Mein Zimmer

Diese kurze Geschichte wurde von einem Traum inspiriert. Ich habe sie für meine kreatives Schreiben Klasse geschrieben aber ich mochte sie und möchte sie mit euch teilen. Ich habe vor kurzem ein Buch von Haruki Marukami gelesen und versuchte eine eindringliche Atmosphäre wie die von ihm zu schaffen. Wenn ich Fehler gemacht habe, bitte korrigieren Sie sie!

Die Sonne steht hoch im Himmel, ihr kaltes Winterlicht versuchend die Welt darunter zu wärmen, aber die schwachen Strahlen tun nichts gegen das Januar-Eis. Mein Atmen vernebelt vor mir und verbergt momentan die schnelle Straße und den roten Ampelmann.
Endlich grün. Ich gehe mit großen Schritten über, weil der Ampel gegenüber immer schnell danach wechselt. Aber zwischen mir und da sind die silberne Schiene der Straßenbahn und die orangen Lichte blinken ihre Warnung. Seufzend, warte ich als den Zug langsam vorbei klappert. Von hinter ihm taucht der Ampelmann auf, sein Hut und kleine schwingenden Armen wieder rot.
Ich schmeiße meine Mütze und enger ledere Handschuhe auf den kleinen Tisch in der Küche meiner geteilten Wohnung und seufze noch einmal. Vermutlich ist es gut mehr Sauerstoff in einen zu nehmen um sich zu entspannen. Wie gewöhnt, wende ich mich zur Tür meines Zimmers aber etwas ist anders. Das Gefühl hängt in einer dichten Wolke um meinen Kopf. Ich schaue mich unruhig um und mir auffällt was sich ändert hat. Der Tür gegenüber ist ein Poster aufgeklebt worden. Es ist ein seltsames Poster, weiß mit einigen schwarzen Zeichnungen darauf, und mittendrauf ist die Silhouette eines Babys. Oder die Silhouette eines Embryos. Ich kehre zurück zur Tür. Ich sperre niemals mein Zimmer.
Hinter die Tür ist ein Zimmer. Das Bett liegt entlang der hinteren Wand, die einfarbige Bettwäsche zerknüllt. Ich lasse die Luft langsam aus meiner Lunge. Das nicht-meine Bett und die nicht-meinen Bettwäsche stehen im Zimmer als ob sie immer da waren und auf dem Bett befindet sich eine graue Decke über etwas gespannt. Ich bleibe eingefroren in der Türöffnung. Von unter der Decke taucht eine Person auf. Er ist ein Freund von der Schule, der ich seit Jahren nicht getroffen haben und er liest. Ich schließe schnell meine Tür.

 

Karen

This weekend I’ve been holed up in bed with a terrible cold. Which finally allowed me some time to type out this poem! I wrote it a little while ago, thinking about how it feels to get old, something I can only imagine from the outside. I based it on an experience of dementia in my own family and was moved to write about it after spending some time at an old people’s home.
The slow disappearance of a person you knew behind what seems like a mist of confusion can be painful to watch. I used to imagine it as all the paths in the brain getting mixed up so that thoughts take strange twists and turns and often return to memories from long ago. This is my interpretation of how that could feel from the inside.

When you’re old,
You’ve got stories on your soul.

Not in indelible ink,
As you’d like to think.

No,
They rub and fade,
In different ways,
So that memories change.

A life lived with no shits given,
Or with 5 kids,
3 still living.
Nothing stays the same.
Things will always change.

But when you’re old,
The past is nearer than the present.

When you had to be evacuated to the countryside,
Because bombs were falling from the skies.
When your father was a good man,
But a strict one too,
And they beat you at school for not telling the truth.
Leaving school at fifteen,
Then walking down the aisle,
5 years later.

He died.
You don’t remember when exactly or how.
But Karen,
Who was born in ’63,
On a dark and stormy night,
After you’d been craving crackers.
She was a difficult one.
And it was hard,
Now she was gone.
But Jonathan,
Your tall son,
Is very good to you,
And they’re all lovely here.

You remember when your sister fell and grazed her knee,
Playing kiss chase,
But you don’t miss her.
Not really.
Because she’s in here.

But Karen,
Who was born in ’63,
On a dark and stormy night.
You miss her.
You don’t know what you could have done,
But surely something different…

It’s alright.
You’ve got Jonathan,
And Kevin in Australia,
with the Grandchildren.

It’s funny,
When you’re old,
Some things fade into obscurity,
While others bathe in lucidity.
As you sit there,
In that same chair,
Waiting for visitors.

A ship that put down anchor long ago,
Resistance to the constance of the flow,
Wisdom in the kingdom that you know,
But it changes.
Watch the pages as they go.
And you’re scared,
When just one card,
Comes at Christmas,
In the snow.

Where’s Karen?

Heidelberger Herbst

*English version below!*
Mein erstes Semester hier in Heidelberg (als Erasmus Studentin) ist jetzt wirklich angelaufen und dank der Freiheit meiner Modulwahl habe ich mit dem Studium vieler aufregender, neuer Fächer angefangen, darunter kreatives Schreiben! Diese Woche haben wir versucht, Gedichte über Herbst auf Deutsch zu schreiben. Mein Versuch steht unten. Ich hoffe, dass es euch gefällt!

Alles lässt sein Sommerleben geh’n,

Bäume atmen aus mit Blättern,

die schwäben leise unten, frei von Sommergrün.

Flüsse fließen dunkel, langsam,

Sommerenergie verschwunden,

Wasser taumelt weg.

Alles lässt sein Sommerleben geh’n,

Im tiefen Seufzen mit Geruch nach Boden,

und Verwesung.

 

*For my non German-speaking friends*

My first semester here in Heidelberg (as an Erasmus student) is now properly underway and thanks to the freedom in module choice that I have, I’ve started lots of new and exciting subjects including creative writing! This week we tried to write poems about autumn in German and my attempt is above. I hope you enjoy it! (PS sorry the poem is only in German, I don’t think it’s possible to keep the flow and feeling in a translated version but I have some more English poems up my sleeve, coming soon 😉 )

Men Pay

Men pay,

That’s the way,

That it works.

He paid,

That’s the way,

That it worked.

Every time that I offered,

He said no.

Each time he refuses,

My debt grows.

 

It doesn’t feel right in an age of equal rights,

When the bill comes to the table,

I don’t get to see.

When it comes to money,

He’s still better than me?

The money that I earn is just for making me look nice,

He would feel embarrassed if a woman paid the price.

 

Good intentions underly it,

Appreciated.

But every time?

It feels strange,

When I earn a wage.

A partnership requires two,

I’d like the chance to treat him too.

 

 

 

Earth, Wind and Fire

The world lies dark,
And still,
And quiet.
As the bees stop humming,
The birds fall silent,
And all that is left is wind and fire.

The trees are gone,
The plants long dead.

It all started when the humans spread.

They made their tools,
And tilled the soil.
They ventured out,
And then they discovered oil.
What they’d found were fossil fuels,
And so, with that they mechanised the tools,
“What power we have!”
They said to themselves.
And they dug,
And they burnt,
And they kept on going.

Chuckling as they chopped another tree down,
To build another road,
As they harvested the monocultures that they’d sowed.
They drove in their cars,
They flew in their planes,
They built up and out,
And admired their gains.
But it wasn’t long before the planet started fighting back
The CO2 that they would track,
Spiralled up and out of control.

But it wasn’t too late!
They weren’t doomed to their fate!

The problem was they didn’t care,
They didn’t realise that the cupboards would be bare.
What did it matter if there was no honey,
As long as they still had money,
It would all be fine…

They didn’t realise their mistake,
As they gobbled down another steak.

But now the world lies dark,
And still,
And quiet.
As the bees stopped humming,
The birds fell silent,
And all that is left is wind and fire.

The Fish

When Craig first saw a fish, unbattered,

He knew that it had really mattered.

With its glittering scales and piercing eye,

He suddenly had wondered, why?

Why cover it up,

And cook it in oil?

Or bake it on a piece of foil?

Why pluck it from the verdant seas,

And chuck it with a pot of peas?

Once darting ‘twixt the jagged rocks,

Now heavy,

In a ‘styrene box.

 

Into Beyond

This lifeline,

Is a fine line.

Like a single thread,

It holds me back,

From the edge.

 

Edge of reality,

Edge of imagining.

The edge of my mind’s limits,

Is so close,

I could almost,

Touch,

The void beyond.

 

But that silk strand,

Of fear,

Or attachment,

Pulls me back.

 

And then I emerge,

Gasping for breath,

Pulling the life back into my chest.

Heart beating,

I’m weeping,

And the hot tears burn my living flesh.

What held me back wasn’t a thread,

But my mother’s arms.

 

They encircle and embrace me.

Strong, warm and real,

Like before I was born,

She carries me on.

May Day!

On the 1st of May this year, the UK government declared a climate emergency. People are waking up to the fact that immediate action is required to prevent disaster. My poem celebrates the spread of the climate justice movement and a new wave of action (thanks Extinction Rebellion!).

The ashes of an old age,

Ushered in a new.

That we could take without a price,

Was never really true.

Those who pay are hidden.

We never saw their plight,

But now the cogs are turning,

Mass graves come to light.

Humans, plants and animals,

Buried under money.

There had to be a sacrifice,

The price we pay is life.

The Industrial Extinction

I learnt recently that an estimated 200 species of plant, insect, bird and mammal go extinct every single day. That’s a devastating rate, a new mass extinction, caused by humans.  This poem mourns the loss of biodiversity and highlights the damage that we’re doing to our earth. 

Industrial boom,

With industrial dust.

Brought industrial waste,

And with it, came loss.

 

Rivers ran dark,

Sun blotted by smog,

Majestic trees,

Reduced to logs.

 

As the urban sprawls,

On industrial scale,

Another day,

Brings another 200 nails.

And towering graves march on.

 

The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party (alias Brexit)

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

A piece of cake,
On the table,
Just out of reach.

A big thick slice of Victoria sponge,
With cream and jam.

 

So we vote,
To have it,
And eat it.

But suddenly,
it flickers,
A hologram?
Surely not.

We just need to ask nicely,
And they’ll give it.
So, we send in the hatter,
She’ll ask nicely and get us our cake.

But,
Turns out,
We can’t just have our cake.

If we share our scones,
We can share the whole picnic,
A little bit of black forest gateau,
Macarons,
And dainty little sandwiches filled with pickled herrings, cheese, chocolate.

“We can’t join them now!
We’ve made the tea to go with the cake!”

They’re slicing bits off,
It’s getting smaller and smaller,
It looks a little stale,
And where’s the jam gone?
A tall bloke with a double-barrelled surname licks his lips suspiciously,
“I think we should take the tea and go”

“But we’re starving!” shouts a woman on the ground,
And she does look hungry.
Maybe we should stay and get her a Bolognese or something.

The cake is out of sight now.
We put the kettle on ages ago.
We made the tea,
And now it’s stewing,
It’s going cold.
The milk’s gone off!
“Can’t we pour it away?”

“No,
We’ll get that cake another way.”
“Excuse me sir, where did you get that pint?”

Ok she’s coming back.
She’s coming back and she’s got something!
A biscuit to go with the tea?

“They’ve offered us a sandwich”
“What’s in it?” we cry,
“Marmite” she says.