Posts tagged ‘poetry’

The mistress (awkward verses #1)

Lie me some more love again
as it doesn’t matter now –
no harm was done
(but no good either)
in these dead hours of the night.

Lie me some more love again.
Your words will stay with meaning
till it’s dawn.
Don’t break us up but lie to me,
return to her, and then be gone.

Felinelle

The cat is always shitting on the floor.
We tried to educate him, but no luck.
He runs away and we just close the door.

We do not want this shitty cat no more.
We are fed up with all his nasty yuck.
The cat is always shitting on the floor.

The neighbour once declared us war.
He stepped in shit and told us that we suck.
He ran away and we just closed the door.

We used to like our cat, but now? What for?
How could we know this cat is such a schmuck?
The cat is always shitting on the floor.

The neighbours moved, the street is as before.
We’ll never get rid of the cat, so we are stuck.
The cat is always shitting on the floor.
He runs away and we just close the door.

The mourning

There is a woman on the island who mourns for her husband
and cannot stop mourning in the time we have set for her.
She needs a psychologist so we say
but she cannot go to the mainland for help,

she cannot cross the sea as she is too depressed
and we all think this is crazy, she is crazy
for not getting her act together by now and crying
all the time. And we tell her all we know about grieving.

And we feel so much better
about our own heroic distances from the death
and how we move on in spite of our losses
and keeping up the spirit
although the real spirits better be absent.

We are still here
as no one has gone to the mainland as well;
for whatever reason we can think off we are reluctant
and we mourn in our ways without knowing we do.

We mourn as we water
the already dead plants in the garden,
as we go about our lives in a slower pace
as we hear ferry whistles and the sound
of geese flying over, without us longing
to go away too.
We are too dead to mourn well.

The portrait painter

When word was out
that he, the village artist,
was making another portrait
no one dared to see it
as they expected to drop dead at first glance
as they knew others had died in admiration
just by watching his art,
which they burnt.

So they shut his cabin
locked the windows and doors
with him inside
and it became quiet,
all was good
and grass overgrew the dwelling.
The cabin rotted,
the village slowly vanished.

Years after the last villager had died
a little girl found her way in the cabin,
stepped over the skeleton
drawn as she was to the painting
and she took it outside
where no one ever expected
such beauty to be found
in such a derilict place.

The colours that never saw daylight
started to live,
the immortal face they saw
was that of a young man,
the artist himself, as he had been,
while he was being buried alive
by the people
who were for ever faceless.

Moving On – book release

My sixth poetry anthology in English is out now!

moving on

 

Link to Amazon :   Moving on and the other titles

Creative reclamation

I wonder how you call my love for you –
probably collateral damage or,
if I’m lucky, you say you want it one day
for creative reclamation.

It has been about a bit, this love,
and torn apart, neglected, stored on ice,
and put in the attic for not being useful
but it is still around somewhere
if you want to do a bit of tinkering.
Still. Not for ever.

Maybe you can shape  it in time
into a hopeful poem about resurrection
and other passion flowers to hold on to
when all is bleak and dry.
But then again you write fiction don’t you.

I wonder whether I shall  live
to see my love reclaimed. Or even named.
And that you said you loved me:
it would be nice to see it
shining through the old parts of my rusty heart.

Irony to do

Emotions put in words then stored
in corners of the cupboard also known as heart
unfold as linen, I can see the stains
of where too much was spilled,
where mould has taken over blood.

There is a silent moth
escaping in the blue of day,
and you are gone, and I am left
in dust and feather bed,
with heaps of irony to do.

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