Salziges Land am Ende der Dünen
Alles ist so nah hier
Ich könnte einfach
Nach nebenan greifen
Wir haben hier
Schon genug gestohlen
Wie verliebt man sich in einen Dichter? Ich habe mein Herz an Heinrich Heine verloren, als ich gerade erst wusste, dass ich eins habe, dass jeder eins hat und dass es aufhören kann zu schlagen. In der vierten Klasse, Dienstag, dritte Stunde Kunst. Ich hatte meinen Farbkasten vergessen. Um mich zu beschäftigen (und wohl auch zu Disziplin zu mahnen), musste ich abschreiben. Während die Anderen mehr oder minder Kunstvolles schafften, sollte ich Heine vom Papier meines Deutschbuches auf meines bringen. Und dies ohne den Tintenkiller zu benutzen. Meine Lehrerin hatte wohl doch den Plan, es solle kunstvoll sein. Oder vielleicht dachte sie auch, es hielte mich auf diese Weise länger auf, würde mich doch jeder Schreibfehler wieder zurück auf Los setzen. Nun gut. Heine also. Altes Kaminstück. Es war Sommer.
Ab der ersten Zeile schon folgte ich ihm, ließ weiße Flocken aufziehen, Stürme mit Harlekinen tanzen und mich von Marmorgöttern grüßen. Wie das Kätzchen wärmte ich mich an ‘des Dichters Feur’. Wer auch immer dachte, mich damit bestraft zu haben, täuschte sich gewaltig. Für diese eine Kunststunde wohnte ich im Zauberschloss. Erst mit dem Klingeln spürte ich den Schmerz des heulenden Kätzchens. Die süße Zerstörung meines Paradieses, vergessene Farbkästen können schmecken wie Äpfel.
PS: Wer erraten hat, dass der Name des Blogs aus diesen Zeilen stammt, ist ein Genie und gehört gewürdigt. Ehre wem Ehre gebührt.
Edward Hirsch (2000), How To Read A Poem: And Fall In Love With Poetry, Harvest Book.
“There are people who defend themselves against being “carried away” by poetry, thus depriving themselves of an essential aspect of the experience. But there are others who welcome the transport poetry provides. They welcome it repeatedly. They desire it so much they start to crave it daily, nightly, nearly abject in their desire, seeking it out the way hungry people seek food. It is spiritual sustenance to them. Bread and wine. A way of transformative thinking. A method of transfiguration. There are those who honor the reality of roots and wings in words, but also want the wings to take root, to grow into the earth, and the roots to take flight, to ascend. They need such falling and rising, such metaphoric thinking. They are so taken by the ecstatic experience – the overwhelming intensity – of reading poems they have to respond in kind. And these people become poets.” (p. 7)
So, this is my first book review. I decided to write book reviews taking a completely subjective perspective, following a certain pattern by answering these questions:
In this case it is a bit harder to follow that pattern as I haven’t finished reading the book yet.
The cited paragraph has expressed my personal reasons for reading and writing poetry so accurately that I had to share it.
Me and this book have actually met in ‘City Lights Bookstore’ on Sept 9th in San Francisco. I stumbled across its title going through their amazing poetry section. At the time I was looking for poetry books and not books about poetry. So I put it away again. The second time I made it to that bookstore a couple of days later, the book attracted my attention again – being ruthlessly ignored yet another time. When it crossed my path for the third time today in a bookstore in Santa Cruz, I decided to attribute its constant appearance in my life to fate and bought it.
In the preface, it begins informing the reader that this is a book about reading poetry – redundantly enough as it states so in the title. In the third sentence Hirsch writes: “I have gathered together many poems I have loved over the years, and I have tried to let them show me how they should be read.” This really caught my attention, leaving me curious for more. During the next couple of pages not only does the author express his own love for poetry, but lets the poets themselves express theirs, inducing it in the reader. It feels as if the author took the reader by the hand, saying: ‘Let me introduce you to my friends’, thus making it a completely subjective experience. Poetry is subjective. Not only does is reveal the core of the poet’s experience and inner world but also that of the reader. Hirsch makes that clear when he writes: “You are reading poetry – I mean really reading it – when you feel encountered and changed by a poem, when you feel its seismic vibrations, the sounding of your depth.”
I already fell for the book. It captured me as poetry has captured me. It transports its author’s love for the “roots and wings” of the “message in a bottle” poetry holds. It hasn’t left me yet, and already I anticipate the sadness after reading its last page – as if I had found a dear friend of whom I will have to part when putting the book aside.
Die Sehnsucht nach Improvisation
Sie hält nichts
Zerfasert unter unserer Haut
Es riecht nach Regen heute
Eine Schüssel voller
Am Ende des Verses
Splitter an unseren weißen Lattenzäunen
Wir lesen den Staub von unseren Fenstern
Statt mit ihm
In der Sonne zu tanzen
Hab den Mut
Dir das Herz zu brechen
erschienen in Stefan Hölscher, Kathrin Külow, Holger Dauer, Alfred Büngen (Hrsg.) ‘Die süße Jagd nach Bitternissen’ Aphorismen- und Gedichtwettbewerb 2016/17, Geest-Verlag 2017
Zwischen Meer und mir
mein digitaler Spiegel
Narcissus zwischen 1 und 0
Videor ergo sum
geht mein Silberblick nach
Im Netz voller Schokoladenseiten
Mich düstert es
kann ich nicht leuchten
knipse ich mein Essen
und zeige der Welt
dass ich sie verdauen kann
Last night I woke up from one of the weirdest dreams my subconscious has ever shared with me. Maybe it was due to a cold that started creeping up my throat. Possibly, it was the distance of an ocean between me and my home that created a void sucking out clotty ideas stuck on duty and daily routines like outflowing water through the drainpipe of a bathtub. The speed suggested there were actually someone sucking with a force that resembled the urgence of an addict or a really hungry person. What am I hungry for? I hear myself posing that question, as I have so many times. It is my profession to listen and ask good questions. Have I been a vessel for others’ feelings? Have I forgotten my own ‚chimney sweeping’ as Anna O. once put it? The dream had mixed a cinematic experience, Alice’s wonderland, Miss Marple and Tim Burton, creating a vortex of such speed that even my rapid eye movements could not keep up and the ‚guardian of sleep’ (as Freud once designated the dream) kicked me out and made me wake up in the kind of bewilderment Dorothy must have experienced when realizing that ‚this’ was not ‚Kansas’ any more. Had I just killed a witch?
However, I woke up. On a couch in San Francisco. My throat and my sinuses agreed that I was awake. I touched my very own modern Toto to check the time. A brief flash of brightness. 4:39. Great. My lagging mind trying to make sense of the situation was interrupted by the idea of me writing a blog. Even the title popped up, reminding me of that one poem from way back when. Very peculiar (an English word I like very much by the way). Should I?
This year I stumbled upon the decision of just saying yes to things I had not tried before, or at least not for a long time. 2014 had developed into a comatose nightmare that 2015 slowly helped me recover from. I had always functioned but things had not worked out. So I decided to reduce myself to the healthiest core I could find within me. That included taking close looks without taking myself too seriously. This is what this blog will be about.
I am a cis-female. I write. I was born in Europe. My cultural background is German. I work as a psychologist.
I will talk about norms I overcame, new ethical standards I found and books or poetry that accompany me. Topics and language (English or German) will vary accordingly. It will be political. Most likely radical.