Tug

Neither quiet nor blatant desperation
govern or underly my work.
So I commute with anticipation,
return with a soft fatigue,
settle into other worlds easily,
as my work world depends not
simply on me.
Now lies ahead a weekend
in the summertime
(as have so many
since beginning of the season,
which is one reason for my absence in artistic endeavors)
and a breeze sweeps across these river banks,
whispering sweet promises of handmade pasta,
light wine and fleeting kisses,
bare feet and nighttime cinema out in the open.
So far, so trivial. And frail and fleeing, too.
If only it wouldn’t go by so fast.
If only it would linger a bit
and open up the view right through
to what tugs on these most inner fabrics
unyieldingly and frequently.
But my hunch is:
This will not subside.
This is the tension
as vast and true as the horizon,
stretching toward the promised land
to eventually take a stroll in.
As little sense as it makes
its presence is monumental
and so worth swimming in.
So here it comes:
another naked dive into this utterly
small and significant summertime.

Pinksteren

On a tiny boat,
they spent three days in early summer,
eating fresh bread,
watching the ducklings next door,
tending to their delicate love.
He called that place home a long time ago and
remains moved at its traits.
He, still, fits right in but stays
just that bit on the sidelines;
humans aren’t made to go from inhabitant to visitor – or passer-by.
She, too, has this nostalgia for times and places long ago and – lost.
For these two, home has become a state
of mutual understanding.
On the day of tales, talks and fire,
there is still hope that
even if this state is never permanent,
its promise lives.
And sure enough, it comes around from time to time,
never knocking,
always leaving the door open.

the tide

from a Belgium beach with the ladies

to Brussels Plaza here with a Shanghai friend

onward through Berlin, running into two pals,

back to a Boston catch-up at Frieda’s nook,

adding the Washington connection on the terrace,

and dinner-dating my man at home

before headed for the north on the weekend.

the week isn’t over yet,

and not every one can be like it,

but right now, the tide rolls in

and it’s good.

 

art in Cologne

whether they are large or small,

shrill or quiet, abstract or quite tangible —

they only have in common the large white walls

upon which they hang and our wide eyes

looking upon them.

and perhaps the fact that they, too,

started blank.

we walk out and a man collapses in the train station.

it is a football kind of day, with beer gushing harder

than these first spring rains.

some stop, some help, some pass.

we only have in common the ground we trod on

and our eyes seeing and the fact that we, too,

once started blank. sort of.

on days like this, I am just so glad that

art wins. art is not yet algorithmically controllable.

it is still shaky, still insecure, still true, still more than its little parts,

still grand, waiting to be interpreted and

always to be made anew.

just as each of our encounters.

 

architectural

a Cathedral among women,

she is there for you and me always,

with light shining in

and music moving feet.

built a long time ago

for an entirely miraculous purpose

and sought out by many ever since,

she stands firmly in a shaken, broken world.

happy birthday, mom.

this and that

these days were filled with this and that,

here and there with these and those ones.

there were cups of coffee sipped in the sunshine,

grandma visits, dad and mom lunches, sister chats,

a chilled beer on the corner with the friend,

phone calls, bike rides, newspaper articles,

redecorations, spring cleanings, card writings,

long runs, sexy times, Bach at night.

little, calm, unplanned joys were sprinkled throughout,

leading toward this celebration to usher in

the season of the spirit.

the shadow of death will not last,

the curtain will rupture at last.

we too will rise

and fly on eagles’ wings.

oh balloons

If I’d seen him walking out

of that prison into the arms

of his wife and the photo which

the journalist posted, I’d have

sent a bunch of balloons up into

the skies, polka-dotting the firmament

with colorful fingerprints of freedom,

to celebrate this day of commencement.

freedom is always a long

way coming and remains a rocky

road. Now I, too, know and there is no

turning back. The birthing of it all

only ever goes one direction.

So up they flee and fly and spread and

disappear but travel on and on in my

imagination to remind me that out there, it

is solitary and vast but it is so, so very

promising

most of all.