The first thing is one of those iron crane-cum-tower Zeugs that have transmitters on them, for cellphones, no doubt. It rises from the midst of a now orange-red-green-brown looking wood. On its right, I see a cluster of German-forest type houses, which could well be B and B's (we once went past one). On the left, hidden behind the now flimsily clad trees are three Hochhaeuser, which could well be student accomodation. Then, if we move towards my window, is the Schwanteich, the orange-yellow-red-green dance continuing there as well. Then come the houses across from the street, and on die Ecke is not your Pakistani newsagents, but the Pamukkale Döner joint. It is open 24/7, I saw another happy Teuton leave it with a döner in his hand just now. Underneath us is the district's DVD place, so there's always Betrieb here, cars coming in and parking. Yesterday on the three occasions that I heard some noise coming from outside, they were all Turkish, unbroken with German-- except for when Nikola came to tea.
This is Wiesecker Weg 1, Giessen
Monday, October 30, 2006
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Condonances
We are here
to please
pleased each time
that we please
despite the appease-
ment we hardly ever cease
to try to please
How sweet
and sour to see
the pleased
expression where one
has ceased
to hope to please
Pleased
to please
Once more the old demon
has creased
their foreheads and the sides of our
cheeks
Once more teased
into going on with the impossible task
to please,
To please,
Without cease.
(Stockholm, Oct. 2006)
to please
pleased each time
that we please
despite the appease-
ment we hardly ever cease
to try to please
How sweet
and sour to see
the pleased
expression where one
has ceased
to hope to please
Pleased
to please
Once more the old demon
has creased
their foreheads and the sides of our
cheeks
Once more teased
into going on with the impossible task
to please,
To please,
Without cease.
(Stockholm, Oct. 2006)
Beyond the Pale
Contemplating on the huge
gaping hole of distrust and misgiving
my unwilling native scout's mouth transformed into when I
told him I'd ford the river
"Munch", whispered Shiva in my ear
that goddess of self-destruction
and partner in my unheard of crime.
(I crossed
without my scout
and met friendly Indians on the way
that directed me to the feast.
beyond the pale,
I could still hear the screams)
24.10.2006
gaping hole of distrust and misgiving
my unwilling native scout's mouth transformed into when I
told him I'd ford the river
"Munch", whispered Shiva in my ear
that goddess of self-destruction
and partner in my unheard of crime.
(I crossed
without my scout
and met friendly Indians on the way
that directed me to the feast.
beyond the pale,
I could still hear the screams)
24.10.2006
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Wrong Hands
These are the wrong hands into which,
weapons of individual destruction have fallen
the power to understand
the power to correct
the power to make you crimson with despair
These are wrong hands
that touch the keyboard
that rise in silence
to ask a question
The hands that you
sometimes touch on the steal
these white, small hands
are the wrong hands
weapons of individual destruction have fallen
the power to understand
the power to correct
the power to make you crimson with despair
These are wrong hands
that touch the keyboard
that rise in silence
to ask a question
The hands that you
sometimes touch on the steal
these white, small hands
are the wrong hands
Friday, October 13, 2006
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Wales- the back water
Incident at Gwenyd
This is earth:
Peace was never its forte
But to find it, we take a walk
My friend and I and the fish
I’d been served at breakfast. White
houses we’ve passed today, made of stone.
Early in the day, we visited the fort. A
morning wind swept the stone
Pieces crack, fall, turn to earth.
We’re now near houses all painted white
against the long walk
of the rain: trickle trickle. The last of the fish
go under the bridge we’re now on: stone
sturdy, grey. Men in white
overalls in the water, hoping for fish.
Then, we hear sirens, forte
and then an improbable traffic jam appears. The earth
is gyrating as people stop their cars and walk.
The ambulances turn left. The earth
is awake and green. We walk
towards a policeman. ‘Oi’ he shouts, forte
his face is white
like the flesh of the fish
“There’s been an accident” he says, voice of stone.
We change direction, like fish
sensing stiller water elsewhere. The tip tap walk
of the drops on our umbrella; a pianoforte
in tune with the hushed splash of our feet on stone
Drop by drop it ekes out: the smell of earth.
There are no houses now. Just stone
walls in between fields, white
metal arrow signs and one says ‘Forte-’
The rest has been eaten out by rain, friend to earth
They reign in these parts where we walk
by the river, where our kin fish.
My friend makes a dash for the side to fish
for wild strawberries, as I find when I walk
towards her. Her white
hands hand me some, cold as stone
But the warm smile is her forte
Now her cheek is smeared with earth.
We then lift our heads to the sound of the helicopter, white
Against the smoke that’s rising in the West, forte
“God have mercy.” Wet like fish, we stop, stranded on earth.
(Summer 2002, on my trip with Silke)
and there is that chance meeting with a fellow Mainzerin that I simply have to blog, next
This is earth:
Peace was never its forte
But to find it, we take a walk
My friend and I and the fish
I’d been served at breakfast. White
houses we’ve passed today, made of stone.
Early in the day, we visited the fort. A
morning wind swept the stone
Pieces crack, fall, turn to earth.
We’re now near houses all painted white
against the long walk
of the rain: trickle trickle. The last of the fish
go under the bridge we’re now on: stone
sturdy, grey. Men in white
overalls in the water, hoping for fish.
Then, we hear sirens, forte
and then an improbable traffic jam appears. The earth
is gyrating as people stop their cars and walk.
The ambulances turn left. The earth
is awake and green. We walk
towards a policeman. ‘Oi’ he shouts, forte
his face is white
like the flesh of the fish
“There’s been an accident” he says, voice of stone.
We change direction, like fish
sensing stiller water elsewhere. The tip tap walk
of the drops on our umbrella; a pianoforte
in tune with the hushed splash of our feet on stone
Drop by drop it ekes out: the smell of earth.
There are no houses now. Just stone
walls in between fields, white
metal arrow signs and one says ‘Forte-’
The rest has been eaten out by rain, friend to earth
They reign in these parts where we walk
by the river, where our kin fish.
My friend makes a dash for the side to fish
for wild strawberries, as I find when I walk
towards her. Her white
hands hand me some, cold as stone
But the warm smile is her forte
Now her cheek is smeared with earth.
We then lift our heads to the sound of the helicopter, white
Against the smoke that’s rising in the West, forte
“God have mercy.” Wet like fish, we stop, stranded on earth.
(Summer 2002, on my trip with Silke)
and there is that chance meeting with a fellow Mainzerin that I simply have to blog, next
The Moonstone
I have left Hans Castorp on the field of battle and have taken the train to England :-) (and further to the subcontinent)
I find The Moonstone very much to my liking.
The mind goes back to so many years ago when through Leyla Neyzi I had met this very clever girl, who was doing God knows what now, at the time, but what I remember is that she had at some point taught English in Malaysia.
We sat in Akmerkez and talked. She had worked on Wilkie Collins and was so enthusiastic about him, telling me I had to read him. I had made a mental note about it, and I had many lives after that, the mental note getting a bit dusty but still stuck there. And then in class in Heidelberg I listened to someone talk about The Woman in White, the mental note was put in relief once again, and at long last, last month I bought The Moonstone on İstiklal Street, and now here I am reading it.
It is very clever so far. It is a book that is the documentary of its own writing. A bit of Tristam Shandy, not quite as preposterous. There are a lot of self-narration references, so I find myself underlining. I could do worse than have a Victorian paper to my name :-)
I find The Moonstone very much to my liking.
The mind goes back to so many years ago when through Leyla Neyzi I had met this very clever girl, who was doing God knows what now, at the time, but what I remember is that she had at some point taught English in Malaysia.
We sat in Akmerkez and talked. She had worked on Wilkie Collins and was so enthusiastic about him, telling me I had to read him. I had made a mental note about it, and I had many lives after that, the mental note getting a bit dusty but still stuck there. And then in class in Heidelberg I listened to someone talk about The Woman in White, the mental note was put in relief once again, and at long last, last month I bought The Moonstone on İstiklal Street, and now here I am reading it.
It is very clever so far. It is a book that is the documentary of its own writing. A bit of Tristam Shandy, not quite as preposterous. There are a lot of self-narration references, so I find myself underlining. I could do worse than have a Victorian paper to my name :-)
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Kiss the Girls
It was a week's
worth of opened doors
that did me in
one
after
the other
leading all the way
up the benighted staircase
towards the proverbial attic
but after all that knighthood
after all that chivalry
he refused to play
Rochester to my Antoinette
for this is a PoCo creature
that dares not light a fire babe
...
and you prefer to kiss the girls,
you prefer to kiss the girls.
worth of opened doors
that did me in
one
after
the other
leading all the way
up the benighted staircase
towards the proverbial attic
but after all that knighthood
after all that chivalry
he refused to play
Rochester to my Antoinette
for this is a PoCo creature
that dares not light a fire babe
...
and you prefer to kiss the girls,
you prefer to kiss the girls.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Sleeping with Germans
One spring night in Stockholm, I find myself sleeping with two Germans, neither of whom I fancy very much. We are in a little cabin in a boat-house. Above me sleeps a Japanese girl who has one of those thick Europe guidebooks, and is thinking of going to Istanbul as well. Across, in the other bunkbed, are the couple from Düsseldorf.
When I arrived at the boat, I went to check the sanitary facilities.
The 'bathroom' is full of young women who are applying various stuffs to their faces and hands. I check out the loo and then think better about it- resolved to sleep on a full bladder. I wash my face, joining the other girls by the mirror. Before I know it, I am in conversation with one of them, who has a thick German accent. I hold back the information that I am studying in Germany as long as I can, but then it comes out. And when that comes out, of course, my German woes follow suit. Like all her compatriots she looks amazed that I am not having a good time in Germany. I decide not to give her the Germans are such unfeeling b******* banter, and tell her that my problems lie with the language. I tell her I had difficulties in the first few months because noone was willing to speak English to me. She is perplexed. "I never miss an oppurtunity to practice my English", she says to me. It is late in the evening and there is no sense in trying to explain to her that my English presents not an oppurtunity for practice but cause for alarm in Germany.
It turns out we're in the same 'room'. We go in, start to change into night clothes. Then a key turns in the door and in comes a male of the species. It is now my turn to be perplexed. I tell him that this is the ladies' quarter. I had thought myself clever to have found a hostel that does make such distinctions. Then the German girl comes to my side and says that he is her friend, and that she trusts that it won't be a problem?
It's a problem alright. I am on this boat secure in the knowledge that I am not crossing the boundaries I have set up for myself, boundaries that I have been defending relentlessly lately, boundaries that have given others cause for concern and contempt.
"I will be very quiet, you won't notice I'm here" he says very sweetly. The human element. He does look totally harmless. But I am still confused as to how he could be in the ladies quarter, I feel cheated. I could take the issue up with the management if it came to that. Then the German girl explains, she has put down her name for two people, they must have thought the other was also a girl. Some part of me is enraged. (why, why then bother with calling this the ladies quarter, and why not book a room in the mixed section, why why why) The audacity to think that the world will just oblige with the way you see things... of course he is harmless, I can see that, but there has been a covenant, I came here on the grounds that........
But I know perfectly well why this is happening to me. Like I knew perfectly well why last night, for the first time in my life a guy came up to me and asked me to dance with him. Some jolly folk dance, of course, but I know, I know. It's because I came to Stockholm to run away from things, feeling so righteous about the values I had been preaching, the segragation of the sexes, fidelity...
The German girl, maybe, understands the extent of her blunder and tries to normalize things. Tells the guy that I study in Heidelberg. As we all lay in our beds, we sing praises to the town's beautiful hills and then wish each other goodnight. Michael falls into sleep pretty fast and starts to snore just a little. The girl calls out his name. He turns to his side and stops snoring. I am in bed, in my little kerchief round my head. I sleep well despite the full bladder, the river rocking me into wierd dreams. I get up earlier than anyone else for the conference's morning session, pay for the room and leave.
When I arrived at the boat, I went to check the sanitary facilities.
The 'bathroom' is full of young women who are applying various stuffs to their faces and hands. I check out the loo and then think better about it- resolved to sleep on a full bladder. I wash my face, joining the other girls by the mirror. Before I know it, I am in conversation with one of them, who has a thick German accent. I hold back the information that I am studying in Germany as long as I can, but then it comes out. And when that comes out, of course, my German woes follow suit. Like all her compatriots she looks amazed that I am not having a good time in Germany. I decide not to give her the Germans are such unfeeling b******* banter, and tell her that my problems lie with the language. I tell her I had difficulties in the first few months because noone was willing to speak English to me. She is perplexed. "I never miss an oppurtunity to practice my English", she says to me. It is late in the evening and there is no sense in trying to explain to her that my English presents not an oppurtunity for practice but cause for alarm in Germany.
It turns out we're in the same 'room'. We go in, start to change into night clothes. Then a key turns in the door and in comes a male of the species. It is now my turn to be perplexed. I tell him that this is the ladies' quarter. I had thought myself clever to have found a hostel that does make such distinctions. Then the German girl comes to my side and says that he is her friend, and that she trusts that it won't be a problem?
It's a problem alright. I am on this boat secure in the knowledge that I am not crossing the boundaries I have set up for myself, boundaries that I have been defending relentlessly lately, boundaries that have given others cause for concern and contempt.
"I will be very quiet, you won't notice I'm here" he says very sweetly. The human element. He does look totally harmless. But I am still confused as to how he could be in the ladies quarter, I feel cheated. I could take the issue up with the management if it came to that. Then the German girl explains, she has put down her name for two people, they must have thought the other was also a girl. Some part of me is enraged. (why, why then bother with calling this the ladies quarter, and why not book a room in the mixed section, why why why) The audacity to think that the world will just oblige with the way you see things... of course he is harmless, I can see that, but there has been a covenant, I came here on the grounds that........
But I know perfectly well why this is happening to me. Like I knew perfectly well why last night, for the first time in my life a guy came up to me and asked me to dance with him. Some jolly folk dance, of course, but I know, I know. It's because I came to Stockholm to run away from things, feeling so righteous about the values I had been preaching, the segragation of the sexes, fidelity...
The German girl, maybe, understands the extent of her blunder and tries to normalize things. Tells the guy that I study in Heidelberg. As we all lay in our beds, we sing praises to the town's beautiful hills and then wish each other goodnight. Michael falls into sleep pretty fast and starts to snore just a little. The girl calls out his name. He turns to his side and stops snoring. I am in bed, in my little kerchief round my head. I sleep well despite the full bladder, the river rocking me into wierd dreams. I get up earlier than anyone else for the conference's morning session, pay for the room and leave.
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