Poetry is Dangerous



October 2010 – 20 Years of German Unity
___________________________________________________________BRAVE NEW GERMANY++++BRAVE NEW GERMANY+++BRAVE NEW GERMANY+++BRAVE NEW

Ghost of the Berlin Wall 1990 / photo © Holger Kulick

A poem selection to mark the 20th anniversary of German unity, 3 October 2010

Time hopping across 20 years

looking back behind the Wall to the unmourned 20th century

and forward to the glorious abolition of the 21st century sweatshop

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Crossing the border with a love poem

To cross the border with a love poem
you first
have to learn it
line by line
verse by verse by heart:

then eat your words.

Berlin 1988

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The Infantilisation of a Nation

little children one & all
they cry when their balloon pops
get dino plasters when they fall
& little bags of gumdrops

sympathy is their favourite motto
they’re proud of feeling real
their wildest dream is a six in lotto
their goal a new automobile.

culture vultures with post-modern hearts
they read arts pages voraciously
applauding every dribble & fart
of well-known personalities.

secretly in love with kitsch
not wanting to admit it;
lamenting the poor and envying the rich
they live beyond their bank limit.

little children growing up
remain in the throes of puberty
learn to spend money to keep going up
and study till they’re 40

grown-up children one & all
ooze sensitivity hiding past cruelty
the world is bad, they’re all agreed
but they’re tired of being guilty.

screaming egos one & all
believe the sun goes round them
well-fed, loud-mouthed, big & tall
they push & pass the blame.

After 50 years of being re-educated
40 years living strictly separated
and more than a decade of false celebration

it’s a nation of goodies that cower at baddies
big boys and girls who want bigger daddies
— a case of advanced infantilisation.

11th Day of National German Unity, 3 October 2001

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The dead dead GDR

The GDR is dead ’n gone
the end came fast, no lingering on;
some last nostalgic tears are wiped away
and the stage is set for a brand new play.

The GDR is dead and I’m knockin’, knockin’
knockin’ the last nail in the coffin
yeah, yeah

We loved the GDR, we loved to hate it
We looked the other way so we didn’t have to face it;
we played its game with all the tricks we knew
& you know & I know & the Stasi knows too.

The GDR is dead and I’m knocking’, knockin’
knockin’ the last nail in the coffin,
yeah, yeah

So don’t waste time on the past it’s past
pull up your socks, get yourself off your arse;
bury the bones of socialist security
& sing the dirge of consumer computer slavery.

The GDR is dead and I’m knockin’, knockin’
knockin’ the last nail in the coffin,
yeah, yeah

And work now work for your daily bread
sell your time sell your life as the man once said:
change your savings for a new car to race you ahead
and join the FRG where they’re all already dead.

The GDR is dead and I’m knockin’, knockin’
knockin’ the last nail in the coffin
oh yeah.

Berlin, July 1990 (monetary

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Brave new Germany

“And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death”
Shakespeare, Macbeth

I
round and round on sprockets in the brain
a never ending loop
the past repeats its old refrain
we jump through ever smaller hoops

II
fifty years of turmoil
fifty years of peace
fifty years of conquest
fifty years of rue
fifty years of slavery
fifty years of freedom
fifty years of arrogance
fifty years of muddling through

III
forty years of occupation
forty years of rock ’n roll
forty years of separation
two halves don’t quite make a whole

IV
thirty years of Beatles songs
thirty years of moon flights
thirty years of women’s lib
thirty years of wrongs & rights

V
twenty years of work & play
twenty years of wandering
twenty years of buds in May
twenty years philandering

VI
ten years forging sacred bonds
ten years of untangling knots
ten years scrubbing burned out pots
ten years isn’t such a lot

VII
five years brave new Germany
five years, the century’s grown old
five years trying to master history
makes the blood run cold

money money money money
money money money money

Berlin’s a cabaret old chum
the past is always on the programme

21 March 1995

Border times: the unmourned 20th century / photo © Holger Kulick

Wall story

Once there was a wall
that stood for world war
mass slaughter, genocide
and the cynical ideological
division of a continent

The wall fell
people rejoiced
the world watched the party
before switching channels

change always looks good
garnished with handouts & promises
but tarnishes quickly
dulled by the business of living

the magnifying glass of history
makes dictators more fearsome
heroes braver
and walls higher

pending anniversaries
the past is packaged
for present consumption
concrete chips in bottles
maps of vanished border zones
memoirs of neighbourhood spies
photos of faded graffiti
obsolete car models
retro matchboxes
recipes for scarcity —
all the stuff that feeds archives
commemorative displays
& museum shops

nostalgia repeats itself
until remembrance
turns to depression
still, there’s no going back

the hole the wall left
has grown to a global chasm
with millions teetering
on the edge of existence
freedom fenced in
threats on all fronts
and devalued promises
sold as rescue packages
with the call to build new walls

Each of us has a wall story
a tale buried in the debris
of a time that keeps returning

Berlin, 2009

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remember that summer

the Baltic shores were crawling with ladybirds
red & black carpets on golden sandy beaches
ignoring the omen, the official party newspaper
blamed it on a plague of aphids
from the Soviet Union, possibly
but didn’t mention the masses streaming westwards
socialism haemorrhaging through opened borders

twenty years on, the ladybirds are back in force
swarming over deckchairs of budget holiday families
the Baltic shores are crawling with neo-Nazis
& real estate sharks fat from reconstruction

a vanished nation haunts the whole of Germany

Starbucks and public viewing stand for progress
(what they used to call bread & circuses)
Rotkäppchen Sekt brings a prickle of nostalgia
comic figures on traffic lights signify remembrance
and the ladybirds? — a timely gift of coincidence

Berlin   August 2009

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Der Durchschnittsdichter und
-denker durch die vier Jahreszeiten

Wenn’s warm wird
Verrät er seinen Nächsten;
Wenn’s heiß wird
Haut er ab. (Reisetagebuch)
Während die Blätter fallen
Lobt er die Täter:
Wenn’s wieder kalt wird
Klagt er, daß er Opfer ist

Oktober 1991
(auf Deutsch geschrieben)

……………………………………….

The Stasi poet
through the four seasons

When it gets warm
He betrays his nearest and dearest
When it gets hot
He takes off. (Travel diary.)
When the leaves are falling
He praises the culprits
When it gets cold again
He complains he’s a victim.

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Berlin Year 2 A.W.*

* A. W. = After the Wall

1.

There’s a poem in the fridge lying just below the icebox
I put it there to cool off
three weeks past      now
the one-eyed mackerel is reading it sideways
and the fifth line is suffering from frostbite

2.

What hope for this land
with the mailboxes yellow
the moon masculine
and everyone straining, straining
so hard to grow up

3.

The air full of the cries of reborn egos
pollution index 22, rising: another reason
not to get up
you tell me per FAX
the future will be read
in the weather report; walking
the Kantstrasse the pavements turn to bread
soggy in the spring shower
low and hi fi collide: occluded depression
before the shop sign Fruchte aus aller Welt
they devalued the banana        made whips
of its skin, rechanneled the Spree, then
eliminated unemployment at a stroke
with the ultimate olympic project
of the final ideological conquest:
operation solar reversal
target date 31 Dec. 1999
the sun shall sink in the east.

4.

Looking for the corner
waiting for the word to click
once the word was wall or border
you could blow it up in your head

5.

Walking fast
so as not to see
talking fast
so as not to hear
eating fast
so as not to taste
fucking fast
so as not to feel
greeting fast
so as not to touch
shitting fast
so as not to smell
working fast
to beat the race
spending fast
to compensate
fast fast faster fastest
after death comes time

6.

After the wall went down
there was nothing (left) to do
but wait
for the poles to melt

Berlin 1991

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brecht & beer

this time of the renaming of streets towns and ships
of east and west in brackets
erasure of great figures
purging of dated ideologies
polishing of present images
cleansing        so much dirt
piled up so orderly
who needs this history?
is it duty? or punishment?
or simply a piss-up in a brewery?

Berlin 1991

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a streetcar recalled

riding the streetcar
thinking of you
riding the streetcar

historic days: tomorrow
the name change, official
call it tram

riding the tram
thinking of you
doesn’t sound right

give me back my streetcar

Berlin 1991

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zeitgeist adieu

among the shards of post-modernity
the popstar, the politician and the poet
compete for transmission time
on traffic-jammed airwaves
and overloaded cables —
the priests long since being relegated
to slump viewing time.
the origin of the universe
having been explained again in paperback
has now reached its millenium
on the bestseller list.
the fin de siècle is as it always was
a case of premature burial
to cover up the botched post-mortem.

Berlin 1991

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changing

change money
a prelude to spending
change a man

change tactics
make a list
minus side longer
draw an ultimatum line
impose a fine
change trains

change habits
hack away at them
they grow teeth   bite back
chop them off
they flourish all the more
like snakes on the gorgon’s head
pull them out at the roots
they multiply in the hand
change cigarette brand

change hairstyle
a prelude to hoping
change heads

change clothes
a prelude to dieting
change sizes

change shoes
a prelude to dancing
change feet

change drugs
a prelude to flying
change carpets

change homes
a prelude to moving
change routes

change work
a prelude to retiring
change partners

change places
a prelude to parting
change faces

change shops
a prelude to consuming
change products

change cases
a prelude to declining
change contents

change colour
a prelude to blending in
change scenery

ring the changes
a prelude to cashing in
change rings

change choices
a prelude to deciding
change free will

change dates
a prelude to lying
times change

change a man
do it fast
exchange rate falling
all the time

change money
do it fast
change gets smaller
all the time
the dime stores fuller
change change

Berlin 1991

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the rosy rollercoastin’ cost of
livin’ lovin’ & givin’

a rose on the schönhauser allee
costs as much now for the worker bees
oozing out of the s-bahn
as a line of translation typed out korrektly:
two and a half Deutschmarks precisely
(and-don’t-subtract-the-value-added-tax)

still and all today that’s cheaper
than the black market fag packets
laid out in blankets on the pavement
at the feet of the vietnamese poor
veteran cousins, faces wary
the last remaining loose
change of socialist relations

in the stinky subway passage
beneath the scrawl message
hitler lives, the lonesome saxophone
bleats out a barely audible survival blues

Berlin 1991

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This November

November full of promise
the fog hides our secrets well
the rain falls mainly at night

in the dark afternoons
masses gather in squares
with empty spaces where the idols stood
the faces hostile, right hands
raised to heaven calling up the demons
that lurk behind the chimney-stacks
and crawl in beds of trodden leaves

November full of hate and fear
the wind bites ears on shaven heads
the sun kills memories of the past July
the stars shade their light
the moon has trouble getting out of bed
the nights are colder, she shivers on rising

November full of heavy hope
hedgehogs in holes hugging
bodies lying iced on winter’s slab
awaiting nature’s equinoctal sacrifice

in the inner temple of the century’s tomb
two leopards lick blood from shallow stone dishes
men and women dissolve with desire
into the carved womb, its walls
a globe from within, sheltering the scorpion
the mountain goat, the snail, lizards, sea turtles
& snakes coiled in cold blood

we climb the spiral staircase. From the roof
of the world we see the smoke of November
vanish up its own dark hole
leaving only a wisp of stardust
to sprinkle on the cities’ sunless balconies
and the wavetips at the gusty eastern shores

November true season of the north
breeds brown conspiracies
behind embroidered tapestries
a wild despair strangles the day at birth
at dusk we eat chocolate heart cakes
relight the tiled stove; practise hoping

November smells of musk and caraway
and tastes of nutmeg roughly grated
and promises small comforts

Berlin-Kreuzberg, November 1991

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Hitler Resurrected

Easter’s over. Stormy weather.
April nips the budding bluebells
on the midway; passers-by
walk faster not to see
Skinhead at the crossing
raises his right arm
resurrecting Hitler
his buddies slap their thighs
and howl with laughter
A straying dachshund joins the chorus

My skin prickles
(of such skin were lampshades made)
Maybe I’m too sensitive
or just too Jewish to be indifferent.

Hitler’s Birthday 20 April 1995

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The Ballad of the Wrapped Reichstag

There’s a hustling and a bustling in the city today
The Reichstag’s being wrapped and the show is underway
Reporters are fighting for a front row view
And a thousand TV experts are waiting their cue

The Reichstag is wrapped to recall its bygone glory
The Reichstag is wrapped as a gesture to democracy
The Reichstag is wrapped but only temporarily
For you can’t wrap up history
You can’t wrap up history

Forty-five metric tons of specially woven fabric
Seven hundred mountaineers with ropes and icepicks
The Bratwurst’s frying merrily, the world is looking on
This wrap-up affair is the highlight of the season

The Reichstag is wrapped with brilliant publicity
The Reichstag is wrapped and it boosts the tourist industry
The Reichstag is wrapped for tears & smiles & fantasy
Still you can’t wrap up history
You can’t wrap up history

There’s a wave of nostalgia passing through the town
As Christo wraps the Reichstag in its finest wedding gown
’Cos the honeymoon is over and the union of the nations
Is bearing bitter fruit and tough recriminations

The Reichstag is wrapped like a pastrycook’s confection
The Reichstag is wrapped and some folk get indigestion
The Reichstag is wrapped and leaves an open question
’Cos you can’t wrap up history
You can’t wrap up history

There’s a lot of water flowed beneath the bridges on the Spree
And a wall that came a’ tumbling down one grey November day
Since Christo first felt moved to pack this house of dubious fame
Where the pride of the nation turned to sorrow and shame

The Reichstag, the Republic’s very first and last address
The Reichstag was the scene of Karl & Rosa’s deep distress
The Reichstag was the home of Hitler’s inhuman terror
And the ghosts of no man’s land linger still at its back door

Now take your chance to see the Reichstag in its wrappings
Before the masters move in with all their stately trappings
They’ll fumigate and renovate their once and future seat
Then toss us a few crumbs from the table where they eat

The Reichstag is wrapped to be seen from East and West
The Reichstag is wrapped and they stage a people’s Fest
The Reichstag is wrapped but the ghosts aren’t laid to rest
’Cos you can’t wrap up history
You can’t wrap up history

There are stories in those stones that the history books won’t tell
There are ways of seeing blindly and we know them all too well
So open up the musty vaults, there’s no more time to wait
And unpack your memories before it gets too late

The Reichstag is wrapped in a glistening shroud of mystery
The Reichstag is wrapped and the future’s veiled in secrecy
The Reichstag is wrapped, it may be tragedy or comedy
But you can’t wrap up history
No, you can’t wrap up history

Berlin 1995

This poem was published in the anthology, Berlin mit deinen frechen
Feuern, Reclam Verlag, 1997, 2nd ed. 2004

Skeleton of the the Berlin Wall: “Look upon my works, ye mighty / and despair.” / photo 1990 © Holger Kulick



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Poster: Thomas Schliesser

POETRY IS DANGEROUS

This is the new age of sobriety
sterile consensus and covert censorship:
state-funded poets sing praises to the status quo,
the aging avantgarde fades out
suffering cirrhosis of the liver
and raging existential despair;
correctness is preferred to inspiration
and the latest edition
of many a slim volume
with verses rhymed or free
is stamped on the spine
with a government warning:

POETRY CAN BE HARMFUL TO YOUR HEALTH

the small print beneath the capitals elucidates
the nature of the threat between the covers

Reading a poem can result in:
heavy breathing
accelerated heartbeat
churning guts
hot flushes and cold sweats
tingling toes & fingers
hair standing on end
pricked-up ears
moistened lips
dry mouth, chattering teeth
twitching nose, and
shivers down the spine

BEWARE! POETRY IS ALLURING

Shakespeare will grab you by the shoulder
the world’s a stage, he’s watching from the wings.
Malory will fire you with the spirit of chivalry
to join the quest for matchless purity.
Goethe will lure you into sweet temptation
sowing doubt in the depths of hungry souls.

With Chaucer you can take a pilgrimage
to the shrine of the white goddess,
or let Rimbaud steer you in a drunken boat
past rocks where sirens wail and wait for shipwrecks.
A wooden horse is Homer’s chosen vehicle
filled with impatient warriors in clashing armour.
a moonbeam on the white wing of a swan
lures you to read Euripides again
while Catullus promises a thousand kisses
and then a thousand more.
Byron invites you to brawl and womanise
with luscious orgies in ottava rima
spilling over to Sappho’s other shore.
Shelley submerges you in shades of immortality,
and Brecht, disturbing the dust of interrupted dreams
will slip a little book into your pocket
to read in the bus on the way to work.

WARNING: POETRY IS SUBVERSIVE

It can stir you to rebellion
turn you inside out
steal the pennies from your pockets
shower you with insights
irritate dictators
topple politicians
seduce ambassadors
foster bold conspiracies
make spies change sides
open innocent eyes to dark & dirty deals
expose the interlock of cog and wheel
put a spanner in the works
or forge the hammers to break our chains
breeding revolutions in basement kitchens.

WARNING: POETRY IS ALL-CONSUMING

Just one drop of this potent distillation
a shred of meaning, a casual half-rhyme
an oxymoron skilfully interwoven
a fleeting metaphor, a full-blown pentameter
can infiltrate the plastic mortal shell,
sound out buried wishes
drop a plumbline to the basic instincts
travel to the brain with lightning speed
& explode in highly-coloured flashes
sending splinters of intensity
through every artery, sweeping you along
with the flow of ancient mystery
to what they call the borders of insanity.

WARNING: POETRY IS CATCHING

When images reach out to bite you
or rhythms grab you by the throat
there’s nothing you can do —
too late, no anti-toxin can save you
from this insidious infection,
resistance is futile: so relax & enjoy it
surrender to the music of the word
passed down by the bards & troubadors of ages.

WARNING: POETRY IS INDESTRUCTIBLE

After many resurrections
following countless declarations of final demise:
now in the age of mechanical reproduction
alliteration, incantation & reprise
reclaim their audience appeal
defying electronic imagination
& minimal post-modernism.

WARNING: POETRY IS IRRESISTIBLE

when we were young we chased rhythms like butterflies
to catch our childhood fantasies
now we are grown but not immune:
in dark times we take comfort from remembered rhymes
and when our ship comes in
its hold is filled with treasures
from the troves of centuries —
words worked as precious jewels
in polished settings,
necklets of opalescent ballads
lapis lazuli and lustrous pearls
strung in shimmering phrases
heart-shaped rubies glowing with the blood of passion
emeralds flashing dragon eyes of jealousy
& jet-black pendants hanging in the moonless night,
while overhead a dome of many-coloured glass
casts light upon our beauty though our youth is gone.

WARNING: POETRY IS DANGEROUS

a toxic distillation of concentrate emotion
without the claims of politics or patent medicine
with no pretence to answers or conclusions

poetry can’t cause or cure
cancer AIDS malaria or pollution
can’t engineer immaculate conception
can’t put the snow back on the tip of Kilimanjaro
nor fill the Aral Sea’s cracked bed with water
— can’t even make green vegetables taste better;
its strength resides in inutility
pointblank refusal of reality
its miracles are modest
its ambitions plain
its weapons wit & satire
its message clear
and therein lies the danger:
poetry is only love
of words; its source is human feeling.
Come to the spring, fill up the silvered chalice
drink deep, it tastes of nectar
the drug is in the dregs
and lingers on the tongue
like a delicate aperitif
awaking appetite for experience

POETRY IS DANGEROUS
IF YOU’RE AFRAID OF CHANGE

POETRY IS DANGEROUS

EXHIBITION NIGHT 29 MAY 2010

click on image to enlarge:

PiD with pink tights

Poetry is Dangerous Exhibition Night 29 May 2010

Canadian writer Jim Christy

Isabel & Andre reading Hilbig

Background painting: Thomas Schliesser “Living on the Death Strip”

The rhyme is the reason

für Thomas B.

the rhyme is the reason
it rings for itself
whatever the season
it sings for itself
it lifts the lead curtain to let in the day
and lights up the corners where silverfish play

the rhyme is the moment
where sword crosses pen
it eases the torment
of love now and then
it carries the words in a current so strong
that their force overpowers
and pulls you along

the rhyme is the fortune
of poets in garrets
who harvest the wild moon
to stave off their debts
it warms up the room with a magical glow
and turns on the tap for the vision to flow

the rhyme is the purpose
the end in itself
it skates on the surface
and turns on itself

it tangos and polkas and trips off the tongue

and hums in the memory after it’s done

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CREDIT CRUNCH

a poem cycle

by Karen Margolis

Berlin/Nice 2008-9

______________________

credit crunch

these days money matters
are tougher, harder & fraught with pitfalls:
I buried the envelope marked EasyCredit
in the dump bin for unsolicited mail
under the letterboxes in the dingy hall

we are the people Barclays batters
with harassment tactics
(homeworking wife has to take the calls)

we are the breadline trekkers
light years from the market,
next-to-nil budget artists
fallen from the middle class
dodging the poverty trap
ever wary of the grabbing claws
of the monster of the conjuncture

they used to call it a squeeze
(at least the comfort of a boa embrace
before submersion in the mire of debt)

now it’s come to the crunch
you can feel teeth chewing
on human gristle, bones
cracking in anguish, broken homes.

Hungry to blow up bonds
in the tunnel of conformity
thirsting after talk of liquidity
searching desperately for a bolt hole
& ignoring the stars warning me
not to live beyond my means
I snatch my future
from the jaws of the credit crunch
abandon the servile life in Berlin
and pawn my rotten pension
for a sunshine studio rented virtually

a room I don’t own, red rooftops and gulls
waves on the doorstep, shells underfoot,
at last a lone track by water

…………………………………………………
Footnote for AJAR Trustees & Co.:
clutch your pounds tightly, avoid fair shares
exploit loopholes to evade the tax crunch
strive to control the will beyond the grave —
your futures a stake in a perimeter cemetery
Berlin September 2008

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Stillborn Poem

for Ruth

Sat down to write a poem

a man came into the room
to use the telephone

the title flew out of the open door

a boy came into the room
to tell me why Russia is cold

the first line fell into an ice hole

a postwoman came up the stairs
to hand over a registered letter

the rhythm fled with her departing footsteps

my mobile rang twice
the display was blank

a harsh voice shattered my rhyme.

The poem came out unripe
shrivelled and aged before its time.

Grieving, I cut the cord
to my botched creation

and gasped for breathing space
until the next interruption.

Berlin October 2008

___________________

Professor Dr. Dr. Dr.

Bronze nameplate extra long
a row of titles makes a man;
description of status, notably academic
requires the ultimate in precision

But please let’s not argue about
perfection in translation
language belongs to its users
& feels simply right or wrong

Professor Dr. Dr. Dr.
cultivates prestige & pension
in his institutional chair
pen poised over student essays
classic comment: could do better

bewildered by linguistic creativity
& baffled by digital technology
he takes refuge (or revenge)
in the thicket of pedantry

Let’s not talk of hours & weeks
spent in careful search for sense
Professor Triple Doctor, textual sleuth
is busy tracking down stray commas
& oozing scholarly authority;
correcting three times over
he’s satisfied at finding fault again:
a missing bracket in a bibliography.

Please let’s not talk about
the price of this farce.
How do you calculate the cost
of humouring an academic
with no hair left to pick the nits from?

Berlin September 2008

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When you live with children, you live with sand

From the playground the beach the sports field
they bring it home as a seasonal offering
sand caked to mud or soft and slushy
cold and gritty mixed with salt
or sunbaked fine and powdery

sand knocked out of shoes on doorsteps
fallen from pockets turned inside out
strewn over carpets, pillows and towels
settling in corners behind cupboards
and clogging up washing machines

Fresh from building castles and winning trophies
for picture book families
the children return with a bounty of sand
enough to fill a lifetime of hourglasses
ebbing away in a trickle of dry grains
to be sucked up in the connubial vacuum.

Out there in the virtual world
pundits discuss hedge funds & capital gains
and politicians deplore toxic debt & meltdown
while here on the home front
legions of female warriors
equipped from the household arsenal
battle ceaselessly against that inflationary menace
sand, the encroaching desert of domestic life

Berlin November 2008

______________________________

Looking for feelings on my laptop

long past bedtime
still awake, all alone
looking for feelings on my laptop

there’s comfort in clicking,
illusion of activity
in virtual contact with the ether

power in my fingertips
over a digital universe out there
wrapped in a web of news and views

sounds, colours, fast moving pictures
tickle the synapses
but don’t touch the senses

and often jangle the nerves
with pop-ups or downloads
(never mind that ugly word ‘blog’)

voyeurs are watching
from hidden windows while pincodes
vanish down memory holes

later, after hours of online trawling
the emptiness beyond logout
an end without conclusion

Millions of women, pollsters say
prefer online surfing to sex
personally I like my climaxes live

but tonight I’ve worked too long
in my electronic office
the 21st century sweatshop

alone at my laptop I surrender
to the pleasure of chasing links
until numbed by a hundred hits

How long does it take for the mind
to reject mass pacification
and make its own connections?

When the feeling finally comes
it’s anger. It’s real
and it shouts for revolution

Nice   December 2008

____________________________

The Stampede of the Wildebeest

Barely registered on the global scale
of tsunamis, terrorism and epidemics
a stray news item
retrieved again a year later
from a file marked accidents

Did I save it as an early premonition
of the decade’s ending in decay?

October 2007:
15,000 wildebeest perished
on the annual migration
between Tanzania and Kenya

A strong tide swept them away
panic did the rest; for most
death came by trampling

Had the trees still been there
they might have checked the speed
of the rushing river waters

Conservationists blamed deforestation;
a game reserve official
took solace in percentages
not a big loss, he said, relatively speaking
millions of wildebeest are still roaming
in the Serengeti-Mara ecosystem

The stampede, it was agreed,
would hardly affect tourism
a landscape of dead animals, in fact
can be a bonus in peak season
if you don’t mind the stench.

For more than a week
the carcasses lay rotting
picked over by marabou storks,
vultures, crocodiles
and other scavengers

visitors held handkerchiefs
to their faces
as they took snapshots
of the piled-up corpses
Nice December 2008

_________________________

Year’s End Wish for Caroline

Let it be May, Caroline
three times a year

first in its rightful place
after the frost
and before full bloom…

… and then again
cancelling November and December
and bypassing the hectic season
of endless cooking
and automatic giving

Instead, a gentle ride
above the clouds
on a carpet of marigolds
dotted with bluebell cushions
gliding lightly over
new year’s fiery baptism
before descending gradually
to join the dance of spring

If May came around
three times a year, Caroline
I’d send you triple birthday cards
on humming birds’ wings.

A wish for a dear friend
can’t alter the calendar
yet life would be bleak
without our flights of fancy

Nice   December 2008

_____________________

Season of empty shops

A bubble of fragile truth
floating on a puddle of lies
refusing to be blown away
and trying not to burst

Credibility a flash game
while the present is downloaded
as a crisis scenario
on flickering displays

Elena, age 7, fires a question
through the baubles and tinsel
of adult illusion: “Why all the fuss
about a baby being born?”

A season of empty shops
dwindling faith and hollow sentiment
weighs ahead, sinking the year
we’ve already written off as loss

Nice   December 2008

__________________________

Credit Crunch Conjunctural Rap

or Hit Back with Poetry

for Dmitry

They tell us to spend
they tell us to save
their speech has a frown
the conjuncture’s grave
they ask famous experts
why things went wrong
and forecast much worse
before too long

They bail out the culprits
and prop up the banks
convene crisis summits
and set up think tanks
they promise relief
for the poor and homeless
and donate rescue funds
for firms in distress

They issue new dress codes
in style with the times
grey is the colour
discreet are the lines
they tell us to swap
excess for rigour:
tightening our belts
is good for the figure

Who are they anyway?
The powers that be?
watching politics on stage
from seats in the gallery

they were there before leaders came
and still there when they went again

the spectre of revolution
robs their sleep of late
Marx back on book lists
Trotsky rehabilitated

the masters urge moderation
offer games to amuse
but deep down we serfs know
there’s nothing to lose

How many times
must we repeat history?
How many must suffer
the ills of society?
How long will it take
till we seize our own fate
and dispose of a system
that’s past its expiry date?

Nice   January 2009

_________________________

We the people are dangerous

“What is worse – to rob a bank or to found one?”
Bertolt Brecht

we the people are dangerous
we are the threat from within
on our own alone a risk factor
in twos a conspiracy together
in threes a terrorist network already
(at least potentially
if thoughts roam freely)

phrase-coining machines
are minting new slogans
for hard times

if we get angry
they call us grievance-mongers
if we won’t fit the mould
we’re anti-social elements
if we march in protest
they treat us like vandals

the bigger their leadership deficit
the louder they praise democracy
calling in thought police
to monitor our surfing habits
planting spy cameras on lamp posts
to protect order and property
& preaching sermons that mock belief

we the people walk on streets
littered with trampled promises
while they sweep past blindly
rehearsing smiles and hollow speeches
in the comfort of the back seat
on the way to a pressing
historic photo opportunity

we the people
don’t have the time
to hang on for gloomy forecasts
or global pronouncements
we have an appointment
to greet the moment

our natural desire to enjoy
small gestures & simple pleasures
is dangerous
Berlin   July 2009

_______________

low trust

We don’t need the man with the bow tie to tell us it’s a time of
low trust.
He sounded as if it were a quote of the day, a brand new
discovery or the latest twitter message.
I’ve known it since I caught some of my nearest (undearest)
setting up a trust to swindle my inheritance
and salesmen rang the doorbell peddling afterlife insurance.

Meanwhile we’ve settled in to the credit crunch —
inured to globalised fraud & fake predictions
compiling lexicons of synonyms for crisis
we’ve learned to count the change twice at our friendly local
supermarket.

Low trust, secret pacts, hidden agendas, high profits.
Wars exported in camouflaged crates
random killers shooting for instant fame
boots stamping out brains in meaningless rage.
They can’t scalp or scapegoat the gods that failed.

Do we really want the details? Can we trust what they tell us?
How can facts sustain their value
when trust is a safety net with the threads worn through?

Out of the quicksands of perpetual betrayal
the fragile sprouts of a seventh sense
reach towards a way without a compass
urging us to invest in dreams
and trust our instinct for laughter

Berlin   August 2009

__________________

Alone & Afraid

The Great Fear in the Dark Ages
bred riots and mass migrations
freak storms & tidal waves
calves born with two heads
babies with cauls around their necks
plague and pestilence, wars
and inquisitions, visions
of the horsemen of the apocalypse
avenging angels and weeping madonnas

millions downed tools and left their villages
running from they knew not what

our age is still nameless
only a series of changing labels
fashion fads we can’t avoid
affordable fakes for one & all
the Great Fear stalks us in shopping malls
perpetually ringing cellphones
menacing headlines
tales of invading hordes & terrorist threats
screens and cameras
in public and private spaces

the Great Fear fills the hole
where gods or love used to be
it’s fuelled by insecurity

insects devoid of instinct
we scuttle into the web for safety
our virtual universe offers disembodied
signs & wonders to all & sundry
numbs the senses with the drug of choice
and leaves us lonely.

Berlin, August 2009

_________________________

Whatever you do, don’t react

if you answer a question
you might betray feeling

if you raise an eyebrow
they’ll condemn you for doubting

if you venture a comment
it’s stored for future evidence

speak only when spoken to
avoid suspicion of free thinking

if you shout out loud
they’ll charge you for losing control

before going out in public
check your mask in the mirror

if you play it that way, my friend
you’ll soon feel the chill of success

Berlin, August 2009

_____________________

depression fashion

those classic pictures of the 1930s
black-and-white, subtle undertones
depression, like any other era
has its iconic images, its music, its look & feel
(its war photos particularly striking)

those enduring clichés of the ’30s
the bleak images of poverty
pinched faces in soup queues
dossers asleep on heating vents
veteran beggars on crutches
children barefoot on snowy streets

black shirts, high boots & monumental buildings
the harsh aesthetics of tyranny

forget suffering, focus on lifestyle
youth claims copyright on the present
the past tastes of stale biscuits
the future will design its own costume

fashion cuts its cloth to suit the times
look at this season’s salute to the ’30s:
flat caps, drape suits, wasp waists, hard chic
muted colours & padded shoulders
(watch for the movie tie-ins)
made in China marketed by the mafia
elegantly tailored to the new age of sobriety

Berlin   August 2009

__________________________

misery memoirs farewell

misery memoirs are out
— stow away that unfinished tale of your dismal childhood
and study current market trends —
fantasy tops the bestseller lists
wizards, vampires & goblins followed by spies
gangsters, advice manuals and sex confessions
with history retold as psychodrama
(while crime maintains its market share
with ingenious technical updates)

there’s misery enough in life
daily facts in gory detail
feeds for extra hungry consumers

mainstream literature, always a slow mover
is struggling to meet real time demands
transformed on touch screens by the minute
agents condemn writers to wander through
the labyrinth of the entertainment business
looking for hidden corners and escape routes

Berlin   August 2009

________________

dyddiau du*

El farto no cree al fambrento.
The well-fed doesn’t believe the starving
Sephardic proverb

dyddiau du, a refrain for dark days
clouds mob the August sun
(but only now & then)

“Crisis? — I haven’t noticed a crisis”
she says, stirring her happy hour
margarita at the street café
dusky warmth, tourists looking skyward
to the last trails of purple
behind the temple’s golden dome
across the street the newsstand headline:
more banker bonuses

dyddiau du, dark images
tangled with chains of circumstance
bind me to the far side of a precipice
others sidestep with mortgage & salary
am I free or just living precariously?

dark days, light evenings
after supper poker at the kitchen table
winning is child’s play
if you can change the rules at will

dark times, eclipses in cycles
cast shadows on unsuspected planets
tomatoes shrink before ripening
sunflowers waving tall on the terrace
turn from the light to warn me
trivia translates into choked imagination

dyddiau du adieu, dark days are over
I’ve jettisoned the fake Ray Ban shades
and given up trying to play cool.

*dyddiau du is Welsh for “dark days”

Berlin   August 2009

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

CREDIT CRUNCH war & walls

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The blame game

India accuses Pakistan
Pakistan hits the ball back
and while they’re batting
the death toll is rising

(follow the running score
across the bottom of your screens)

Nations of millions
play the blame game
over corpses of victims
who died just being there

And you & I alone
in our opposite survival corners
battle to keep pace
with the rising cost of loving.

how can we stop hitting
our dangling hearts, the punchbags
of mutual recrimination
while watching powerless
the daily slaughter of our future?

Nice   December 2008

_________________

Gaza

effigy of a charred baby
high on a pole
a trophy of suffering
on parades of grief
and hate

Goliath versus David
the legend perverted
masses converted
to revenge
and hate

endless retaliation
devouring new generations
condemned from cradle
to grave
to hate

the parents of war
devour their children live
before the world’s eyes
an orgy of suffering
for hate

truce; mourning; rubble
aid appeals follow the TV show
viewers donate
to compensate
for hate

who needs the carnage?
who gambles on collateral damage?
who profits from death
with the weapons of war
to feed hate?

we the Jews
can only lose
the Red Sea will not part for us again
no god and no book
will stop us drowning
in hate.

Nice   January 2009

____________________

Look after the pennies…

money on everybody’s mind

weapon makers, for instance
praise the cost cutting impact
of their latest invention: the DIME bomb
let me spell it out for you:
Dense-Inert-Metal-Explosion
(seen in action recently in Gaza)

who rewarded the inventor
of the smart acronym?

Berlin, August 2009

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

ghost of the Berlin Wall 1990 / photo: Holger Kulick

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Wall story

Once there was a wall
that stood for world war
mass slaughter, genocide
and the cynical ideological
division of a continent

The wall fell
people rejoiced
the world watched the party
before switching channels

change always looks good
garnished with handouts & promises
but tarnishes quickly
dulled by the business of living

the magnifying glass of history
makes dictators more fearsome
heroes braver
and walls higher

pending anniversaries
the past is packaged
for present consumption
concrete chips in bottles
maps of vanished border zones
memoirs of neighbourhood spies
photos of faded graffiti
obsolete car models
retro matchboxes
recipes for scarcity —
all the stuff that feeds archives
commemorative displays
& museum shops

nostalgia repeats itself
until remembrance
turns to depression
still, there’s no going back

the hole the wall left
has grown to a global chasm
with millions teetering
on the edge of existence
freedom fenced in

threats on all fronts
and devalued promises
sold as rescue packages
with the call to build new walls

Each of us has a wall story
a tale buried in the debris
of a time that keeps returning

Berlin   March 2009

_____________________

remember that summer

the Baltic shores were crawling with ladybirds
red & black carpets on golden sandy beaches
ignoring the omen, the official party newspaper
blamed it on a plague of aphids
from the Soviet Union, possibly
but didn’t mention the masses streaming westwards
socialism haemorrhaging through opened borders

twenty years on, the ladybirds are back in force
swarming over deckchairs of budget holiday families
the Baltic shores are crawling with neo-Nazis
& real estate sharks fat from reconstruction

a vanished nation haunts the whole of Germany

Starbucks and public viewing stand for progress
(what they used to call bread & circuses)
Rotkäppchen Sekt brings a prickle of nostalgia
comic figures on traffic lights signify remembrance
and the ladybirds? — a timely gift of coincidence

Berlin   August 2009

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

CREDIT CRUNCH love bites

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The rising cost of loving

for Richard L.

It comes as a surprise
to realise
that prices don’t obey
the law of gravity

mesmerised we watch
their upward trajectory
like jet trails vanishing
into the skies:
twin tracks
of progress
and destruction

day by day
a mounting curve
of waste and want
graphs and bar charts
illustrate our plight
without filling the gaps
where ends don’t meet

loving, meanwhile
isn’t getting cheaper either
if you add
the wear and tear
of fractured hopes
to the extra cost
of crisis care
patching up families
and hunting new sources
of surplus energy
to warm up hearts
and souls gone cold

the dominant mode
of global discontent
and wars of attrition
drains away

the flow of passion

sad to report:
a bunch of flowers
cheap sexy underwear
foot massages
scented candles
or a night on the town
have lost their power
to banish the prophets
of gloom and doom

everybody’s talking
about silver linings
predicting resurgence
of human values
& the probable return
of love that fled
in the hour of reckoning
when the gas bill came

a new language
of fabricated optimism
tells us there’s a way out
if we don’t mind the wait

but speechless lips
dried up
from fear and desperation
are no fun to kiss

the cost of loving
rises & rises
stimulated
by insatiable demand
& heightened
by mounting desire
to put our mouth
where money is missing

statistics reveal
in times of crisis
the sale of lipsticks
shoots up in the high streets

Nice   February 2009

_______________________

Once

there was intimacy
swathed in deep colour
shimmering between them
a tropical feather

starved of pity
betrayed by envy
the rainbow turned grey
leaving a man enclosed
in his rubber armour
and iceberg pride

outside a woman is straining
to get warm again
recalling an orangerie
where tenderness met frailty
as a peacock spread his tail

Nice   January 2009

___________________________

Or was it Astarte?

for H.

I saw her once
or twice, not more
watched her toss
her fiery curls
shining copper
through stained glass
in the late May sun
and I knew, old friend
she would burn your fingers
and then your heart

minx with a skin
of paprika and cream
freckles in sprinkles
over a pert nose
youth straining the blouse
across her breasts
a drop of lemon already
souring the corners of her mouth

when her eyes
looked past me
— the invisible older woman —
I felt a shudder, her demon
hovering on the borderline
to a wilderness
I’ve never known

So many women
I’ve seen come and go
guests a while
in your nomad’s tent;
each time you rebuilt
the goddess temple
and worshipped
the image of Eve
till the sands shifted

You didn’t need us
to tell you
it wouldn’t work again,
you said it yourself:

postcards from islands
where winters are mild
mails from the city
of hash cookies and old cheese
trying to tell a story
in a long line
of ever shorter stories
the latest ending
almost in its beginning

Young and always love crazed
your seeds sprouted poems
now you smile at yourself
with aching lips
for letting Venus
— or was it Astarte? —
fool you again

doting on a razor edge
comes too close to dotage
you pulled away in time
— but left shreds of being
in her restless claws

Resignation is only
a face you put on
before you go out;
inside you’re nursing
hurts that won’t heal
and melting the wax
for the seal
on your own will
to love and suffer freely

You won’t give up the quest.
Maybe the goddess
will descend to meet you
halfway up the mound
or maybe you’ll rediscover
your second self reincarnated
by the pool of youthfulness
in the painted garden
of an old master

Nice   January 2009

_________________________________

CREDIT CRUNCH Epitaph

El mal viene a quintales, se va a miticales
Trouble comes in gallons & goes in droplets
— Sephardic proverb