I’ve created here my little space of self-expression. I worked on it. I tried to post regularly, even when I felt tired, depressed, or simply didn’t feel like it. But no space is impervious to life and to death. I couldn’t write anything last week.
Since the 24th of February, I have had these moments of daydreaming when I imagine what would happen if I were in Ukraine right now. I don’t invite these moments. They come by themselves, triggered by sadness and anger. The injustice of it all and the helplessness.
As the sun rises, the forest wakes up. There’s movement and bird chatter and the wind picks up. Although the sun is now shining through the trees, shadows still reign all around. It’s as if sunshine were confined to a narrow channel that does not allow it to spread around. The yellow summer flowers are slowly moving in the morning breeze.
In a corner of my mind, there’s the beginning of a poem I read months ago. At first, I cannot make much out of it. Just like everything else, it remains in the shadows. It stays there and takes its time to percolate to the surface. Then it dawns on me.
Facing the morning sun (Germany, 2020)
"I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?
Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang."
(Mary Oliver - I Worried)
Do you remember?
There used to be a door here
Its frame is etched in my brain
My hands retain the memory of opening it
Over and over again
There used to be a door here
A way of letting light in
A way of letting myself out
The air on the other side smelled of summer cherries
With eyes closed
My hands search for the slightest crack
For signs that would reveal the hidden frame
But there are none
In my dreams
I can still find that door
I smell the summer cherries
But I cannot see
What's on the other side anymore.
In the end
We always go back to what we are
And every time
What we are is different from what we used to be
Sooner or later
The scaffolding of our self-story comes tumbling down
Revealing us, raw and unscripted
If only for a moment
The stories live their life and then they die
The Love becomes the love
Then becomes a love
And then it fades into the dark well of the past
The delusions live their life and then they die
The Hurt becomes a hurt
A hurt becomes a blessing
And then it fades into the dark well of the past
Sooner or later
We always go back to what we are
Raw and unscripted, if only for a moment.
I first published this poem on Luna’s blog. I’ve photographed the poppies in the wheatfield before the pandemic, and before many other things happened. It feels like a different life.
I've been watching you dance
you move as if you're making love to the world
quick quick slow
we've been dancing
you're light as a feather, fluid like the ocean
whirlwind of emotion sucking everything in
you shapeshifter
always in control and always escaping control
are you staring at me or through me?
it doesn't matter
as long as we keep on dancing
I write this letter that I will never send you
in reply to the letter I never received from you
an eye for an eye, an absence for an absence
I remember lying among summer flowers
both of us naked in the dark
I remember walking alongside you
the forest path opening to infinity
I remember the contour of your hips in the dark
the feel of your crushed lips
the dizziness from navigating your deep salty waters
I remember countless arguments
crumpled faces, empty eyes
you being you and me being me
over and over, to exhaustion
I remember how your eyes lit up sometimes
looking at me
The other night I dreamt of you
We were two strangers in a room full of people
At last.
This poem was originally published on Luna’s blog. I am a photographer and prose writer rather than a poet, but there are moods and moments that lend themselves better to poetry. For me, they are mostly soul-crushing moments and I usually try to get through them quietly.
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