Tag Archives: poetry

Weihnachten

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Die Kirchenglocken haben eine Weile geläutet.

Jetzt nicht mehr.

Die Leute essen zu Mittag hinter

geschlossenen Türen,

jeder für sich oder

in ganz kleinem Kreis,

kein Gesang hörbar.

Über die Auen und Felder,

die Einsamkeit schwebt wie eine Nebelwolke,

saugt alle Gedanken auf.

Allein ein Vogel durchsticht das Grau,

wie ein Friedenslicht leuchtend.

Heal, heal, heal

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It’s that time of year again,

time to crawl under my blanket and set out

on pilgrimages of forgetfulness.

North of here is the tomb of simple goodness – vandalized.

South of here is the mausoleum of easygoing fun – in a pile of rubble.

I mourn them both with a solemn bow,

angry visitors pass me by with their bows

and their arrows, pointed, pushing.

Their eyes overcast, not a drop of kindness trickling down,

just a grey drizzle of me, me, me

Maybe we simply mourn in different ways, I tell myself

and I turn on an old Romanian Christmas folk ballad.

It fills me with sorrow.

It fills me with loss.

It is like listening in on paradise past.

When was the last time we sang to each other and felt

like living matter that needs

to be kept warm and fed –

– fed as in nourished?…

Nothing but machines, now, between us,

nothing but machines between us and everything,

coldly feeding us

to their anger.

I close my eyelids and let the tears roll,

roll on down,

until I’m drained and the pillow is soaked

I drift into visions of the vanished

I forage through conjured-up hereafters

I dream things of glory

I sleep, sleep, sleep…

The Levee

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a man, a dog and the pond at the bottom of the levee:

brown reeds, an egret and a few muted gulls, scattered.

winter lurking.


a man stopping, crouching, gazing into the distance,

holding on to that taut leash

for dear life.


his eyes across the water

weighed down

heavy

whole

with the solitude of the world.


in my headphones,

Adele belting out:

Remedy.

#creativewriting #poetry

Freedom

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Night was falling in the coppice-wood

Each strand of light threadbare and bluish

Thinned out into mystery

The path darkened, populated by shadows

The clock in the church tower struck

The hour of the owls

Something shrieked in the distance

And a human shape approached on a bike

I clutched my umbrella with sweaty palms

My pulse quickened

Fear

Terror

Excitement

A frightening moment all my own

Seductive, scary

A flirt with danger

An out-of-body experience

A de-individuation

Dilating, not shrinking

Expecting to turn into a leaf or a slug to escape it all

Or to simply sit still and dissolve into a breath or a breeze

But then there you were

My phone lighting up with your number

Asking if I was OK

The man on the bike pedaled on

And I was left alone to settle into the peace

And the exhilaration.

#poetry #creative #writing

I feed on the unspoken

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You call it this, I call it that,

the thingness of a thing is beyond

our babbles

labels come and go

what is truly real is quiet and dark

its depths crushing and warm and full of moisture

like the savage mouth

of an intractable lover.

Like love, the world

may be screamed, sighed,

sucked, suckled, and moaned,

but never

told.

#poetry #creativewriting

What language do you dream in?

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The brain is a funny thing. And funny things happen when your brain goes on vacation. I consider myself bilingual (Romanian and English) and I’ve been living in Germany for more than 15 years now, but never would I have thought that the German language would end up infiltrating… my dreams!

My dreams, yes. For the first time ever, I had a dream in German while I was at home in Romania, which makes it even stranger. And that’s not all. Not only did I dream in German, but I dreamt a whole poem in Goethe’s language! It ruined my sleep, of course, because I was so in awe, I had to make sure I could remember it well enough to jot it down in the morning. I managed to, but – alas! – only the second stanza. The first stanza (up to “Die Schienen…”) is a later addition (which, needless to say, has cost me a lot more effort and a couple of visits to the online dictionary), but the rest is entirely the creation of my subconscious.

So, here it is, I hope you like it:

Auf den Schmalspurzug wartend

Es wird Nacht in den Tälern

und ich muss wieder los.

Ein letzter Blick zum Himmel:

rosarot, erstarrt –

dann der Abstieg,

eine Haltestelle

und ich, alleine in der Unermesslichkeit,

auf den Schmalspurzug wartend.

Die Schienen sind alt, alt und holprig

wie die alten Steinwege der Bauern.

Hinter dem Abendnebel, der Berg,

schneebedeckt,

rutscht in die Abwesenheit.

Es ist spät.

Gott lässt sich nieder

auf der bettelnde Handfläche der Pinien.

Stille.

#poetry

Things you can observe at 7 a.m.

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I watched blackbirds today.

I couldn’t sleep.

Early at dawn I watched a parent

feed her chick.

The older one was dark –

as burdens darken us;

the younger pale,

unknowing, made a fuss.

Peck, peck, they went

as their small beaks touched

From where I sat,

it looked as if they kissed.

And it occurred to me

that this is how you feed

the nerve to fly,

which I so sorely missed.

Wind in the tall grasses

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Today I will write about the wind in the tall grasses.

Lost, immaterial, like our souls,

Just a passage from one place to another.

Just air. Just breath.

Soft stalks undulating. It’s ballet. Beautiful submission.

Soothing choreography under a ruthless sun.

People pass by on their bicycles

Barely noticing.

Barely noticing the road leads nowhere.

Barely noticing they’re cycling in circles,

Like the seasons,

Inevitably ending up the same, just older. Drier.

Have you noticed how heavy our souls have become

And how they weigh on the landscape

Chased by this cruel big sky?

How hard the wind has to blow to still move them?

Two blades of grass standing tall,

Then bent by the gale. The caress of a green tassel.

Two blades touching each other for a second

Softly, until they don’t. Until they cut skin.

Leave your shadows behind

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that hour.

on the long path to spring,

when darkness clears

and the trees drop their skeletal shadows in the snow

like a bad memory,

like baggage one no longer needs

to carry.

when the frost glistens with a gazillion different suns

in a myriad different eyes

and the crows’ croaking falls

silent

silent…

that hour.

like a letter from someone you love,

a letter you never thought

was coming.

when you

leave your shadows behind

and walk into the light.

that hour.

https://www.instagram.com/andreeasepi/

New Year’s Eve 2020

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You can tell by the fireworks.

To this day,

people’s hearts are set to the clocks

in their homelands,

far away.

They go off at different times,

then the smoke clears and the sky

remains mysterious and quiet until the next

full hour.

You can tell by the fireworks.

To this fateful day,

the last of 2020,

when the cheer is inaudible,

they still explode to the clocks

of faraway homelands.