I am who I have always been
a shiver of soft reeds beside the river
or the cascade of waterfall.
Gypsy crows rise to a soft dawn sky
gathering their kind they circle
back for me.
I can scarcely bear the
splendor of the world,
it’s wonder humbles
the wisp of me.
Minutiae of eyes and ears
and speechless tongue
Stunned by the promise
of a red sunrise.
Elegant trees lift up
their mighty arms,
grand gods in prayer,
host to creatures
large and small,
a cornucopia of life
fills their noble crowns.
I want to sail across the sea,
this tiny fleck that is me,
a winged bird bearer of
fragment of the universe.
fine art America
Translation by Bernd Hutschenreuther
Ein geflügelter Vogel sein
Ich vermag kaum, den Glanz
der Welt zu enthüllen,
ihre Wunder schmälern
noch meine Winzigkeit.
Details von Augen und Ohren
und Zunge, stumm,
erstaunt vom Versprechen
Vornehme Bäume erheben
ihre erhabenen Arme,
mächtige Götter im Gebet,
Gastgeber unzähliger Geschöpfe,
abgezupft in rot und grün,
Füllhörner mit Nüssen und Beeren
zieren ihre edlen Kronen.
Ich möchte das Meer durchsegeln,
winziger Fleck, der ich bin,
ein geflügelter Vogel, Träger
keines Besitzes, ein erfreuliches
Fragment des Alls,
einem jeden sichtbar.
Deutsch: Bernd Hutschenreuther
I am sleeping less,
roused by wingbeats of Boreal Owls
circling ancient Cypress,
gripping knotty branches with a clutch
of talons .
When I close my eyes fists of wind
breech my seclusion, erupt through
unbound curtains of dark recollections
that vibrate through my hemispheres.
A soft breeze carries me through the
valley to a moonlit hillside of sweet lea.
A silver wolf lies down beside me.
He is the scent of golden meadows and
his eyes are the color of an eastern sky.
brilliant bird your
fire still in my hair.
Gravity has pressed me to you,
Hold me in your cupped hands.
The wind has blown away all sanity
And we have become the feathered
tongues of muted birds
The hollow bones of faithless lovers.
Burnished anger waits silently
never be to be spoken
But sails away on
the wings of migrating birds.
The earth is powdered snow.
The sun rises in myriad hues.
Nightingales refuge in my closet
to mourn December’s last refrain.
Contrails light the wings of Jays
that flit beneath the lit doorway
settle softly into January’s chill
Shelter in a pale winter bed
“One day we will learn to give and receive love like an open window and it will feel like summer everyday”
Translation by Bernd @ Neues Vom Hutschi
Birds soar high above the ice chiseled cliffs, roil over ancient forests at the moss covered foothills of Mountains. I hear the voices of ancestors, perverse whispers of hate and grudges, they are witness to our deception. They know the gaps in our souls are filled with the same darkness as theirs. When we once again come face to face they will tell us how the hours passed so quickly. You are that bird whose wings beat the air senseless, rainstorm eyes protest a dream unlived. That perfect blue honey of desire you washed away in golden brown. Swoop down, I miss the sound of you. Tell me how to survive beginnings. Save me from this carousel, my arms outstretched not knowing I am still spinning.
Unless you ask
I will always make you go
before the birds invoke the day,
leave our scent on the crumpled
sheets to the cats.
Though it is somewhat embarrassing
I love most among poets Aristophanes
and sultry dreams of cherubs that twitter like
juvenile birds drunk on adventure.
Unless you wake me to the soft sound of Coltrane,
the rich taste of espresso, the breath of fruity herbs,
I will always make you go before
the sun breaks the horizon.
Painting by Michael Lipke (1953)
Leaning into dreams,
free falling adventure,
we hover in mid-air.
Tiny ballerinas too
light to bear our shadow
vibrate the air with the
laughter of children.
Like raining down clouds
I open up my heart to the
sweet intoxication of
the promises of spring.
art: Dawn Chorus by Bellavista