(Not quite) Yesterday’s Poem [9]

I wrote this a couple weeks ago, actually, and wasn’t sure about posting it. Insecurities and all that. But why not? It doesn’t make any sense, it won’t hurt anyone. Here’s a poem.




If I said ‘yellow’

would you address my claim –

would you turn into a blue-sayer –

would you ever take me seriously again?


It is not ‘yellow’ of course –

nothing is ever yellow

and yellow is indeed nothing –

but could it be a color at all?


Could it be an absence of color

before it becomes an absence of words,

of feelings, of yellows?


Think about yellows, talk about yellows.

And lose sight

of meaning

as I repeat yellow unto you.

For it is not ‘yellow’

– it is LOVE.





Yesterday’s Poem [8]

I got bored yesterday. I get bored a lot these days. But it’s not just that, it’s never just that. This is the more, I’m thinking about:

Snow White

It’s snowing.
Like memories snow flakes swirl
through the air.
Hitting the pavement.
Building new ground
to stand on.
Or slip on.

Troubling thoughts
of troubling memories
I slip on.
And the ever-present
of misunderstood convictions.

Why? does difference mean alienation.
Why? is there a better in an equal state.
Why? is nature being blamed,
framed, defamed, beaten and resisted.
Why? do I even still care.

And nothing does feel right.
And everything is a messy state of mind.
The slush of once pure snow
is causing accidents,
is causing my mind to slip further
into the dark.

There’s the ongoing nagging,
the insistance that life’s not right.
Or maybe it’s just snow and cold and ice,
the weather of a troubled mind,
the winter of a broken society.

Yesterday’s Poem [7]

Almost Feels Like Love

You shine
through the normal
of my world.

the walls
it took years to build.

What you do,
who you are,
the way my thoughts
get caught in my throat,
I know___

Know the curve
of your jaw
fits the palm
of my hand;
know the sound
of your voice
will haunt my dreams
forget what it’s like
to be alone and
become lonely instead.

I cannot have
or be given
the priviledge
of your lips
pressing the life out of mine.

I can only steal
a moment in time,
not wasted for once,
but filled with your smile.

Yesterday’s Poem [6]

It is strange how certain stories inspire us, make us feel. I watched This Is Where I Leave You yesterday, so this is where this came from:

All the Ways

All the ways
we fought –
back and forth.
How I never forgave you,
how you blamed me,
how she yelled at both of us.

Just the three of us,
against each other.
Against the world
if need be.
You never made it easy for me,
because you thought
I had it too easy.

You still think that.
We still fight.
We don’t forgive,
we blame,
but never yell.

All the ways
we loved –
for different reasons, in different ways.
How she protected us,
how you taught me,
how I looked up to both of you.

We had that, we have that
and each others’ backs.

Yesterday’s Poem [5]

So, maybe I wasn’t in the best place yesterday. I watched Kill Your Darlings and got a little swept away by the world sorrow.

I see a dream

written on the wall.

It has no end,

no beginning,

is all middle.

The sour sting of drink,

I tumble over forgotten chains

tied to my wrists.

The charm of the ever-believer.

The curse of my paralysis.

Have you been to war

like I have?

Have you fucked

your closest foe?

There's no string in the shoe box

to tie me down

beside you.

We have been high and drunk.

We tried on life.

I pause the movie, the illusion of my genius.

There's no written consent,

no formal request

to overcome my demons.

It's all in a dream

and the sneakers under your bed.


Congratulations, it’s a short story


People have preconceptions, fast beliefs that may not be of much importance, but are all the more difficult to change. I know because I have many, had more, am always curiously surprised when one of them falls. I like to think of myself as open-minded, but then I’m a stubborn s-o-b who clings desperately to things I feel rather than know.

Literature is a special place within this paradox, both in reading and writing. As a German, I’m predestined to be a snob about it. We have, after all, the history to prove that we’re literary geniuses. And thus, we read with distinction. Or so, our teachers taught us from first grade on. Or maybe not taught us, but strongly implied it, and forced LITERATURE down our throats.

If I write LITERATURE, it’s implied that it’s high brow. You know, Goethe, Schiller, a little bit of all the Manns, and possibly Büchner. Know your Faust, everything else is Trivialliteratur (trivial literature, low brow). And it’s so very hard to get over these beliefs, these implied distinctions.

But some of them were never even implied to me, some I simply made up. One, that poetry is easy as pie and therefore nothing worth. Two, that the novel is the highest form of writing, but only because plays are for enacting not reading. Three, that short stories are not worth the effort it takes to open a book for them. As I said, I’m a snob.

The Matter of a Secret KissI’m also a writer, or like to think of myself as one. Or maybe I’m simply a scribbler. Be that as it may, I always aimed for the most rewarding medium, the novel. To me, most rewarding. Yes, I wrote poetry, but only to fill time, only if I couldn’t write anything else at the time. I did it in class, I did it on the bus, I did it sometimes while walking through my hometown in the evening (and that’s a beautiful thing to do), making it up in my mind, not even writing it down. Poetry to go.

Short stories, tho… no. Didn’t have time for that. And what for? Can’t publish just one short story (and, no, I hadn’t even heard of anthologies). Short stories were things they might make us write as homework, a punishment in itself. Write about your holidays, if you didn’t go on holiday, make something up. Punishment, indeed. And how do you learn to change such a belief if your education system fails you so thoroughly?

I don’t know. There was this one short story I read and I just loved. The Waltz by Dorothy Parker. I guess I went from there. But I still wouldn’t write short stories, still thought they were a waste of my time.

Well, somehow I did change. Maybe seeing that you can publish one short story in an anthology with other stories by other authors (this concept remains strange in my family, I don’t think even my mother who’s an avid reader understands why such books exist), better authors, better stories than yours. I find the concept compelling, thrilling even. And so, I wrote another short story and maybe it will appear in an anthology, maybe not. The important thing is that I change my view of things, whether these views are German (due to an unimaginitive and old-fashioned education system), or simply working class (because I haven’t been brought up in an academic household), or maybe just stubborn ideas of someone who so wanted to appear educated.

I don’t know. This post is not quite what I imagined it to be. I merely wanted to tell you how great it is to write a short story, to disappear in a small slice of imagination, to know more than the story could contain, to be god to that little piece of the world you just put on paper. Instead I wax (almost) poetic. I guess I’m just astounded by the ways my views change. But really, short stories are awesome!

Yesterday’s Poem [4]

I watch a lot of Criminal Minds lately, but it does not hold all of my attention. So here goes the poetry – the serial love poetry.

The Love

u take for granted.

The Moment

of your surrender

to desire,

to the other soul.

The Love-ly


’cause we’re alone

in our humanness.

Lonely, Lovely Human,

go to love,

gotta love,

got a love.

And a soul-ution.


Yesterday’s Poem [3]

Valentine’s Day special – I was drunk and watching Transparent‘s 2nd season (so, don’t blame me!)

To be in love
the feeling
the person
the indescribable

The fucked up
of feeling,
no, having feelings
for another

I didn’t call.
Because I didn’t want to/
couldn’t get involved.
had my heart broken.
felt — That.

I’m so not ready.

Yesterday’s Poem

Love, Untested

Looking into you,
knowing you.
Barely knowing you,
but owning you.
My love, be fair
and fairer even still,
robbing me of breath,
of precious air.

And there is nothing
you can do or say.
Nothing sweet and nothing cruel
to stop me in my
true pursuit of you.
My happiness, my shameless sacrifice,

Though worlds apart, though raging rivers
in between,
our souls still yearn for that one thing.
A thing both holy, but unholy made.
Your love, my love, I hold to me.
Until our bodies crumble, our sins reviewed,
I love you always – reality untold.

(Let’s try something different today, I thought. I wrote this yesterday after reading some of Shakespeare’s. Suffice it to say, my crude poetry is not worthy the comparison, but I guess, he inspired me a little.

Poetry is such a secret pasttime. Most of the time, I’m not even sure myself, what it is about. Yesterday, words seemed far more important than meaning. I apologize for the use of ‘thing,’ it’s unrefined and yet sometimes the only word for what one seeks. A thing. I seek.

Well, I hope you’re all inspired these days, maybe to more than poetry [unless poetry is the thing you seek]. Have a good week, lovelies.)