringelten sich im Gras wie blauer Rasierschaum.
Die Krähen hatten bereits seine Augen ausgehackt,
und die Fliegen brüteten eifrig darin.

Wayne nahm sein Messer um den Deckel von der Büchse zu heben,
staubte dann etwas von dem Pulver
in die rote Höhle des Tierbauches.
Dann fuhren wir weg und versteckten uns hinter einem Windschutz.

Krähen sind mißtrauische Dinger, und es brauchte
eine ganze Weile bis sie zurückkamen.
Du brauchst nur mit einem Gewehr im Arm zu kommen,
und die Krähen werden fortfliegen.

Wenn du mit einem langen Stock kommst,
werfen sie dir nur ihr schwarzes Gelächter zu.
Wie auch immer, schließlich kam eine herunter: ein bösartiger Kerl;
ein Chirurg mit dem Grinsen eines Bestattungsunternehmers. Sie setzte sich

auf den geschwollenen Bauch und pickte ein Stück Eingeweide heraus.
Dann beschlossen zwei weitere die Situation wäre gefahrlos.
Dann waren es zwölf Vögel die sich über den Kadaver stritten.
Wir warteten. Nichts passierte.

Dann fiel eine der Krähen um
und flatterte seitlich im Gras liegend herum.
Bald tanzten und hüpften alle so umher
als wären sie betrunken.

Zwei von ihnen schafften es vom Boden abzuheben.
Benahmen sich wie kranke schwarze Flugzeuge, deren Fahrgestelle
fortgeschossen waren. Sie landeten auf einem nahen Baum
und begannen zu schreien.

Es war fürchterlich. Rauch begann zu fließen
aus ihren Schnäbeln bevor sie abstürzten, ihre Augen schmolzen,
ihre Flügel brannten, und wir standen nur herum
und lachten über den Tod der Krähen.

 

Fencing

High tensile wire, when strained,
is a volatile thing.
I’d been warned how the wire can break,
whipping back through the eyes
of the fence posts, leaving your fingers
flexing at your feet, or worse,
your throat smiling redly from ear to ear.
You hear stories.

I was straining the last section before smoko.
I worked the handle of the strainer back and forth,
daydreaming, watching clouds move in.
Then I heard it: a loud ping like a struck tuning fork.
I leapt away from the fence as the wire
ripped past me—silver, on fire,
with my name cut into its tail.

Einzäunen

Stark dehnbarer Draht, unter Belastung,
ist eine brisante Sache.
Man hat mich gewarnt, wie der Draht reißen kann,
zurückpeitscht durch die Augen
der Zaunpfeiler, aus den Fingern gleitet
einem die Füße umschnürt, oder schlimmer,
deine Kehle über beide Ohren rötlich lächeln läßt.
Man hört solche Geschichten.

Ich spannte den letzten Abschnitt vor der Kaffeepause.
Ich bediente den Griff des Spanners zurück und vor,
tagträumend, die einziehenden Wolken beobachtend.
Dann hörte ich es: ein lautes Ping wie das einer Stimmgabel.
Ich sprang vom Zaun weg als der Draht
an mir vorbei riß – silbrig, brennend,
meinen Namen in seinen Schweif geschnitten.

Deutsch von Gerald Ganglbauer

Veröffentlicht am

Christian Damböck

Sprachschatten

„Wenn wir darum das Sprechen der Sprache
im Gesprochenen suchen müssen, werden wir
gut daran tun, statt nur beliebig Gesprochenes wahllos
aufzugreifen, ein rein Gesprochenes zu finden.
[…] Rein Gesprochenes ist das Gedicht.“

HEIDEGGER

WENIG, ABER GENUG

die gut vernietete Seele
stimmt das Klavier,
humpelt über hartes trockenes Gras
gießt mit dem Löffel die Semmel
legt sich zur Unruhe,
wegen der Periode.

Der Satz schluckt das Wort
und
spuckt es färbig verbeult wieder aus
danein ich er es taumelt
rasendgeschwin

Blatt zu ende

HOCHSOMMER

Null.
Ein Brummton
Hirn kahl und leer
Sonne einst
mundig verschlagen
in

darunter
schichtweise der
donnernde Springin

 

GELB und falb hängt eine Leiche von der Dach-
rinne.
Wen kümmerts!

Wen kümmerts, der Mond wandert,
Wien bleibt Wien, der Maulwurf schreit,
es schichten sich Hosen auf Hosen

TAMDARADAMDAMTAMDARADAMDAM

es steht ein Gänsebraten
im roten Bohnenhain.
Er holt sich von den Ratten
Tante und Onkel hinterdrein.

aber die Sternlein sie
blitzen so mold;
und die Mandel
sie schmeckt mit Ketchup besser.

 

ALS ich ein Vöglein war ging ich zur Tankstelle und pumpte mich
auf. Der Milchmann flog mein Nest nieder. Dann machte ich abends
Rabauts, stemmte mit dem gußeisernen Auge ein Loch in die Welt und
kam mir unsäglich blöd vor dabei. Die Tanten und auch Herr Meier
brachten mir Bücher zum Lesen. Dann las ich die Bücher. Als ich die
Bücher gelesen hatte fielen mir beim Wichsen die Flügel ab. Ich war
ein Langstreckenläufer geworden. Glücklicherweise strahlte seit
zwei Stunden die Finsternis so hell, dass ich nicht zu spät zum
Mittagessen kam.

 

ICH will
durch diese Fensterscheibe durchdichten

und
das Gedichtete dann
Buch
Buchst
Buchstabe
für
Buch
Buchst
Buchstabe
aufn Gehsteig träufeln lassen.

Veröffentlicht am

Shiloh

Illinois Poet

An Old Watch

I only saw the back of her
and from a distance
her slim, shapely body,
her blonde hair curled
under a large, brim, straw hat,
and her colourful, sporty clothes
looked young and lovely.
Nearing her
I noticed the brown spots along
her arms
where her hair stood up,
like the hair on a fly,
and I thought of swatting her.
I wouldn’t dare.
Her knotted fingers displayed
perfectly polished fingernails
and her thin neck was streaked
with deep set, crooked lines.
Around her wrist she wore a
Mickey Mouse watch
and that reminded me of
what I have lost, too.

Space For A Shadow

She was just taking up space
without even a sliver of a
shadow
by her side.
Her heart had been less than
wanted
at birth
and her pain bled into this
world unnurtured.
She stood still
looking like she was plastered
against a desert wall
for fear of seeing her shadow.

Veröffentlicht am

Billy Marshall-Stoneking

Bush Poems

Passage

The oldest man in the world wears shoes.
The oldest man in the world has a cowboy hat on his head.
The oldest man in the world speaks to me in English.
He rides in motor cars.
His body: fluid, capable—a perfect shock absorber.
One tooth knocked out in front, a red bandanna tied
around his neck, he names Names
as we bounce over the dirt track in the back
of a four-wheel drive.

‚That tree is a digging stick
left by the giant woman who was looking
for honey ants;
That rock, a dingo’s nose;
There, on the mountain, is the footprint
left by Tjangara on his way to Ulamburra;
Here, the rockhole of Warnampi—very dangerous—
and the cave where the nyi-nyi women escaped
the anger of marapulpa—the spider.
Wati Kutjarra—the two brothers—travelled this way.
There, you can see, one was tired
from too much lovemaking—the mark of his penis
dragging on the ground;
Here, the bodies of the honey ant men
where they crawled from the sand—
no, they are not dead—they keep coming
from the ground, moving toward the water at Warumpi—
it has been like this for many years:
the Dreaming does not end; it is not like the whiteman’s way.
What happened once happens again and again.
This is the Law.
This is the power of the Song.
Through the singing we keep everything alive;
through the songs the spirits keep us alive.‘

The oldest man in the world speaks
to the newest man in the world; my place
less exact than his.
We bump along together in the back of the truck
wearing shoes, belts, underwear.
We speak to each other in English
over the rumble of engine, over the roar of the wheels.
His body: a perfect shock absorber.

Durchfahrt

Der älteste Mensch der Welt trägt Schuhe.
Der älteste Mensch der Welt trägt einen Cowboyhut.
Der älteste Mensch der Welt spricht Englisch mit mir.
Er fährt in Autos.
Sein Körper: beweglich, fähig – ein perfekter Stoßdämpfer.
Einen Vorderzahn ausgebrochen, ein rotes Kopftuch um
seinen Hals gebunden, benennt er Namen
während wir hinten im Geländewagen über die Staubstraße
holpern.

„Der Baum da ist ein Schürfstab
den die riesige Frau zurückgelassen hat, die nach
Honigameisen suchte;
Der Fels, eine Dingo-Nase;
Dort, auf dem Hügel, die Fußspur, die
Tjangara auf seinem Weg nach Ulamburra zurückließ;
Hier das Felsloch von Warnampi – sehr gefährlich –
und die Höhle, wo die Nyi-Nyi Frauen dem Zorn
des Marapulpa – der Spinne – entkamen.
Wati Kutjarra – die zwei Brüder – reisten diesen Weg.
Dort, siehst du, war einer müde
von zuviel Liebesspiel – die Spur seines schleifenden Penis
im Boden;
Hier die Körper der Honigameisenmänner
wo sie aus dem Sand krochen –
nein, die sind nicht tot – sie kommen immer noch
aus dem Boden, ziehen zum Wasser bei Warumpi –
so war es seit vielen Jahren:
die Traumzeit hört nicht auf; es ist nicht wie bei den Weißen.
Was einmal geschah, geschieht immer wieder.
Das ist das Gesetz.
Das ist die Kraft des Traumes.
Durch das Träumen halten wir alles am Leben;
und durch die Träume halten uns die Geister am Leben.“

Der älteste Mensch der Welt spricht
zum jüngsten Menschen der Welt; mein Ort
ist ungenauer als seiner.
Hinten im Wagen rütteln wir hin und her,
tragen Schuhe, Gürtel, Unterkleidung.
Wir sprechen Englisch miteinander
über das Rumpeln des Motors, das Donnern der Räder.
Sein Körper: ein perfekter Stoßdämpfer.

Picture Postcard

the picture on the front
cannot tell you what it is like:
T. gets drunk on Saturday afternoon
and runs down H. (who is three) and
the whole settlement comes
for payback, with nulla-nulla and spear.
the naked woman swinging her crowbar
outside the shop this morning
sings as she swings it round her head:
‚where is my husband? where’s that bastard?‘
in the picture, you can see,
the places I have circled:
the missionary’s house
when M. ran amok because
the devils were attacking en masse,
and the cops came down and
took him to heaven.
and the road, leading into town,
marked with an X,
where S. finished up
with a bullet through his brain.
the landing strip
where the prime minister’s wife exclaimed:
‚the flags, the flags,
where are all the children with the flags?‘
running out of space
wish you were here.

Ansichtskarte

das Bild auf der Vorderseite
gibt keinen Eindruck wie es ist.
T. betrinkt sich am Samstagnachmittag
und überfährt H. (der drei Jahre alt ist) und
die ganze Ansiedlung kommt
Rache zu nehmen, mit Nulla-Nulla und Speer.
die nackte Frau schwingt ihr Brecheisen
morgens vor dem Geschäft
singt als sie es über ihren Kopf schwingt:
„Wo ist mein Mann, wo ist dieser Hund?“
auf der Karte, siehst du,
die eingeringelten Orte:
die Missionsstation
als M. Amok gelaufen ist weil
die Teufel haufenweise angegriffen haben
und die Bullen sind gekommen und
haben ihn zum Himmel geschickt
und die Straße zur Stadt,
gekennzeichnet mit X,
wo S. sein Ende fand
mit einer Kugel im Kopf
das Flugfeld
wo die Frau des Premierministers ausrief:
„die Fahnen, die Fahnen,
wo sind die Kinder mit den Fahnen?“
kein Platz mehr
wünschte du wärst hier

Deutsch von Rudi Krausmann & Gerald Ganglbauer

Veröffentlicht am

Irene Kabanyi

Ex tas. Y!

Stoßen Sie fester!, sagt sie.
Das Kinn in beide Hände gestützt, hat sie ganz nah den Stoff der Bettbespannung vor Augen. Sie kniet, wie eine Katze sich streckt. Er hat sich ihren Arsch als Altar gewünscht, auf dem er nun de Sade als Bibel liegen hat. Sie preßt ihre Scheidenmuskel zusammen und wartet, ob ihn das aus der Zeile wirft. Mit fröhlich getragener Stimme liest er die langweiligste Stelle des Buches.

Die Straße ist sehr dunkel. Der Fahrer hält sich meist auf der falschen Seite. Kurven scheinen ihn zu überraschen. Ein Fußgänger trägt eine kleine, sehr helle Lampe mit hängender Hand.

Lieben Sie mich?, fragt er.
Wieso?
Sie sind sehr gütig zu mir.
Sie schaut ihn an und fragt sich, in wie weit die leichte Hebung der Unterlippe, die sie minutiös spürt, nach außen sichtbar wird. Wahrscheinlich eine Berufskrankheit, antwortet sie ihm.

Manchmal leuchten auf den Hinweistafeln die Straßennummern heller als der andere Text. Durch die Dunkelheit der hohen Bäume läuft das Bild der schwankenden Hochhäuser nach. Eine Flut riesiger Häuser auf papierübersäten Feldern. Wie ein Leuchtturm die digitale Zeitansage, rot, am Dach des ersten Hauses.

Wenn ich mich nach Ihnen sehnen würde, würde ich es nicht sagen. Sehr vernünftig, sagt er.
Schlägt den Mantel eng über seine schmalen Hüften. Geht, ohne dass sie es beobachtet. Geht.
Wie eine Rauchsäule steigt der abgehackte Frauenkörper. Die Geburt der Venus pin up.
Sie sieht in seine Augen und schnell wieder weg. Bedauert, was sie jetzt weiß: Auch Sie werden unter mir leiden. Wieder keine Möglichkeit der Erlösung. Was bleibt:
Bei Ihnen habe ich ausschließlich Lust, so zu sprechen, dass es auch als Zwischentitel für Stummfilme verwendet werden könnte. Die Kastration ist Vorbedingung der männlichen Sexualität, so, wie der Gottesglaube Vorbedingung der weiblichen ist, sagt er.

Das Grün der Ampel läßt eine Flut von Menschen auf sie los. Sie bemüht sich, aufrecht zu gehen, und den Kopf nicht zu senken. Den Daumen der linken Hand um den Griff der Tasche geschlungen, die rechte zur Faust gelegt in der Manteltasche. Der Straßenrand ist kein rettendes Ufer. Der Fotoapparat vor Teilen des Gesichts garantiert für die Dauer, in der er in dieser Position gehalten wird, Niemandsland.

Für Sie scheint Sexualität eine physische Angelegenheit zu sein, sagt er (nachdem er den Schwanz wieder in die Unterhose gesteckt hat), wahrhaftig: Sie stöhnen.

Die Scham, Fotos zu machen, die Dokumente unausweichlichen Leidens sind. Rückzug auf historische Gebäude und die Sehnsucht, die Mentalität einer Fotoreporterin, in chic ausgebeulten Khakihosen, zu haben. Einschließlich der Fähigkeit, alles in drei Minuten sagen zu können.

Er fragt: Warum verbringen Sie Ihre Zeit mit mir? Sie schweigt.
Sie ist fasziniert von der klinischen Sterilität. Das Eindringen wie ein chirurgischer Eingriff. Zumindest müßte der Mann vorher eine Verbeugung machen und seinen Hut ziehen. Um die Form zu wahren.

In diesem Land zu dieser Zeit. Die Erde ist aufgeweicht dunkel und frißt sich in das Leder der Stiefel. Der Himmel ist undurchdrungen blau. Schritte in die fremde Geschichte.

Wir verstehen uns nicht, sagt er.
Unser Mißverständnis ist so offensichtlich, dass ihm die Möglichkeit von Schmerz nicht offensteht, erwidert sie.
Er küßt ihr Haar. Sie entzieht ihm die Stirn. Er ergreift ihre Schultern. Sie läßt sich in seinen Schoß fallen. Er greift unter ihr Kleid. Sie verbietet derart demütigende Handlungen. Er streichelt ihren Nacken. Sie zieht die Beine an sich.
Ich halte viel von Ihnen, sagt er.
Lassen Sie das, sagt sie.

Die Dunkelheit kommt früh und sie schläft lang. So bleiben ihr täglich etwa fünf Stunden Tageslicht. Sie spürt das in einer Müdigkeit, die bald auch chemisch nicht mehr aufzuhalten ist. Der Lebensmut weiß nicht, woran er sich halten soll. Verschwindet unbemerkt.

Ihre Melancholie scheint größer zu sein, als es die Ästhetik fordert, sagt er.
Seien Sie nicht idiotisch!, fordert sie. Ihn entzückt die männliche Derbheit des Ausdrucks. Sie verbietet ihm weitere Fragen nach ihrem Empfinden mit der Begründung zu großer Intimität.

Die festen Regenschnüre entziehen dem Himmel das Blau. Machen Brei aus dem Boden. Guten, griffigen, saftigen Brei, der zum wälzen einlädt, und zum sich vergessen.
Manchmal brauchen die Gedanken eine stabile alte Steinmauer, weiß gekalkt, an der sie Halt finden. Die nimmt nicht nur die Schultern auf, sondern auch die Stirn.

Ich habe Angst zu ersticken, sagt er (als sie auf ihm liegt), bitte tun Sie das nicht. Ich habe Angst, dass ich Sie nicht mehr mögen könnte. Sie lacht ihn aus. Rollt von ihm herunter. Sie dreht ihm den Rücken zu und läßt ihr Fleisch an seinen Knochen. Sie spürt, dass sie ihn fängt damit. Sie hat keinen Platz für Beute. Sie greift nach seinem Schwanz, der erfreulich schnell hart wird. Bringt sich in günstige Relation zu dem großen Stück. Er legt mit Hand an. Ein kurzer Ruck, und drin ist er.

Langsam setzt sie den Stiefel, mit dem Absatz voran, tief in den Bodenbrei. Verstärkt den Druck. Sieht die Lehmwülste sich das Leder entlang winden. Läßt den ganzen Fuß verschwinden, ganz langsam, als würde sie die Sekunden zählen, die das dauert. Sucht nach größtmöglicher Verzögerung. Denn jede Lust will Ewigkeit, will tiefe, tiefe, Ewigkeit.

Von hinten greift er nach ihren Brüsten. Fester soll er zugreifen. Nur gute, feste Griffe. Nur Bewegungen ohne Fragen. Sie umschließt seine Hände, die sich in ihr Schamhaar vergraben haben. Sie wölbt den Rücken. Andächtig läßt sie sich am Körper des Mannes entlanggleiten.

Ihre Augen gehen den Zweigen des Baumes nach. Ein hoher, schmaler, glattgewaschener Baum. Fein modelliert. Die Jahreszeit hat sich erfüllt an ihm. Er hat alles zu bieten, was Natur und Kultur ihm getan haben.

Sie schließt ihre Finger fest ineinander und zieht die Hände nach oben. Ein Brett für ihren Nacken. Irgendwohin mit dem Kopf. Aufgespießt will sie sein. Preßt ihre Schultern hart gegen die Schultern des Mannes. Greift in seine Oberarme. Bohrt sich in seine Brust. Schlägt ihren Hals seinen Hals entlang. Drückt ihr Kinn in seine Schultergrube. Umspannt mit ihren Armen seine Taille und drückt fest zu.

Gehen Schritt für Schritt. Der Lehm trocknet an den Stiefeln. Unbeachtet. Wenn er ganz hart ist, wird er zerfallen. Sich auflösen in winzig kleine Staubpartikel. Die kleinste Bewegung genügt, sie zu entfernen. Sie hält die Stiefel über die Waschmuschel. Stößt mit dem spitzen Ende der Bürste gegen die besonders großen Wülste. Die fallen in großen Brocken, die das Wasser, das sie darauf rinnen läßt, wieder geschmeidig machen. Ein kleines Rinnsal von Sand, das sich dem Abfluß zuwindet.

Veröffentlicht am

Tanya Marwood

Expat

Expatriate

So, here am I – expatriate
Stranger to this land.
I feel the searing winds of loneliness
Blow fire, then frost across my heart.
Can I endure the emptiness –
The trackless desert within?

Who will help me?
To whom can I turn?
In a shattering of comforting illusion,
There’s the terrible wave of realisation
That the answer is, as ever,
Myself – and myself alone.

Precipice

Ever and always on the brink
On the terrifying, gut-wrenching edge
Staring wild-eyed into the abyss
Of possible success
Possible failure
An infinity pregnant with possibility…

Step out and over?
Are you insane?
What if I fall forever?
Agonising, bone-crushing death
Succeeded by oblivion
Would be preferable to eternity in free-fall

I hear it spoken that there is One
Who always will catch
In gentle, loving arms
Those brave souls who launch themselves
Over the edge.
Perhaps it is so…

What if, in launching myself
Over that terrifying precipice
I fell and fell and fell
The wind roaring past my twisting body
Then I found an astonishing thing –
That all the time, I had wings?

My Beloved Poseidon

Beautiful, untamed Poseidon!
Forever God of my heart!
Thou blue-green leviathan
Who breathes a bracing salt-spray upon the shores of my consciousness
Tossing at my foam-caressed feet endless gifts of shell, coral, glistening emerald weed
Shelter of magnificence, home of eternal silences
Restless mirror of the ephemeral sky
Again and again I am drawn to thee
Source of all life – thou wild-maned, joyful one

Out from the golden shore, I turn to the sky
Sensing the cradle of cool blue arms
Supporting me, lulling me, loving me
How blissful to lie here in surrender to thee – my beloved Poseidon
Gently rising and falling upon thy breast
Whilst sand-warmed breezes caress my face and thine
Then turning once more to bury my face in thy beloved azure locks
I pull myself to the shore
To lie once more in ecsatic contemplation upon the sundrenched strand

Evening

Luxurious, luminous lavender
Smudging rose-petal into lucent silvery blue,
Sweetly shining sixpenny moon.
River – a ruffled satin silvered surface;
Sibilant, salt-laden, seabreeze
Billowing spinnakered sailing craft,
Tacking sharply, gracefully, in unison.
Sultry shadows advancing,
Velvety resting places for winged friends.
Turning home, toward golden pools of light
Spilling from windows along the avenues
Gateway, rose and jasmine crowding the path;
Doorway and the aroma of food
Prepared by loving hands.

Veröffentlicht am

Walter Hoelbling

Gedichte

seinwelt

kindsein
bewußtsein
amlebensein
ingedankensein
einsamsein
verliebtsein
zusammensein
ineinssein
alleinsein
steinsein
gottsein
gottseibeiunssein
tiersein
anderssein
anderseinesein
andersensein
wachsein
weltsein

verzweifelte zwiebel

zwiebel zweifeln
zwischen zitternden schalen
zwängen scharfschneidende klingen
in zuckende daumen
ziehen sich zagend zurück
zaudern zerknirscht
zerren zerstreut an zarten zedernzweigen
zermalmen zwielichtige gartenzwerge
in zackigem zorn

verzweifelte zwiebel
weinen

abstand

die welt wird langsamer

hauchdünne nebelschleier schieben sich milchzart
zwischen die dinge und mein wollen

die klaren kanten der objekte
werden stumpf und weich
die dringlichkeit der augenblicke
weicht meinem grübeln
über mögliche entschlüsse
worte gerinnen zu abstrakter starre
in der die dinge ewig unverändert bleiben

ist es ein todesahnen
das mir am nacken tastet
und mich für eine weile
des trosts der ständigen veränderung beraubt?

es scheint das leben sich
mit weiten schritten zu entfernen
die küchenuhr tickt lauter als gewohnt

sie mißt die zeit
von hier bis zu den sternen

ihr gang bleibt gleich

sie zählt und bläst
die schleier meiner momentanen ewigkeit
einen nach dem anderen
in die vergangenheit

alter(s)reim

morgens ist es abend schon
tag dazwischen flog davon
kam zu spät und ging zu früh
sonne sah den himmel nie
himmel stand in steter nacht
bin mein ganzes leben nie
wirklich aufgewacht

Veröffentlicht am

Sylvia Petter

The Man on the Moon

It was 1969, the year of the man on the moon. When Samantha had left Australia she’d winked at him not knowing that before the year was out he would not be alone – not knowing that she would be very much so.

She thought of Jake. She missed him. It wasn’t that his absence left a hole; it was just that there was so much more when he was there. Samantha stared out of the train window as the countryside chugged by.

She’d come in from the East from Vienna via Prague. After the awful experience with Fritz, her need to run had been so suddenly strong – the need to get out, find her family, her roots, safety. She’d been so tough when she left Sydney. She hadn’t thought twice then either. ‚But the first setback scares you and you want to go home.‘ But home was far away, always too far.

The train screeched to a halt on the Czech/GDR border. Two puffed up grey uniforms entered the compartment. Each took an aisle.

‚Passport,‘ one florid face sighed at her, took the navy booklet and flipped through to the Czech visa as if to make sure she could really leave. The other passengers proffered their papers and the officials swung down on to the platform as if they had run out of air in their exhalation. The train lurched into motion over an expanse of grey barren terrain and then screeched to another halt.

‚Passport,‘ clipped a new uniform. ‚Koffer aufmachen!‘ Samantha didn’t know whether she was expected to first show her papers or open her suitcase. She held out her passport.

‚Koffer aufmachen!‘

Samantha took down the suitcase, now grubby beige, with the liner stickers – CABIN – ANTONIA LAURETTI plastered willy-nilly on the lid and peeling off at the corners. She opened it.

‚Was ist das?‘

‚A koala,‘ she said, ‚a koala bear.‘ As if the word ‚bear‘ would bestow it more innocence. They weren’t bears of course, but he wouldn’t know, Samantha thought. The dour faced uniform took out a knife from the instep of his boot, slashed the stuffed creature in a clean rip right down the belly. He put the knife away again and dug his fingers into the synthetic entrails, spilling them into the suitcase. Samantha gaped, her eyes wide – she could feel perspiration on her palms.

With a flick of his wrist, he threw the fur carcass into her case. ‚Books? ‚

‚No,‘ Samantha whispered.

‚Books?‘

‚No!‘ Samantha trembled inside as she fought back the tears. She stared straight ahead as the uniform went on to the next passenger.

‚Passport!‘

Samantha was glad to alight. The physical exercise of changing platforms in Halle and boarding the local train had calmed her as she took a seat in the almost full compartment.

She glanced at the teenage girl sitting opposite her. She was struggling to open a bottle of – the label said ‚Malz Kola‘. The deformed word drew Samantha’s hand down to her suitcase. The koala gift was inside. What had they been looking for? Samantha swallowed – so cute, the only gift she had for her family and they had to ruin it.

The blonde girl in her knee socks, white blouse and skirt started worrying the bottle cap on the side of the metal armrest. Samantha shook off her first taste of shock and rummaged in her bag.

‚Bitte,‘ she said and held her hand out for the bottle. The girl gave it to her with a look of surprise. The bottle was warm. Their Coca-Cola, Samantha thought. Warm coke, she shuddered. She plucked off the top with a pocket knife and opener and handed the bottle back.

‚Danke,‘ the girl said and began to sip and then, as an afterthought, offered the bottle to Samantha. Had she done it spontaneously, Samantha might not have noticed.

‚Nein, danke,‘ Samantha said and continued in German. ‚How many stops is it to Sibigrode?‘ Six fingers, Samantha thought, as the girl switched the bottle to her left hand and tucked her right hand in the pocket of her pleated dark-blue skirt.

‚Just one more,‘ the girl answered.

She must have noticed the difference in accents. Samantha’s German was not fluent, but it was clear she would get by – as a stranger would, and the girl with the ice-blue eyes had seen that. Yet Samantha found the girl’s accent and the words more familiar, more innately known than the speech and dialect of Vienna. German was many things, she thought.

And the girl must have felt a certain ease as well. ‚Where are you going?‘ she asked.

‚To the Friedrichs. Do you know them?‘ Of course she doesn’t, Samantha thought. She remembered how she’d laugh when asked if she knew someone so-and-so in Sydney. Now she was doing the same thing.

‚No. But the town is small. They’ll know at the station.‘

The train pulled in to a simple grey platform with a low one-room building and outhouse. With her suitcase in hand and her hessian carry bag over her shoulder, Samantha got off with a wave of ‚Auf Wiedersehen‘ although she knew she would not see the girl with the strange hand again. One never knew. Who was it, Samantha wondered. Oh, yes. Anne Boleyn. They’d taken her for a witch. Well, she could always have it removed. Plastic surgery here, at the end of the world. Samantha smiled to herself, now where was down under? She shrugged and walked towards the small squat building.

‚The Friedrichs‘ house is the last one on the road to Gorenzen – about twenty minutes on foot,‘ a man said in a low flat voice. He must have been the station master. He was the only person there, the house would not have had room for anyone else and his grey uniform and cap gave him an official look.

It took Samantha thirty minutes to walk down the dusty road that had been tarmacked, but never repaired. There was no footpath, just rubble and sand seeping into rough grass. The houses stood aligned, grey after beige after grey. Any garden they had must be in the back. Behind the houses were fields, flatness and in the distance copses of trees. Further off the low hills rolled and even further she could see peaking forests – the Harz, she thought. She remembered her mother speaking of the Harz Mountains. The last house had trees, tall elms, two of them and there was a tiny garden in the front. Just a few bushes, hydrangeas behind a peeling picket fence. All the houses had peeling picket fences, but this one peeled more.

Samantha opened the gate and walked up to the front door. She looked about her, placed her case on the ground, took a deep breath and hit the knocker.

The door opened and a stout old woman in long skirts and apron, her grey-white hair pulled back in a bun stood before her. She had a round flat face with high cheekbones. Her wrinkles bore witness to smiles and sorrow.

‚Tante Klara? It’s Samantha, Samantha from Australia. Helga’s daughter.‘

‚Helga? Australia? Samantha?‘ With each word the old woman’s face softened and her smile seemed as if it would envelope Samantha as her arms opened in greeting. ‚Samantha. How did you get here? All the way from Australia! Otto, come look, it’s Helga’s Samantha.‘

An old man, a head shorter than Klara, shuffled to the entrance. He had a full head of sparkling white hair and a bushy moustache clipped short. He wore a grey hand-knit jumper that was neatly darned in a spot past his stomach. His gaze was strong from steely blue eyes as he smiled and said: ‚Yes, it’s Helga’s Samantha.‘

Samantha stepped forward to his tentative embrace, then pulled back and grinned. She didn’t know what to say.

‚So will you stay with us? You can have the room your mother had before she left,‘ Klara said.

Samantha nodded and followed her aunt up the narrow creaking stairs. The room was small with an attic window and scrubbed wooden floorboards. A bed with a dark wooden headboard, decorated with a rose and two symmetric swirls that opened upwards, like curling vines, stood pressed against one wall. A small dresser stood opposite. It had the same carved pattern around the mirror fixed on top of it so that it looked like a dressing table. The mirror was blotched brown with age in the corners, and on the dresser stood a large white china jug in a china basin.

As Samantha opened her suitcase on the linen bedspread, she heard her aunt’s steps creaking up the stairs.

‚It is simple, but clean,‘ she said. ‚The toilet is outside. It’s an old house, Liebchen.‘

‚That’s OK, Tante Klara,‘ Samantha said. It was like being sent back in time with fragile things useful for years. But, running water would have been nice …

As if reading her thoughts, the old woman said: ‚Oh, but a lot of people have very modern things these days – can’t see the use of it all myself, though. But there’s Irmgard, my daughter – your cousin, you know. Well, she and her husband – they’re up in the Harz, they mind the venison, and even up there, Irmgard has running water and shiny taps, even an enamel toilet inside the house. And she has a refrigerator. We put everything in the cool cellar. Oh, I remember …‘

Samantha smiled. She loved stories. ‚What, Tante Klara?‘

‚Oh, it was when your mother started school …‘

This was wonderful. It was hard to imagine her mother having started school. ‚Yes?‘

‚Well, it did cause some talk in the village.‘ The old woman skirts began to jiggle as a belly laugh stifled into a chuckle. ‚You know, here in Germany, the children on their first day of school, well, they receive an enormous cone filled with sweets, bonbons …‘

Samantha had heard of the tradition. She had even seen photos in the West German Burda magazines her mother got months late and used for her dressmaking patterns. At school begin there would be photos of children in street clothes – not uniforms like she had to wear. The children held bright coloured cones almost as big as themselves. No doubt, mothers would make bright skirts and shirts and jackets for the first school day. So it went that far back.

‚So! What happened?‘

‚Well, the teacher – all the classes were together in one room – he told the children that the tree with the cones grew in his cellar.‘

‚So…?‘

‚Well, your mother, oh, that Helga …‘ Tante Klara started to chuckle again and held her hand on her stomach as if that would stop her petticoated skirt from jiggling. ‚Helga and one of the boys from the village thought the tree would grow bigger and have bigger cones if they fertilised it. So they poured a bucket of … cow piss …‘ Tante Klara’s skirts jiggled more and more, ‚…into the cellar window of the teacher’s house.‘

Her aunt wiped tears from her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‚… he kept the freshly baked bread just under the window on a stone ledge …‘

Samantha roared with laughter. ‚And he couldn’t get mad at the children?‘ She loved this new mother of hers.

‚No, he couldn’t get mad with them. He should never have told them such a lie.‘

Samantha and Klara smiled at each other, then, as if it had all gone on too long, Klara said: ‚Well, I’ll let you unpack. Then you come down.‘

That afternoon Samantha took an old bike from the shed.

‚It still works. I take it now and then … when the sun shines,‘ her uncle said.

Samantha biked to the next village along a deserted country road to fetch fresh bread rolls for supper. They were firm and brown and smelled of malt. A gingerbread world of malt – malt bread, malt coke, everything malt.

The countryside with its grey houses in huddles, its copses of trees peppered through tilled fields bore no scars of bygone wars and no greasepaint of modernity. It was not the regime, Samantha thought, but time that held it suspended, as if in aspic. There was no talk of Stasi then although the slit koala bore witness to the closed claws of the border.

The following day, Samantha’s cousin Irmgard and her two young sons came to visit Tante Klara. Samantha knew the word had spread fast that Helga’s daughter from Australia had dropped in on the village. It was Sunday. Onkel Otto donned a white shirt with a stiff stand-up collar. He wasn’t going to church. There were no churches – or they were not used as such. He just went out to the gate. It was still an occasion for he even had on his black Homburg hat.

Irmgard was a tall woman, well into middle age. She had gone to great pains with her clothes. She wore a white blouse nipped a notch too tightly by a dark-blue skirt that spilled over thickening hips. Irmgard tweaked at her waistband as she approached the gate with a large paper carry bag and two boys in tow.

‚Samantha, my dear, you’re just like your mother, Aunt Helga. This is Rolf and this is Helmut,‘ she said pushing a sullen 12 year-old and a friendlier-looking 8 year-old before her.

The photos she had seen of her mother in her youth had shown a slim dark-haired woman. Samantha was blonde; her mother used to call her hair California blonde as it darkened in the winter and lightened in the sun. But she did have her mother’s dusting of freckles.

Helmut thrust out with both hands a large box-like contraption. ‚This is for you. A gift. I made it myself, ‚he said.

‚Danke.‘ Samantha took the object. She had nothing in return. She couldn’t give him the ripped koala. ‚I’m afraid they took away the gifts I brought – they took them away at the border,‘ she lied. ‚Your gift is lovely. What is it?‘

‚Take off the paper. It’s a windmill. Made of match sticks.‘ The boy blushed. His older brother watched impassively, the first sprigs of acne peppering his cheeks.

‚Thank you, Helmut,‘ she said. ‚I shall put it inside, it looks fragile.‘ Turning to Irmgard, she said with a smile: ‚It must have taken him ages.‘ Then she carried her prize up to her room. What the hell am I going to do with it, she thought as she placed it on the dresser.

When Samantha came out again her Aunt Klara and Irmgard were busy setting a wooden table under the shade of the elm tree behind the house. There was coffee, malt coffee, and baked cheesecake and Samantha recalled the waft of sour sweet that had tickled her nose that morning.

‚I don’t believe it,‘ Otto said.

‚But it’s true, Onkel Otto.‘ Rolf slammed his fist in the air.

‚Yes, they did,‘ chirruped Helmut.

‚A man cannot walk on the Moon. That’s impossible. They’re telling us stories again,‘ Otto said.

Samantha placed a hand on her uncle’s elbow. The old man was sitting on the bench, upright and proud, his Homburg straight on his head. Samantha imagined that he must surely look like that at a funeral, only there he would stand to bid farewell to an old friend. ‚It’s true, Onkel Otto,‘ she said quietly. ‚A man, an American, has walked on the Moon.‘

The old man shook his head: ‚I don’t believe it,‘ he muttered over and over again. How hard it was for him to accept things others took for granted. But she was that way too. Jake, he had taken it for granted that she loved him. She did, of course – or did she? But the gifts? She’d been so sure she could breeze in with strange antipodal stuffed animals – who would mistrust a koala?

‚Samantha,‘ Irmgard said in a voice that snapped her back to them. ‚I was wondering if you needed something like this? They’re the best in the GDR, ’she said proudly. ‚My brother-in-law sells them in his, well it’s not his …, ‚ her lips tinged with bitterness as her voice softened. ‚… his Kaufhaus. We are known for good quality.‘

Samantha didn’t know where to put her face as her cousin held out a floor length red flannel horror of a dressing gown. ‚You will need this in Europe,‘ Irmgard added. ‚It’s colder than in Australia.‘

Samantha nodded and stretched out her hands. No way would she wear it. She hated dressing gowns. But they were gifts, gifts from her family – here on the other side of the world. She could always give it to the Caritas when she got back to Vienna. ‚Thank you, Irmgard. I’ll make good use of it.‘ Samantha turned to fold and place the gown on the bench.

‚And Samantha,‘ Irmgard glanced sideways as if to block out Otto who was still nodding sadly to himself. ‚These, too, they’re of superior quality. You can always fill them with hankies, but I think they should fit.‘

Samantha stared and tried not to laugh out loud. Irmgard held out a pale dusty pink bra, polyester, sewn in concentric circles and ending in a point where a nub should be. They were burning their bras back home and she would place a pencil under her breast once a week – the pencil always fell. Her breasts needed no support, not for a long while yet, she thought.

‚I have a white one too,‘ Irmgard said.

God, I’d never wear those, Samantha thought as she said ‚Thank you‘ in a warm soft voice. Her reward was Irmgard’s proud glow. They were the closest she would get to a family. Yet they were strangers, as distant as the man in the moon – but she didn’t want to walk on their faces.

‚We had our chance,‘ Irmgard said. They had gone up to the Barbarossa caves to see the king whose beard grew into the ground through a massive table as a sign of his sorrow. ‚Did your mother ever tell you the story of Barbarossa, Kaiser Friedrich?‘

‚Something about him trying to unite all the German dukes, bring peace? Didn’t he fall in the crusades?‘ Samantha said.

‚Legend has it that he didn’t die. He hid in the caves with his flaxen-haired daughter and members of his court.‘ Irmgard’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‚And there he stays sleeping until Germany becomes one.‘ Her whisper hoarsened. ‚Hitler imagined uniting all German people.‘

‚And look what that led to,‘ Samantha said. ‚It looks like Barbarossa will go on sleeping forever.‘

Irmgard’s eyes caught Samantha’s. For a long second her gaze was straight. ‚We never thought they would really put up a wall. We should have left then,‘ she said. Samantha watched the tears glisten in her cousin’s eyes. ‚But this is our home, Samantha. Do you understand?‘

Samantha shifted from one foot to the other and then walked off a few paces in that height of the Harz. She wasn’t the one Irmgard should be telling such things. How could a tumbleweed understand? She had no roots; well, they weren’t in the GDR.

‚There’s a joke.‘ Irmgard’s voice broke in to her thoughts. ‚Ulbricht, our leader, loses his wallet one day. He offers a reward – any wish – to the finder. A pretty 18 year-old girl finds the wallet and he asks her what she wants. She says: ‚Open the wall for 24 hours.‘ Ulbricht laughs and says: ‚You naughty girl, you just want to be alone with me.‘

Samantha smiled weakly. There was more to her cousin than her too-tight waistband. But what about the running water and the shiny taps?

On the train back to Vienna via Prague, Samantha soon forgot the shiny taps. As the countryside pulled by and she drew further away from people she had always been told were her family, she pondered on the meaning of the word. Blood coursed in her veins. It was hers. Not theirs.

At the Austrian border she paid little attention to the words the inspector said as he stamped her passport.

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Veröffentlicht am

Christopher Stolle

Indiana Poet

This Happens When Your Lover Leaves
To Her

Deep down, somewhere on the surface,
there is fear seeping from an earmarked
cloose vein.
Chunks of nightmares and drama traumas
glob from the gaping, disconnected
cylinder flux.
Blood rains across the silky innards,
refreshing this half-cadaver from possible
drought crops.
In these valleys and hills, nooks and creases,
flows a bittersweet liquid of immense
commercial viability.
Little germs and molecules irrigate organs,
only to drown from busting clots that line
flesh corridors.
Few notice this wound, this tiny slip cut,
that’s deep down, somewhere on the surface,
flooding passion.

Hold Onto Hope

Hold onto hope
That wants to slip through
Keep dreaming your dreams
For they make everything new
The weak and weary will stand
On hope they continue to hold
When the wild wind blows
They will never feel the cold

Hold onto hope
As echoes light the flame
Change the pace in things you do
So that nothing seems the same
Bring back the desire of yesterday
While children laugh in delight
Delegate your memories told
So everything stays in the light

Hold onto hope
While your heart swells within
Accept what you know can change
As any virgin can sin
Remember darkness sees no color
Because it has no eyes
But now it’s time to take notice
Of every single thing that cries

Hold onto hope
For silence asks you to follow
Now you feel clouds strain
As you try to eat your pride and swallow
Now forces of the past refrain
From telling you how to live life
Take a hand in each and squeeze
Because alone we are left in strife

Hold onto hope
So we can take in the scenery
Seasons change often
Which keeps hope for spring’s greenery
All the while, the rich get richer
While the poor keep dreams to confess
So tell the old man he can smile
Because money doesn’t equal happiness

Now the glory can finally be told
The needs of humanity will grow
But if you suppress all your hopes
Then no one will ever know
In time, all things will settle into place
We’ll have the answers as to how to cope
But we will never know what we can achieve
If we don’t hold onto hope