Wednesday, 21 December 2016

He and She

He and She by Agata Zyclinska

He wandered under the sun
Baked a crusty brown.
Her pallor by now
Had merged into the walls.

Rode upon his shoulders
in his tattered sac
The tale of a floating hero, vagrant and blue.

Under her pillow
Hid dreams of ships
Taking flight with sails unfurled and crisp. 

He dreaded the dusty swirl, the dizzy twirl, the ruthless city whirl.
And She found herself petrifying
Sometimes into a beige upholstered chair
Or sometimes, into a hollow brittle vase. 

But some days they crossed each other's worlds.
He in her dark enclave
She on his street corner
And sometimes she brought a steady hand to him
And he, a bit of the sun into hers. 

Thursday, 1 September 2016

Soaked Almonds and Boiled Potatoes

Peeling Potatoes 
by Henry Hetherington Emmerson

Lately the world has lost its charm.

Except sometimes,
You know,
While peeling soaked almonds
And boiled potatoes.

A heart warming, feet dangling exercise,
In discerning
Spikes of medieval crowns
And skylines of ancient towns
And sometimes even the hemlines of ballroom gowns.

All in the uneven unskilled unravelling
Of almond and potato peels.

Apparitions of a personal puppet show
Entering and exiting
with not so much pomp
and just a faded glow.
But prompt as ever
As if they were standing in the wings
In a neat little row.

My mid morning pastime.

Wednesday, 24 August 2016

Yet Another Rainy Memory

An old view from an old room

Last night was a rare beauty, here in Dusseldorf. I have spent a considerable amount of nights here. Many of which have been the mellow moist ones, with soft cold winds and a gentle sprinkling of raindrops. Quite endearing really. Last night was different though. This city, rarely dramatic, always rather silent and a mesh of indistinguishable whispers, began all of a sudden at the onset of twilight to rumble gravely from the center of its sky-belly. The thunder for me has for a long time been a music so great, I can hardly trace the origin of its fascination for me. But it almost always instantly lifts me from my mundane, slouching insect-life to stare up into the vastness of the grey skies. It seems to emerge from some central node of the universe that eludes my searching eyes and my pricked ears. But it feels as if it vibrates from within me, travelling through each and every speck surrounding me. Like a seismic shudder. Last night was such a night. Full of deep thundering rumblings and incandescent flashes of lightening. And the rain. Not a paltry shower, not at all. The rain fell with a great passion last night. The kind that refuses to stay picturesquely framed in fastened windows but gushes inside and drenches the indoors. Wets the floor and the soles of tired feet.

The window remained open last night. I sat on the wet ledge last night. The music from within my room mingling with the rain’s, outside. I also danced on the slippery stage of my room, with shadows of my own. Dancers were not wanting outside either. Different acts. One followed by another. All dancing in the rain. First a sprightly pair of men. Rushing out of the shelter of the concrete building. One after the other, cutting across the street in a graceful ballerina progression. Light footed and brisk. Jumping ever so lightly over the deeper puddles. Landing with barely a thud on the pavement. Skimming over the rain filmed street, right into their car. A second later, a crisp whirring of the engine, and off they went. With wings weaved of droplets from the settled rain-puddles, airlifted to accompany their majestic exit.

Soon after, there was a pair of young girls. Unlike the fleeting vision of the men, theirs played out like a slow and long drawn interlude. One defined by a sense of pause rather than progression.  Standing a little apart on the large white staircase. At different levels. One behind the other. They seemed to stare into the rain. Waiting. Pondering. Synchronized in their frozen stances. If and when they moved it was barely a shift of weight from one leg to another, but always somewhat in sync. It looked more choreographed then the swinging bouncing act of the puddle hoppers who had just passed them by. And perhaps more hypnotizing for me as well. But the spell broke and perhaps in a combined telepathic resolve they both shed their contemplative, their cautious inertia and in a sudden leap of faith scuttled into the rain. And so they too disappeared from my view.

Much later, when I had tired of my twirling in the dark and had made my mind to finally twirl right into my bed, there came a lone lady in red who walked with an umbrella much redder, to the bus stop right opposite my window. She sat there. A mesh of color lodged in a silent corner of the otherwise dark and dull rain-soaked canvas. Her bus never came. In fact no bus came. For a long long time. I thought perhaps I could sit by my window to give her company. Sleep was deferred for a little longer. But growing weary. Both of us. Perhaps she made up her mind. For herself and mine. So getting up, she began her slow walk, under her bright red umbrella, dulled a little by the downpour, but red nonetheless, to wherever she was headed.

Monday, 15 August 2016

Stray Starlit Illusion

Starlit Sky by Freijanez

Last night
As he heard me relate
A tale of a heart broken friend

His eyes moistened
As if I had tapped a submerged memory
That floated up to the surface.

I asked him if he had remembered something
Of a heartbreak of his own.

He swiftly changed the subject to the starlit sky
Trying not to break the illusion
That he never loved anyone more dearly than me. 

Tuesday, 9 August 2016

Touring the City's Uncanny

Nazi Book Burning Memorial
Berlin 2016

A windowed underground shaft
Translucent under my travelling shoes.

A framed gap,
Like a couple of tiles come loose
From too much stomping,
Peeping through the solid University square.

Reflecting some sky
and a sinking hollow.

An empty library,
An inverted monument
Clawing at my feet. 

Tuesday, 2 August 2016

Becoming Bird

Farmstead under Red Evening Sky
by Emil Nolde

Gliding headlong along the gray ribbon-highway

One must look to one's left and then right

To find sprawled on each side

Miles and miles 
and miles and miles

of green rolling meadow-wings.

A flap of faith

And one could pierce right through the purple sky. 

Saturday, 22 August 2015

My Piece of Red

Landschaft (1935)
 by Emil Nolde 

The red sky
Framed in my
Night-time window

Is sometimes

A piece fallen
Out of a childhood nightmare.

And sometimes

A suffocating
Of erased stars
And swallowed air crafts.

It is so still
It seems it is sore
And taut in pain.

It is alive.
But barely.

But it is almost always
A dull red.

Like blood
Of a long long time ago.