Best Hamburg Poems
Water / Water
New Hamburg, Ontario Rubkuai village, South Sudan
locals rise locals starve
with the river, heed warnings where once there was a river,
to keep from its banks travel along arid banks
thirty thousand gallons a tanker arrives with a few gallons
of unwanted rain rain is worth all limbs
burdens how burdened the village —
storm drains the drought drains life from fields
this summer, filled sport bottles this summer
will be abandoned near will crust tongues
splash pads, as the dying
where saturated children riot tend to the dead
in mist & spray, soak in inconsolable mothers silently
the never-ending fount riot [eyes too dry to mist
until fingers prune, can still spray bullets
until thirst or thirst for just one more look
sends them skipping as irises prune in the sun]
cars gleam and grass grass is a memory
springs underfoot; & graves spring up underfoot
the bridge is power- like emaciated bridges
washed, as though the downpour nothing stops the downpour
hadn’t flooded of diarrhea — the filth binds
spider’s webs cholera’s web
people shower, run half-filled people kneel for droplets
dishwashers & laundry machines, the desert launders
a kettle screams the jawbone
for someone, of the newest ghost who still
anyone to listen listens, waits, for anyone
Hey, sir!
Why did you stop and look awhile?
Amazed by flurry fleeting fog,
or seeking sacrosanct solace
behind the calming chiaroscuro
of boundless beguiling beauty
in front of you?
Hey, sir!
Will you look back at me awhile,
and gaze upon my eyes?
I wonder if ...
a mysterious monarchial mind
I see from your back
is depicted in the way you look at me;
I want to know.
Hey, sir!
It seems you got miles to go;
Will you stop and hang awhile
to have a drink for two?
Hurry not...
And we both will ponder
on the misty haven
before the night is through.
Notes:Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, or Der Wanderer über dem Nebelmeer, to give it it's original German title, is the most famous painting from the career of German Romanticist painter, Caspar David Friedrich. It was finished in 1818 and now resides at the Kunsthalle Hamburg in Hamburg, Germany.
Photo and info credits to: thehistoryofart.org
10 August 2022
'A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE' Poetry Contest
1st place
At the Gates of Auschwitz
Today, I stand
At the gates of hell;
“Arbeit macht frei”
("Work sets you free!")—
That is Auschwitz.
Where they burned God’s children
And the world stood by,
Oblivious
To what was happening inside.
The League of Nations
(Whose mandate was world peace)
Failed!
And in 1942,
The trains rolled into Auschwitz
Carrying God’s children,
Who were packed like cattle into boxcars
(Cold, diseased, inhumanely treated),
Ready for slaughter.
Insane hatred condemned them,
As in the past,
For events through no fault of theirs
Because they were Jewish.
Take, for example,
That ocean liner in 1939,
The MS St. Louis,
Carrying Jews to Cuba.
A scheme of the Nazis
To prove Jews were pariahs,
Whom nobody would welcome,
Nor would anyone want.
Cuba denied the ship safe harbour;
The U.S.A. turned it away,
And likewise, so did Canada,
And the three systemically decreed,
“It’s not our problem!”
Germany did have a solution:
Ethnic cleansing
In the ovens of Auschwitz.
And the world looked the other way.
The world did not care!
Later, when the horror was exposed,
The free world would apologize, officially.
“If we do not remember the past,
We are doomed to repeat it.”
At the Dachau concentration camp,
On the memorial to the Holocaust,
It is written,
“Never Again!”
***
Note:
On May 13, 1939, the M.S. St. Louis departed Hamburg, Germany, bound for Havana, Cuba, with approximately nine hundred and one Jewish refugees aboard, to escape from Nazi persecution. Only twenty-eight passengers were allowed to disembark.
The ship then sailed to the United States of America, where it was refused safe entry, and then to Canada, and was also refused safe entry. The ship returned to Antwerp, Belgium, and the passengers were granted refugee status in a number of European countries.
Rules: Use at least 10 candy names from those listed below.
(30 candy names used)
Tomorrow we'll explore our Galaxy,
not just by space ship, but with 'space nerds' too!
We smarties, gifted Mike and Ike, with me,
will start our marathon and journey through
the Milky Way, where now and later we'll
be called 'Three Musketeers', the best, bar none,
to capture live a star burst with great zeal,
or see sno-caps on spheres far from the sun.
We bet each other a full 100 grand,
that we'll make history on this space spree;
discover whoppers, things we beforehand
knew zero 'bout those sites we couldn't see.
We're on a rocky road, since asteroids
can put an end to pay day...must take 5,
and watch our every move like paranoids,
not air heads, if we want to stay alive.
We'll take along some good Boston Baked Beans
with hot tamales and Ike's Charleston Chew,
a snack his mom bakes filled with good proteins;
and frozen Swedish fish will please us too.
Okay, we're off to Club 5th Avenue
for a good meal before we board for flight.
The Jolly Rancher hamburg, or Dots stew,
are lifesavers to please our appetite
before we're stuck with whatchamacallit
food, Mr. Goodbar, cook, packed up to go.
Goodbye for now...from sunlit to starlit,
please wish us mounds of luck from down below.
Sandra M. Haight
~5th Place~
Contest: 'Screwed XIX
Sponsor: Rob Carmack
Judged: 01/02/2019
Candy Bar Words To Use (choose 10)
Dove, Chunky,100 Grand, Bar None, Galaxy, Marathon, Milky Way, Mounds, Mr. Good Bar, Pay Day, Rocky Road, Skor, Snickers, Take 5, Whatchamacallit, Zero, Skittles, Jolly Rancher, Starburst, Smarties, Three Musketeers, Tootsie Roll, Kit Kat, Air Heads, Boston Baked Beans, Charleston Chew, Dots, Hot Tamales, Lemonheads, Nerds, Slo Poke, Sno-Caps, Spree, O Henry, Whoppers, Swedish Fish, Butterfinger, Lifesavers, 5th Avenue, Mike and Ike, Heath, Goobers, Now and Later
The Day after grad.
The day after you grad. You get home not knowing what to do.
Looking through the newspaper.
A butcher, a baker, a Hamburg maker.
No plans at all but just had to call. Mickey Ds or the cow king. They say jobs are
good.
I walk the floor I just can't do it no more.
Dam I want to go back to school
I am who I am
Were you to ask where I’m from my past my tale my next of kin
the answer lies in who tells my narrative my twist what kind of spin
My autobiography is quickly shown in who I am will be in time
past present future blend in context and contingency overt and sublime
No doubt the product of genes and socialisation is rather pertinent
thus mixing and mingling draws frameworks but is also quite reticent
German ancestry Lower Saxon and East Prussian born after the War
struggling with Genocide Holocaust trans-generational down to my core
Grew up in Hamburg somewhat lonely understood by not many but few
too young in my school year a class clown a rebel a critic because I knew
Teachers could not reject or downgrade me since I got full marks in exams
so I carved out my niche opposed authority of Messieurs and Mesdames
A late child of the Student Revolution an exchange to California ensued
where hot love struck me like balm on my wounds with Gigi from Peru
After graduation I rejected being supported by my father and joined the Army
to gain independence yet the method to gain freedom now seems very barmy
Could not leave the Forces despite pretty vigorous conscientious objection
did my best to help others as a medical doctor in humanistic inception
My duties brought me to Wales by the Irish Sea with five children and marriage
country medic and farm house guiding my kids and then nuptial miscarriage
Depression struck no light at the end of the tunnel just darkness and void
too much drink downcast in my mental wheel chair and almost destroyed
Went to rehab in South Africa for treatment where God-incidence came
where I met my wife best friend lover soulmate who had suffered the same
Now I sit in the sun in South Africa stopped medicine write story and poem
reinvent my life some inner child stuff self-actualisation and certainly growing
New awareness novel perspectives pacifism philosophy and many questions
but the knowledge that kindness love and compassion are more than suggestions
My most intimate companion apart from my gorgeous wife is depression
both showed me my path journey and meaning my own life’s repossession
So few words about where I come from who I am will become and will be
so if you wish to explore more of my roots and my future please read my poetry
No Tigers At Home In Africa
Walking my tiger home alone I’m sure walking at last
home from home and beyond when I travel too fast
In Istanbul Hamburg St. Davids I gather my themes
full of life love creatures and poetry that redeems
Wild cats pussyfooting around mosques rivers’ cave
roaring of passion lightening loads that others enslave
Museums parks costal paths wild sun-blessed beaches
lagoons mountains orchards and metaphorical peaches
I make up the tiger in my mind as I go along persevere
sabre teeth drooling whiskers to magical eyes I adhere
With no leash and no collar no prescriptions restraints
I enter a world that matters swishes swirls and paints
Imagination mystical fantasy dreams aspirations and hope
all live in my tiger prism escape and have unlimited scope
I condense and reflect diverge ramble think and I feel
whether I walk the tiger or the lion is no real big deal
I contest the notion that reality exists has only one truth
form constraint rules regulation dogma I distract from to sooth
There fore in my writing life verse and poetry ends unshackled
by resting my tiger lion meter and rhyme freed but not tackled
04th August 2016
Through her window,she could see nothing in the clear blue sky.
Its deep colour was reflected in the calm waters
Of the estuary which spread out in the distance.
Even the normal busy shipping traffic
Seemed to have been lulled to sleep this hot summer afternoon.
There would usually be the sound of ships' horns
Out in the Elbe as they signalled for the lock gates to open.
Water was calm, sky was calm.
It felt to Petra that she was looking at a painting where nothing
Was really alive but only replicated in oilpaint.
The ever-growing buzz in the sky was the only indication that the scene was real.
Others had heard the sound as well.
Like hundreds of bees, but these had a special sting
The temperature was high and it was very dry
There had been no rain for some time. Now there was a rain of bombs.
Petra saw the explosions through her window before she heard them
In the distance as the skyful of B17 s unloaded their cargoes.
Petra and her little sister were terrified, struck immobile in fright.
Their window bellied in like a giant glass balloon suddenly over-inflated,
And jagged, face-ripping shards of glass snarled across the hall
And embedded themselves in the cushions of the sofa.
The woolly innards of the cushions spewed out,
Dangling lifeless from the slash-wounds.
Luckily the girls were not cut.
Suddenly, the whole area became one big fire
With air being sucked in with the force of a storm.
Fires joined together, temperatures rose to melting lead,
Wind speed picked up to hurricane levels,
Trees were hurled into the flames, furniture, cars, even people hurled in.
Fire trucks unable to get through roads blocked by rubble.
Dying by carbon monoxide poisoning
When all the air was drawn out of their basement shelters,
The shelters were filled, but few people were really alive.
And then it was over. As the exploding fireballs gradually died away,
The drone and throb of the buzzing B17s faded off
To the blue sky of the east, to torment some other part of the city.
Walls crashed to the ground, gas lines exploded, people cried and screamed,
The girls shook with terror, but the B17s had gone.
History called it 28 July 1943 - Hamburg firestorm.
Petra always called it Day of the Bees.
.. .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Debbie Guzzi's Contest Hot Time Summer in the City
Prostitution
I never liked horses,
oh yes, they are beautiful
and dumb
and crap in their food
on the grassland of forever.
Horses are like Romanian women,
you catch them, rape them
and tamed you sell them
in Hamburg as tame whores,
who can be ridden by any man
for a bit of cash.
And all the owners of horses have
to do is to serve them weed.
I drink my root beer
with soggy fries
soiled buns
Hamburg runs
while watching the tube
in an unsightly nude
give me a Draft or an A&W glass
sitting in this position, it hurts my advancing Ass
AMERICAN IDOL:THE OLD FOSSIL REVUE
Plenty of Famous Farts dying to perform for you
Sir Mick and Madam Paul
they both did rocked in THE GREATEST SHOW OF THEM ALL
Madonna and Michael Jackson are Down
it is getting harder for their fannies to move around
Prince Geldof Boomtown Rat
surely realizing that his bulge is getting Fat
Sir Rocket and The Piano Man
were getting TOO FRIENDLY with a local Girl Scout fan
John Travolta the SWEATHOG guy
was making out his Will 'cause he knows he's going to die
One aero plane to his favorite charity
A gyro copter to the Dentist,who removed an unwanted cavity
The Old GREASE leather apparel
going to his TV buddy..The MASH's own B.J. Mike Farrell
Barry Williams,Knight, and Lookinland Too
trying on a fling with their Sitcom Sisters..YOU-KNOW-WHO
William Shatner on his couch
His enormous belly has only just begun to tire and slouch
Farrah and Lee Majors STUCK
trying(separately,of course) to get a Hard-On -UCK
Karl Malden..coming back from the Dead
To invite Zeter Jones than Michael Douglas Instead
The Streets of Sitcom Heaven, where youth is always On
Malden is serenading pretty Catherine with a Song
Now it's time to end this prose
I hope that you can touch both your toes
Don't watch the crap
exercise daily to avoid this trap
and YOU WILL BE A LIFE OVERACHIEVER,INDEED!!
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.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
NOTES
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.
you entered my foundation
silence abode the quaint structures
of a meaningful gothic erosion
between a quiet reasoning
as I opened above the perfect
foundery beckoning precision
of a sensitive naught that quivered
and quaked throughout a bias time
tinged with morality that craved
an infamous pout where you collected
shells of sadness and compassion
well crafted amid the calm sea
forming a gentle finish abraisive
an yet shattered feelings abroad
that read I love you back
Broremann’s war
Spring, 1945, German troops in his town were walking about not
carrying arms, they spoke to the locals in a friendly manner.
Looking back it was peace before the peace. Near Broremann's home
there was a tall house occupied by old non- commissioned officers,
middle-aged men in their thirties with children, gave the kids
chocolate and sweets (after the war the building was taken over by
Mormons).
British troops arrived, put a canteen in a disused fish factory,
the German troops had surrendered. Broremann got white bread
with spam from the British. The Germans left by train; many
of the town´s people came to wave goodbye, there was no
dislike against the common soldiers, wrath was directed at the
local Gestapo who had betrayed their country by being crueler
than the enemy and by sporting rimless Himmler glasses.
Years later Broremann met a docker in Hamburg who had spent
five war years in his town. They drank together and declared
it had been a peaceful war.
What If There Was No Tomorrow? - The Polar Ice ‘Cap’
- this time it’s burnt and curled upon a new head. The
sweet smoke of his sugarloaf effigy black as night,
surrounded by a material red trim, below Parliament houses
blows political greed into fiery smouldering smithereens –
then it floated and landed after years, drifting, onto
the crown of a man: a business man portraying
wealth and class; here it sat above suit and below sun. The
American dream swirled with scotch and the tip of a bowler,
only for the same piece (restyled of coursed) to later sell for
pounds to make the pupils of any impoverished person pop:
his Hamburg with a knowing dent in back, how it span and
spun from black to grey and back again around Hill’s peak
to be dyed again and tilted just so. Now it’s pillbox pink and a knitted
O of a name/shape-sake that covers her head where her husband
had a target upon his. Watermelon-pink colour dye actually: the very
same fruit palette of brain cradled in her hands at high speed.
This latest star attraction of Burgdorf’s no doubt was, decades
prior, nothing but a mix of lifeless green and sludge brown from
grass and cud - metallic dead daises ducking over No Man’s
Land. A Brodie: styled on a not-yet-pulled pin grenade atop
beads of sparkling sweat, dripping slipping salt where now
a pedal controlled sewing machine stabs and pins sequins into
veils that hide brides with (it must be said) the same success
that protected Fawkes’ Plot or Churchill’s reputation or
Jackie’s husband and the slaughtered soldiers’ skulls - but
still the accessories twist into fascinators fancy enough for
mothers to weep below, only to find the box dish or bow
to be knocked akilter during the traditional bouquet mad
dash - then up – up – up! into the air before landing anew,
refreshed as a Gatsby or Hijab, perhaps a Trilby or Zucchetto;
better yet, the Boater or Sailor we’ll need when the hat that covers
all our heads smoulders and peaks when next dented and melted: a
loose grenade we can’t be veiled from, nor refashioned nor restyled
when the next season’s must have
will be a copper and bolt
protective Diving Mask
for the drowning tomorrow
from The Polar Ice 'Cap'.
The trenches are dug,
We gotta go, guys,
Defend our country,
On the other side of the Rhine,
They don’t speak French,
On the other side of the Rhine,
They don’t speak German,
Sprechen Sie Deutsch ?
We gotta go, guys,
To die for a wheat field,
die for a mill,
To die for his children,
We gotta go, guys,
On the other side of the Rhine,
They don’t speak French,
On the other side of the Rhine,
They don’t speak German,
We gotta go, guys,
I could have been born in Saarbrücken,
I could have been born in Neuilly,
What a difference in the bottom,
We gotta kill each other, guys
Like hungry wolves,
Like bloody beasts,
Where’s the humanity, guys?
She’s in our houses,
On the banks of the Seine,
Under the sun of Arles,
It is in the port of Hamburg,
Nobody talks about it,
Humanity is the peace,
Peace is back, guys,
The peace of November 11.
Les tranchées sont creusées,
Il faut y aller les gars,
Défendre notre pays,
De l’autre côté du Rhin,
Ils ne parlent pas français,
De l’autre côté du Rhin,
Ils ne parlent pas allemand,
Il faut y aller les gars,
Mourir pour un champ de blé,
mourir pour un moulin,
Mourir pour ses enfants,
Il faut y aller les gars,
De l’autre côté du Rhin,
Ils ne parlent pas français,
De l’autre côté du Rhin,
Ils ne parlent pas allemand,
Il faut y aller les gars,
J’aurais pu naitre à Sarrebruck,
J’aurais pu naitre à Neuilly,
Quelle différence au fond,
Il faut s’entretuer les gars
Comme des loups affamés,
Comme des bêtes sanglantes,
Où est l’humanité les gars ?
Elle est dans nos maisons,
Sur le bord de la Seine,
Sous le soleil d’Arles,
Elle est dans le port de Hambourg,
Personne n’en parle,
L’Humanité c’est la paix,
La paix retrouvée, les gars,
La paix du onze novembre.