A hundred years after a war some call great
unsolved troubles from then and later
still explode right in the face
of next door neighbors
These are the first lines of an unpublished poem.
Sometimes I am haunted by my own poetry: I might have written a line a few years ago and later find out that, wow, now it is more appropriate and fitting for something completely different.
So are the words applicable or are the new situations malleable?
These are the first lines by the protagonist of this 400 pages yet unpublished work.
I still battle with some major question marks, but
since 2014 it has developed handsomely.
If you want to read more: contact me.
They began to call me Mother of Revolutions. It started on a shitty boat to Italiye. Well, to Lampemedusa to be precise. A colonial island closer to the Southern continent than to Sikelia, the first haven on the central route over Our Middle Sea. While the Malethian and the Italiyen coast guard were discussing who should take three overloaded boats that crisscrossed between their national waters, we disembarked like a ghost, invisible to their radars, on a cliff-cornered beach where the stones are spotted with the resisting plants of the macchia. I still feel the salty earth under my nails. It was a late morning after a windy night and we had been at sea for more than a week. The group that made it to the abbey Madonna del monte, Mother of the Mountain, they gave me that nickname, Mother of Revolutions. Maybe they just teased me and my long stories about all the uprisings on my way, but anyway, the name stuck like one of those sticky labels you find on fruits in most shops. It was the abbey on top of the cliffs that became our first refuge. We reached it in the cover of midday lethargy. The heat was burning with a difference and we sweat in translation. All of us drank holy water before the old sacristan could intervene. No, we did not want to desecrate this place, holy to some. But we were starving and had drunk only foul water and rain for days. Chris' would understand, we told the outraged one. Our survival is a miracle of the redeemer, we told the priest and he gave us a free mass, food, water, a check up and mattresses.
Imagine your failures and successes just being the same
copy and paste lame way of telling your life
like an action movie from the nineties
exploited over and over again
into sequels of heroic deeds
and no failures
And then imagine a tale of the heart
where your birth and death smile
at each other in recognition
Would you see
the similitude of the detail or
the difference of the whole
The lines to the left are taken from a poem that was part of another fantastic collaboration with three wonderful artists
-- Tanel Veenre, Märta Mattsson and Lauri-Dag Tüür --
for the exhibition NEVER ODD OR EVEN during SCHMUCK 2014.
Entry into the poetic diary [from Taiwan]:
Lying in the water salty sandy warm
without much of a wave but a heaving
looking at the stars twinkling
A new thought that floats into a submarine smile
while nothing happens with a lot of elegance