Poetry

Do not forget that a poem, although it is composed in the language of information, is not used in the language-game of giving information. Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889–1951)

A poem is really a kind of machine for producing the poetic state of mind by means of words. Paul Valéry (1871–1945)

two minutes in february

for two minutes in total
the sun laid herself
in my room today
a mouth speaking light
are you there still, little one?
tired beams, through curtains
of granite, needles and trunk
towards our house in the shade
and across the floor
dust lent her the substance
to be, still and again

struck and unprepared
low levels of d vitamin
no pen at hand
but a half eaten orange
my notebook buried
in a far away coat,
I laid my hands open
palms up
they said,
we have nothing to give
and much to wish for.

it seemed as though
she just wanted
a body to dazzle.
and on my palms
scrawly like a spider child
in her language of
a hundred silhouettes
she wrote,
what a joy to shine, little one.

(the vulnerable observer)

a couple of loaves of bread

a violin came to my family
as a crime
the crime being
an instrument crafted by
one of the finest á Paris
Sébastian Auguste Deroux anno 1885
was worth a couple of loaves of bread
my grandmother said “a couple“
how many exactly she didn’t know
i think of the roma family
knocking on my great-grandfather’s door who was the baker of his town
his magic more powerful
than the sweetest tune and
able to send a herd of howling beasts to sleep
for what – two days
how hungry must have been this family to give away their music?
sometimes, when i touch the strings
i hear them resonate
reverberate in me
a violin came to my family
as a crime
for a couple of loaves of bread
i wait for the serving of justice picking up the crumbs

(the vulnerable observer)

(unnamed)

i’ve always liked your name, how you let us stumble loose our bearings
the delicacy of a name so hard to chew at the same time describing weakness heel of achilles conditio humana in six syllables
stuttering over getting stuck in the llnnnnnnrrrr of your middle the tongue caught in a loop clinging to the mouth’s roof
in the first third already

be reasonable be sane
you can’t afford to be vulnrrr – VUL-NER-AB-LE!

i like the tender darkness
the humility and embarrassment announced through you oozing in percolating through vul in my ears is
the mouth of a cave
a deep well
a wound reopening

i am the vulnerable observer
reporting live from the field the wal in old german is
a battlefield and slaughter ground
wounded journalist
embedded scholar
how does it look over there
(fumbling sound, microphone feedback noise) well, what can i say
this cave is dark, my headlamp is weak i can’t really see or hear
and above all i regret to report i’m feeling – things back to you in the studio

(the vulnerable observer)