Poem | |
Aus dem Nest im Baum
Hungriger Ruf der Jungvögel
Versteckt im Geäst
Ruf aus der Einsamkeit vom Wald
Der alte Hirsch auf der Lichtung
From the nest in the tree
Hungry cries of young birds
Hidden in the branches
A call from a solitude forest
The old deer in the clearing
De un nido en el árbol
Llorar de hambre de aves jóvenes
Escondido en el ramaje
Un grito de la soledad del bosque
El vejo ciervo en el claro
Poem | |
Schtim vun di erd,
schpigl vun di welt,
glajch klang vun der wint,
D'erew a fargliwerte asch
ligt in majne machschowes,
De grine welt hot a frajndlich gezang.
de zilbernen schtern.
Lidlech vun fejgl,
schpil vun de wintn,
der zirkon a schejner zumertog,
penermer wi a nepl,
Stimmen der Erde
Stimmen der Erde,
Spiegel der Welt,
Der Abend, eine verglühende Asche,
eingebettet in meinen Gedanken,
Die grüne Welt hat einen fröhlichen Klang.
die silbernen Sterne.
Lieder von Vögeln,
Spiel des Windes.
Die Erinnerung, ein schöner Sommertag,
Gesichter im Nebel,
Voices of the earth,
mirror of the world,
like songs in the wind,
Evening, glowing ashes,
embedded in my thoughts,
A green world has a joyful sound.
the silver stars.
Songs of the birds,
game of the wind,
Remembrance, a beautiful summer day,
faces in the fog,
Poem | |
Zwischen den Seerosen
Herüber tönend vom nahen Teich
Der laute Ruf der Frösche
Resounding from a near pond
Sononorous calls of frogs
Entre los nenúfares
Suenan del estanque cercano
Fuertes gritos de ranas
Poem | |
in den Bergen getrotzt,
versteckt in den Wolken
getragen vom Geist des Inka,
wie von Geisterhand
überragst du das
zerklüftete Tal des Urubamba.
Stein auf Stein,
gebaut mit großem Geschick,
geboren durch die Kraft
der letzten Überlebenden,
verborgen vor den Augen
aus dem so entfernten Spanien,
die Feuer und Tod brachten,
dich aber nie sahen.
Umhüllst dich noch heute
mit nebelgesponnenen Rätseln
aus tristem Gestein.
und über deinen Mauern,
jetzt nur noch Heimstatt
zieht wie einst
seine vibrierenden Kreise.
hidden in clouds,
carried by the spirit of Incas,
as from ghostly hands
are you extending beyond
the rugged valley of the Urubamba.
Stone by stone,
built with spectacular craftmansship,
born by the power
of the last survivors,
hidden from the eyes
of the intruders
from far away Spain,
who carried fire and death,
but never saw you.
You cover even today
in foggy-spun mystery
like newly born
from solitude stone.
and above your murals
now only home of the Gods,
a condor is drawing as once
his vibrating circles.
resistiendo en las montañas
escondido en las nubes
protegido por el espíritu del Inca,
como de una mano de fantasma
tu te levantas
sobre el valle hendido del Urubamba.
Piedra por piedra,
construido con gran destreza,
nacido por la fuerza
de los Incas.
de últimos sobrevivientes,
escondido antes de los ojos
del tan distante España,
que traeron fuego y muerte,
pero nunca te veían.
Te envuelves todavía
con enigmas hiladas por nieblas
como recién nacido
de rocas tristes.
Tu alma viva
y sobre tus murallas,
gira como antiguamente
sus circulos vibrantes.
Poem | |
There stood the Good German. He is proud. There was also a man,
Behind the drab uniforms. The one who was plain, but whose,
Heart beat fervently and yearned for glory. When proud marches,
Passed his way, their colours blazing and beckoning, he turned,
Red, black, green; a rainbow it seems. But he never turned yellow.
He gaped at the insignias and symbols, imbued with power by,
Oratories and make believe fallacies. Caught in the maelstrom,
Of emotions and fervour, he heeded their calls. Puppet strings,
Appearing as ethereal wings to his fooled perceptions rose as high ,
As his eye can see. When he wore the uniform, it was his hands,
That wove it to the sinews of his shoulders; the oaths bound him.
He is an archangel, a protector of ideals, principles or men’s,
Religions. He can do no wrong, or so he thought, when orders,
Went his way and he “executes” them. His wings he believes are,
His, but the height of his soaring is determined by the whims of,
Vile giants, who steers upon crashing rocks, lost ships of history.
He is Alpha-one up to Zulu-Infinity, reliant on his weapons,
And battlefield ferocity. Always, he hoped, a worthy protector,
Of those he values the most. He is everywhere, a waiting sentinel,
On wherever scorched or inhospitable parcel of earth maybe. Peace,
They tell him, is to be forced on everybody. Or cleansed if need be.
He is in the army, the spy networks, the police force, the special
And killing machine units. He yearns to prove his value and worth,
Blinded by the brass his masters wore, and the warrior’s ethos that
Stirs his soul. He is everywhere. From the trenches of Africa to the
Cockpits of Western aerial wings, there he lies and patiently waits.
He hears the orders, loud and clear. The radio is lustful and deafening,
The signals and codes turn firm and clinical, no longer imbued with the,
Warmth of brotherly feelings. He wades then, into blood. He sees then,
The sparkle dim from the innocent’s eyes. He smells the stench of burnt
Flesh consigned to fiery dustbins; an oven he plays a part in the making.
He waded in and did not retreat. He is in service of humanity, immersed
On trainings and indoctrinations. The confusion that assails, they tell him,
Is only the enemies’ psychological offensives. ‘You are armed’, his masters
Shout from raised pulpits and dais, ‘with righteousness and truth’. But
the evil unfolding before his ‘good’ eyes, sends him to falseness’ reeling.
Poem | |
THE OLD GERMAN PROBLEM
The burghers of Hamburg are themselves usually Hamburgers, so there!
The burghers of Frankfurt are themselves usually Frankfurters, it‘s only fair!
But it’s possible to meet Frankfurter Hamburger burghers
And you can also find Hamburger Frankfurter burghers
Hamburger burghers can eat hamburgers, a delicious dish
And Frankfurter burghers can eat frankfurters, if they wish
But hamburgers can be made in Frankfurt: they are not horrible
And frankfurters can be made in Hamburg : it is easily possible
So Frankfurter burghers can eat Hamburger frankfurters, with salt
And Hamburger burghers can eat Frankfurter hamburgers, without halt
No doubt Frankfurter burghers can also eat Frankfurter frankfurters, ‘sright
And Hamburger burghers can also eat Hamburger hamburgers all night
But what puzzles me, and maybe you too, God knows,
Is what to make of these German guys who like to eat as follows:
Frankfurter Hamburger burghers eating Hamburger frankfurters
Or Hamburger Frankfurter burghers eating Frankfurter hamburgers
Too complicated? Ok, try a piece o’ Pisa Pizza.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Hamburger : adjective derived from Hamburg, or a meat dish named after the city
Frankfurter : adjective derived from Frankfurt, or a meat dish named after the city
Burgher : old-fashioned name for a city citizen
*Entered in no contest, because no one has organized
a silly GERMAN FOOD contest yet.
** I am aware that some geographical zealots object to my poems on gastronomical grounds, and some gastronomical zealots object to them on geographical grounds. My apologies to all.
Poem | |
For amid the calls, the paeans to bloody coup-de-tats and revolutions and the,
Orders on the radio, is a broken static. It follows as three short cries, a pause,
Then three long wails, a pause, then ends with the three short cries rising again.
S.O.S. Save Our Souls. The sounds are the raspiest and keenest he has ever,
Heard. Alas, it comes broken. Nevertheless, it surfaces, over and over again.
Is he now a golem? An unfeeling marionette of doom to those whose only fault,
Is a different race, creed, belief or faith in the “wrong” deity/deities? Will he
Bloody his hands free volition to follow the path of his puppeteer’s virtues?
Will he cover his eyes (not only against the buffeting dusts of charred remains)?
Will he in act and omission, in false devotion, shatter his inviolable soul?
He has a choice. He can turn his back or allow that S.O.S call to continue on,
Tearing the very fabric of his being, to follow and pursue the daunting,
Quest for redemption or be the husk of a former self- and when broken,
Cast away as a shell-shocked burden. Yes indeed, the Good German will
Have to make one. That choice will define, if he indeed, is a “Good” one.
Poem | |
A German Spitz
Little ted is a German spitz
Into our little family he really fits
Gets on well with our poppy girl
But at first had her in a proper whirl
They love to walk together side by side
In the car he don’t really like to ride
Sits really still and would be sick
If not for the tablets that do the trick
He needs to be groomed at least every six weeks
Then he looks really smart and of perfume he wreaks
Would not hurt a fly not even the bees
Except for the barking at all that moves even trees
He is really smart can dance and do tricks
He has a foot fetish feet he just licks and licks
A lovelier nature you would not come across
Without him in our family it would be a loss
Poem | |
My German girl leaves me yesterday.
My heart cries more and more with rhetorical promises.
It makes me a tiger with sparrow’s bound; I knee in front of her;
My tears split with poetical senses
Such as the last drops hammering over the floor
And all underneath me disappears under my weight.
Poem | |
Alpha Ursa Major, Alert (Ali),
Bardonino (Bart), Barbera,
Cory, Cody, Cowboy
Deschka, Dodger, Drummer Boy,
Firebird (Sandy’s daughter), Firecracker,
Gangster, Gandy Dancer, Gimmick,
Happy Feet, Hellsapoppin, Hurricane Hattie,
Just Morgan, Jolly Roger, Jalapena (Pepper),
Lucifer, Lucas (Sardy’s sons),
Night Ranger, Nacho,
Odyssey (Roxy), Omar, Omega,
Prissy, Pattycake, Peter Piper Pepper (Taco’s daughter),
Quincy, Questa, Quixote, Quigley, Q-Tip,
Ragtime Cowboy Joe (Boogie) –
must he be the end of our alphabet?