ATLANTIS

between scattered rocks, laying bare
naked bodies – innocent – like children
at the shores of a bay, human presence where
silence is the only constant and pudency lies hidden

ancient landscapes surrounding the ocean
remnatns of times past
when waterdrops shaped rocks continuously
relentlessly forming
creating corners and edges, transitory
that will never last
like our bodies, bronze tanned skins
catching the rays of light
for the moment, one summer, one season
but hopelessly longing
for eternal bliss
on a lonely beach out of sight

there is an old couple splashing water onto each other,
like kids playing in the sea, old familiar pals
and a child searching for coloured stones with her mother
and a lonely diver who is counting his shells

and there is me, only me, like always, alone
diving into the pages of my books and underwater
absorbing the moment and reaching farther
for answers and wisdom and some sort of home

happiness lies in the moment, they say
and i am watching those couples, bathing naked in the sea
like gods and goddesses of another time, places far away
and i feel that the sky is the limit, we are all free
even if solitude is what seems
to limit me in my dreams

at least for a moment i have found it:
the magical realm of Atlantis








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Cityscapes #1

walking those streets
unfamiliar, yet

trying to make home what does not feel like home
yet

the only constant in life is reshaping
of who you are and spaces you are dwelling in
constantly meeting yourself within realms
of the unknown

i have become estranged to myself
too often, searching
wandering
homeless
indeed

i am still aiming to take my gound
cultivate my soil, establish my roots

they have not been given to me
i’m an aerial root
longing for soil

like a flower that emerges from a fissure in concrete
a flower that hooks its roots inside rocks
i have tried to make myself indigenous
to whatever surrounding
there might be

the stranger within me is a stranger to myself
adjusting, aligning, assimilating

but the ME within me keeps
waiting for a like-minded pack of lobas
a family to belong to
one day

between rocks or concrete
capabale of rooting
awaiting
rhizome

“The self is only a threshold, a door, a becoming between two multiplicities”
Deleuze & Guattari – A Thousand Plateaus

 

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Why poetry and writing has saved my life …

„There’s a reason poets often say ‚Poetry saved my life‘, for often the blank page is the only one listening to the soul’s suffering, the only one registering the story completely, the only one receiving all softly and without condemnation.“ – CLARISSA PINKOLA ESTES

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Ís enda Bál

i’ve been walking roads
in a strange light

they took me where my feet walked
they carried me along the paths
of heartbreak, daydreams
and wonder

the sun was dimmed and i clinged to that book
and to that can of beer (Viking :-))
and the story took
me on a path of self-discovery
by means of words alone
a revealing daft allegory

dystopian tales of a red maid in chains
invisible chains of the mind
a parable of rape and the logic behind
made me look back and forgive
myself for being raped
by someone I trusted
by someone I loved

i discovered an old lover long lost
between pages and wisely crafted words
i found this old pal again:
literature, writing
the art of words

i embraced this long lost love as a lonely traveller
in strange lands
strange lights
solitude
literature, my old love
aimed to provide answers
and raise questions

and while i was standing there in awe of nature
the most powerful force there is
and while i was breathing in ceaseless wind
under a sky lit by that strange yellow gleam
and while i was devouring the stories crafted by Atwood
most inspecting, haunting, yet true
i finally allowed myself to feel, in mere solitude
the ache of letting go
the ache of forgiving myself
for something that wasn’t
and never has been
my fault

in true silence, in the face of a windy beach, a rainy mountain top,
in true silence is, where we can finally hear our hearts mourn
and the process of mourning is what we need
to move on

i survived, that’s it
once more

an artist of survival indeed
and writing – the art of words – the healer
for the pains of loss
loss of time

to overcome heartbreak might take ages
why?
because life without love ain’t life
so be it
love is the only constant in life
FIRE AND ICE

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Mini Joys

Enjoy the small things, they said.
So I went to the local Mini Market. To buy some fruits and wine.
There I saw your arms, strong, muscular, tanned.

There was nothing more than a friendly and timid smile. And a Hello.
I smiled back. Hello.

It went on like this. Everytime I came for buying just small things.
Once you passed me in the aisle. From behind. There was not much space between me and the shelves. So your hand very carefully and softly brushed my shoulder and arm and you said Sorry. So I stepped aside. But this soft, careful touch of yours, gently, as if you’re stroking my arm like a feather while still trying to feel the smooth texture of my skin with every fingertip of yours, it gave me the bumps.

This is the way I want to be looked at. This is the way I want to be touched.

When you finally took your courage to talk to me, I was surprised.
You tried to look brave, manly, self-assured. But I could see through your boyish facade.
You were as nervous as me. Trying to impress. I liked that.

But still I got scared and never visited your shop again until the day of my departure. You had touched something inside me that I’d thought lost, or that I had deliberately buried deep inside. And unleashing it kind of freaked me out.

So I’d subconsciously decided to cherish the small things.
That shy smile. That soft touch. That over-compensating behaviour of yours, trying to impress me, though, not really knowing what to say. Soft and clumsy at the same time.
I enjoyed every little second. Even if nothing ever happened. Not more than that.

The only thing I was pretty sure of was, that this little smile and the shy hellos we gave each other at that point, meant the world to both of us. To you, because perhaps the tourists never usually see you, with kindness, you, the shop assistant. And to me, because I am not used to be seen, as I am not pretty. It restored something inside me, though, a wound that needed mending. If I would have been brave enough, I would have hugged you good bye. Just for this little gift of being seen, as a woman, and touched, like a treasure.

Thanks.

 

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Vienna #2_Perspectives

a brighter visit
a lighter time of year
and points of transition


i am counting stars within the celestial body of urban stratospheres
a smokey bar again, with crazy reflections of the past on the walls
and handicraft instructions for a brighter future
projected onto the ceiling
chin up, girl!

walking the same old roads
brushing away memories
that’s not me anymore
that was someone who barely felt
her feet touching the ground
this time it’s different
i’m focussed
determined
now i know
where
i am


the old familiar new
a destination without pressure
a love without a lover
devotion to the profane
the simplicity of a silent afternoon
between photographs
reflecting on a life
already in 3D


and the passion for stories
written by life
no drama
no more

i’ve taken life apart in order to see
the substance between the pieces
that keeps it together
the bigger picture

it ain’t the frame
it ain’t the content
it’s just the way
you decide to
look at it

the layers are many
the deconstruction
infinite

but in the end
it’s just a matter
of perspective


(Thanks to Alfons Schilling and Westlicht Gallery for inspiration. /
Thanks to Vroni, Lisa, Ahi, Christina, Sigi and Gertud
for being an irpiring constant in my life)

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Vienna #1_Old Love Dost Not Rust

a patterned old tile floor in a smokey bar
where once the alley cats
used to walk upon

to sounds of songs we liked when young
we fill the air with chinwag
and laughter

else1

gossiping about the good old days
when promise lay ahead of us
the promise of endless possibilities

else2i see your love and affection for each other
in your eyes and smiles and way of talking
and i’m sitting there, more than grateful
for the time and thoughts we share

20170107_233245

or the other day when we were sitting in another place, pondering
on the meaning of togetherness, love and longing
intangible abstractions, like a painting
by Georgia O’Keefe

georgia2

and the moment we discern that love
lies in the present
no matter with whom
you share it
and what
for

loneliness, the only constant in life
dreaded but needed
to inspire opus
like incense

the lonely artist finds her voice only
within the realm of madness
her true muse

20170108_000801
a cold wind shaking my bones reminds my heart of its frozen state
ready to build walls against the next inevitable injury
but what would be an open heart
without bleeding?

it is better to love, i’m infering though
to be in love with the impossible
than not to love at all
as true love can only
be accessed through
severe pain

resistance is futile
i’m pain, i’m love
thank you

prater2

„Take your broken heart, make it into art.“ – R.I.P Carrie Fisher

scale_lisjul

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speranza

dolce far niente

summer’s heat had dried up all tears
before flowing into the ocean
meanwhile cursing God
the misogynist sadist up there
beyond the vineyards of Sigalas

autumn leaves were blown away
by the breath of a man
whose childish mind
was not ready to make up
to the truth and soul of a woman

winter’s cold is long gone
the silence and solitude
of a frosty season
with its painful revelations
to the inward looking third eye

spring has taken over now
with a sunny kiss
new prospects
life creating itself
anew, the ever-repeating cycle

la dolce vita
coccolare
speranza

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…the many faces of a woman…

you claim to know me
but you don’t know me
at all

what i’ve shown you is just a glimpse
of the caleidoscopic spectrum
that makes me
whole

re-inventing myself is what i do
going with the flows of life
like a chameleon
ever-changing

who do you think you are
to judge me like that
you dumb-wit

you know nothing of me
as me is just a transitional point in time
i live in the moment
my core ist stable though
the idea you have about me
is just a shadow of your own mind
not me

 

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the purging of a lover’s nightmare

the virgin has to be buried alive
her innocent dreams of butterflies
her childish illusions and pretty lies
go down, way down to the demon’s hive

no flowers, no petals, no poems, no songs
it ends here and now, in that instant
as within the beginnings there lie all the wrongs
even though you wish, you can’t withstand

the virgin steps foward and buries her dreams
her innocent musings all go six feet under
she sells all her soul for that shimmering plunder
of that cornute chap, who stitches and seams
the little girl’s story into the fabric of despair
with the needle of delusion and her fiery hair

for many a years, she thus sold her soul
without the payment she so desired
a many young lads seeked comfort in that hollow
and between her legs they twitched and sighed
but the girl was bound to the curse of her father
and of that one of her mother too
and her desperate search brought her farther and farther
but the curse, it followed, with a hasting shoe

one day the maiden tricked the devil
and took a knife to her heart and sung
cunning, under the fool moon of Carman,
she slammed Lucifer’s kingdom of evil:

„I cut my own heart out and ate it
in a cannibalistic momentum of rage
i devoured it, so that i’ll never fall into that pit
of ever falling for a man again.“

„And thou devil hast no power over me,
I swear by the ground that is soaking my blood,
my existence was futile, I cursed myself a lot,
but at last, you demon, I am free!“

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