I looked into the policeman's eyes,
and cried
I was sad for him
because he had chosen
to lie to himself.
To build,
brick by brick,
a little construction of reasons
inside his own mind,
until the walls were high enough
that he no longer
had to see outside them.
He had swallowed
the story whole,
until the story
began speaking
in its own voice.
That quiet ability
to make a home
inside a contradiction.
To stand before
the gates of a company
that manufactures weapons,
to be sent from the imperial core,
to be used in genocide.
To guard the machinery
that turns metal into mourning,
and still tell yourself
I am only doing my job.
Worse, I am protecting.
Some deaths become
disasters,
other become
data.
I wanted to hate him.
Instead,
I saw his eyes
glancing toward his colleagues,
searching their faces
for approval.
And there,
beneath that practiced posture,
was a smallness
trying desperately
to look like strength.
As though closing
your eyes to a fire
means you are not
standing in the smoke.
I saw parts of many people,
and myself,
in the shimmer of his eyes.
We have all lied to ourselves before.
But these were
the sprouts of
a whole life
built around
a meticulously planned construction
and the weight of it hit me like a truck.
Ways of Losing
There are many ways of losing.
Some slither slowly
out of paths diverging.
Syllables slipping,
familiar phrases softly fading.
A name becomes
that particular taste of a memory,
slowly savouring on my tongue,
or the pause before
the answer to a question.
Some linger in the light of afternoons,
in half-heard hymns, humming,
circling repeatedly through hallways
of that strange construction
which makes up the mind.
The forgotten laughter
of a secret language,
turns, with time,
into a faint smile
at the corners of the lips.
Some settle softly
into the spaces between sentences,
where silence speaks
what neither of us
had yet found the right words for.
Some disappear suddenly,
like a door closing
in a house we once thought
we would always return to.
Some small sounds,
a soulful song,
then stillness.
Others leave by degrees:
the colour thinning from a photograph,
a face becoming harder to hold in memory,
a voice losing its tones and textures,
until it’s only warmth and a name.
And so, the mind becomes
a palace of alternate rooms.
In one,
I took my time and listened.
In another, I trusted
the tremor of my own feelings.
In another one, I noticed
what was disappearing
and found the words to name it.
And in yet another,
I understood
that silence is not always safety,
and there are timelines
to some doors.
I walk those rooms sometimes.
There are many ways of losing.
Some things are taken,
some simply fade.
And some we loosen
from our own hands,
finger by finger,
so slowly
we might not even notice
the letting go
until what's left is
but the lingering warmth
of what we held.
Carrying the shape of loss,
the soft outline of absence
without knowing
where to put it.
So I leave it
in one of those rooms,
where the afternoon light
falls softly
across the floor,
where dust drifts
through the quiet air
and the silence
has grown gentle.
And sometimes,
when the house is hushed
and the evening eases in,
I can almost hear
the old laughter
before it fades
into the walls,
and the house
falls quiet again.
Inspired by the song
"Ways of Losing" by Ora Cogan & Y La Bamba
The space between us,
as a place the light can enter
I am full of
dueling dualisms
fighting
over my control.
Ant or human,
there is no easy answer
besides going with
what flows.
But with my whole confused and tender heart,
I know just what I want to be.
And I would like to spend my days
returning, making sure you see:
I want to be good to you.
Warm,
something you don’t have to hold to feel.
I want to be good to you.
Close,
the scent of mandarin and basil
seeping through its peel.
I want to study
the quiet architecture
of the poetics of space
inside your chest.
Where all you’ve swallowed
gathers
and every silence finds a place to rest.
I want to build
a nest
from joke insides
of you and me.
And bake a bread
of giggles,
then let it rise,
then let it be.
Let the kitchen fill
with proof
that we were here.
And leave the windows open
so what comes next can enter,
I will be someplace near.
Inspired by the song
"good" by Winter & SASAMI
The suspect is in her early twenties,
trained to be a good citizen.
I am no clear-thinking woman.
My youth is for me
and against me.
A solid rock
shedding tears
at the end
of heavy breathing.
I engage in familia(l)r arguments.
I am no longer content
with nationalist propaganda.
I lay trust in my defeat,
patterns in repeat,
but I have a cat
and a thousand poems.
I am no endangered species.
Just don’t
give me senseless pills to swallow
or assign my organs,
to people I don't fuck with.
It has been easier
to sleep alone
and live my days
accountable
for my decisions.
Yet every time we kiss,
the madness slows down
and we confirm
the new world
coming.
With words by
Essex Hemphill
When I'm onto something
I sweat excessively
and start to tremble.
I shower,
(with extra soap)
but there it is again.
That leaking, drooling, stinking evidence
that my body has trouble accepting
the parts of this world
which are not to be trusted.
The certainty
I still held onto believing,
vanished.
It’s like a realisation
of the parts of me
that know the consequences
of that truth.
An exorcism of all
that’s
standing
in my own way
(is what I would like it to be)
But how do I know?
(there are no witch doctors
in my neighborhood)
To some Degree
Sometimes
I want to close my body.
Not forever, just enough,
to hear myself thinking
without the world entering.
I would build the walls from bone,
from every thing I have swallowed,
every wound I have peeled open
just to know that it is mine.
The body fortress.
Come closer.
No,
stay there.
I want you from head to toe.
I do not walk alone.
I do not walk alone.
I do not walk alone.
Repetition makes a spell.
My mouth would become
a locked gate.
Enemies, having feet,
would be kept outside.
Having hands,
could not touch me.
Having eyes,
could not find me.
A bullet, a knife,
a lover, a joke.
To read in a time of war,
To read it again,
To think about it,
To read it aloud,
To record it, to try again,
To listen back, to send and unsend,
To draw the outline of your figure in my mind,
To want to lift you,
To enjoy the occasional poison,
To blow out the smoke,
To glance up,
To have a bad view,
and try and show you,
To be told it isn't clear,
To feel like a failure,
To stop trying,
and start again.
This is what the body does.
It fails at being closed.
It grows, hardens, softens,
lets in, and knows better.
That's why it's always opening.
The occasional proof
that something entered me
and I survived it.
I eat my body.
I sleep inside it.
I carry it through the street.
I give it away
in pieces.
And every morning
it returns to me.
Some new friends,
an old question that's been bothering me.
Do you believe one can love unconditionally?
To some degree,
Sometimes,
I want to close my body
(But it’s not really up to me)
With quotes from a Bahian Candomblé Ceremony
and the song „Lift you“ by Moin & Sophia Al-Maria
Knots and Wholes
Today I tried to
untangle
the threads of my red yearn.
The yearn that pierced through me
all these years.
The yearn that kept me together,
the yearn that put me in geometric alliances,
the yearn that gave me shape,
the yearn that formed into a knot.
It had formed into many ovals.
Once I pulled at one, another opened.
A small one turned into a big one,
and vice versa.
The round ones looked so beautiful.
They were shining.
But some of them were already thinner
than the others.
At one point I traced
the individual threads
of its end.
They had separated.
I tried to force them back together.
They were being difficult,
and I sang
“I’m a believer”.
It’s difficult to see where to go
when all the threads are apart.
Only in dreams,
in beautiful dreams
can I gather my strength.
Suddenly, I found the end !!!!!
It was staring at me
the whole time:
I only had to use my spit.
But still, sticking together
is hard.
It was not just the end that
had separated.
Also some of the ovals
along the way.
Some of them twirl very tightly,
it’s hard to see.
But we have to start at the end
to realise where the loops are,
spit all along the way.
Some knots and holes are okay,
and hair and lint and dust.
The only thing I'll keep
are the letters and the photographs.
Inspired by Mattijs van de Port
with a quote by Adrienne Lenker.
Bearing Witness
There is a thing passing
in the sky,
some thick clouds surround it.
The uninitiated see nothing.
Everything is out in the open,
only some things are purposefully hidden.
I know
how easily a person becomes
a thing
in another person's looking.
Initiates have their eyes open.
There is a life inside
that exceeds what can be witnessed.
The parts of you
that do not belong
to history at all.
I used to think the clouds
were hiding something from me.
Now I wonder
if I am of the cloud.
Mistaking my sight
for the limits
of what can be seen.
And this is my initiation.
Because I am understanding
how little looking has to do
with seeing.
Because I am understanding
how much seeing has to do
with listening.
And if there is anything
I can carry from here,
let me be water.
Moving forward.
Its refusal to become
only the shape of what touches it.
Because our bodies still
have organs
and I am learning
to bear witness to mine.
Including a Mende proverb:
“Hani gbė lewe ma ngele ya nja
gbili kaangȯ kpowa ėė tȯ”
Manchmal
schmeckt mein Mund nach Metall.
(Ich kann das Zittern meiner linken Hand
nicht kontrollieren)
Wir werden flüchtig sein.
Nicht, weil wir verschwinden.
Sondern,
weil nichts was uns berührt,
uns unberührt lässt.
Erinnerung ist ein Körper
der sich weigert etwas loszulassen.
Weil der Körper nur langsam weiß
was Vergangenheit ist.
The museum of human suffering
hat keine Öffnungszeiten.
Alles wartet darauf,
noch einmal berührt zu werden.
Inspired by Senthuran Varatharajah
The limits of my language are the
gatekeepers
of the borders of my world.
And yet, we keep running, pressing
(You and I).
Some days I feel them, and lean in.
Some days the words just pour and bubble out of me like a never ending spring.
Some days I feel them,
and lean against.
Tomorrow
will be one of those days.
Inspired by Ludwig Wittgenstein
How can
How can I
How can I talk about tomorrow
Ich bin die, die mich selbst widerlegt. Ich
bin die, die sich selbst erlegt. Ich
bin meine eigene Verneinung. Weil
jede Wahrheit, die ich ausspreche, eine
andere
am Rand meines Mundes
zurücklässt.
Morgen werde ich mich wieder
in meinem Kopf verirren,
an meiner eigenen Zunge stolpern.
Wieder gegen meine Existenz schreiben, als
ließe sich mit jedem Satz
eine Realität verhindern.
(adaptation of a poem by Senthuran Varatharajah)
Die Antwort auf deinen Hunger, ist Hunger
(The answer to your hunger, is hunger)
Why waste a day explaining.
Better to say,
garden.
Better to say,
moss,
the bed I tend in.
The opening of quiet
happened
in my time.
In my time,
I was a bewildered keeper,
learning
the names of seeds.
I am walking
and watering.
The older me
hidden
like bulbs
through winter.
I keep my hope underground.
These small, green promises,
inside.
Growing is one thing.
Living is the same thing.
I am less a stranger here.
I use the words
garden
and morning
because you can walk among them.
But it's more like
sunlight
moving slowly
across wet earth.
A generous light.
It begins
with tending.
There is a sparrow
outside,
and one within.
There is
a tree branch,
daffodils,
and a bird
that shits on my head.
There is a hill
and a garden,
reaching
toward another.
The paths curve gently.
What wind brings me is enough:
the scent of lavender,
the hush of bees.
Sunday was like this.
An unhurried,
living,
blooming,
morning.
Title by Senthuran Varatharajah
Inspired by Peter Gizzi
How could I know that you love me,
if your eyes didn't speak?
How could I know that
warmth can travel,
if I had never felt your fingers?
If I didn't hear your heart beating,
could I love you so much?
My whole body like a flame.
Where have the past years gone?
I began to live,
yesterday.
I am only just learning,
who I am.
It's beautiful that
your mouth said my name.
It's beautiful that
your laughter feels like sunlight on my skin,
that the twinkle in your eye
gives me life.
It's beautiful that I met you again
and loved you.
(adaptation of a poem by Semra Ertan)
I am a monster
on an
acid afternoon,
scrouching
in catharsis
along my
riverside meadow.