————————————————— IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
ROSALIN BLUE
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Belfast Lapwing
IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
ROSALIN BLUE
Belfast LAPWING
First Published by Lapwing Publications c/o 1, Ballysillan Drive Belfast BT14 8HQ Email: lapwing.poetry@ntlworld.com http://www.lapwingpoetry.com Copyright Š Susanne Fiessler 2012 All rights reserved The author has asserted her/his right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Since before 1632 The Greig sept of the MacGregor Clan Has been printing and binding books
Lapwing Publications are printed at Kestrel Print Unit 1, Spectrum Centre Shankill Road Belfast BT13 3AA 028 90 319211 E:kestrelprint@btconnect.com Hand-bound in Belfast at the Winepress Set in Aldine 721 BT
ISBN 978-1-909252-13-4
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Acknowledgements are due to the Revival Poetry Journal, the Five Words Volumes, and the Munster Literature Centre, who have previously published some of these poems. Thanks also to Ernst Rowohlt Verlag, Berlin, for use of the poem “Städter” by Alfred Wolfenstein from the Expressionist Anthology “Menschheitsdämmerung”, and to Max Niemeyer Verlag, Tübingen, for use of the poem “Weltende” by Else Lasker Schüler. I hope my translations do their poems justice. My deepest gratitude goes out to my family, Ray and Kaya, who have given me the patience and back-up for hours spent working on poetry and towards this collection over years. Nothing is as valuable as this basic support! And in this heartfelt thanks I include my dear parents who have given me the strong background to become what I am. My sincere gratitude also goes out to my fellow writers at Ó Bhéal in Cork. The poetry event has kept my inspiration going through times of learning, writer’s block and beyond. Your responses and feedback over the years have encouraged me to achieve this collection. A very special thanks to Cork poet Nyaradzo Masunda and friend and photographer Eamon Arthy who have helped with revising the collection and polishing the poems to shine. The most special thanks goes to Paul Casey whose friendship, time, expertise and careful critique has helped shape this collection into what it is now. And last not least, I would like to thank all my present and future readers. May these poems create a dialogue with you that spreads into the world.
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CONTENTS
NATURE AND THE SPRITUAL
.................... .................. RELIGION .................... MESSAGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . TIDES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BY THE SEA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . WATER-MOON ................. DAWNING . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ABOUT ETERNITY ............... KEEPERS OF TIME . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . DOWN IN THE SUNLESS SEA . . . . . . . . BEGIN ANEW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CHERRYBLOSSOM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ABSTINENCE .................. SUMMER HOP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . HOME . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . THE OLD OAK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . AUTUMN POEM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PASSAGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PRAYER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . THE LAND TRILOGY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . TO MOTHER EARTH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . WRITING
FROM ABOVE
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8 9 10 11 12 13 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 31
SOCIETY AND THE POLITICAL
.................. .................. CORK BOGS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . JUDGEMENT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . LOOKS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . SUPERFICIALITY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . TO THE OLD WOMAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . DRINKERS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IN THE STATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . STÄDTER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CITY SLICKERS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . SUBWAY SILENCE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . WELTENDE ................... APOCALYPSE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . GROUND ZERO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PROGRESS ................... THE CRUNCH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . HUMANKIND . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PARADISE LOST ................ PARASITES ................... THE HOBO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . THE WILD WILD GALES OF EIRE . . . . . . UPRISE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . RECESSION LOVE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ULTRA MODERNITY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . OTHER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . NO TITLE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . AUTHOR’S NOTE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . THE WRITER
CORK STYLE
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34 36 37 39 40 41 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66
for Ray and Kaya with love and gratitude forever
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ROSALIN BLUE
NATURE AND THE SPRITUAL
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
WRITING Attacked, my mind strives helplessly bound to yield this spell tonight: Invaded by the Spirit free in trance enslaved I have to write controlled in words and all of me.
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FROM ABOVE We see
not the boat on the water just the ripples it casts not the plane in the sky just the clouds it draws not the creature on the ground just the traces it carves We don’t see.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
RELIGION The rugged rocks on which I stand – skin of the Earth holding me firmly. Salt licking my feet, shimmery waves – a watery cohesion wrapping the Planet blue. I skim the even pebble – time compressed and licked away – across the Ocean skin. One…three…seven, eight ebbing away to infinity as my skin ripples with goosebumps. My eyes raise as the Giant Goddess smiles with me – tiny particle of Earth.
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MESSAGE Here I stand where the flood still comes between seaweed and stones. Where creatures dredge in the stardust a million years long And the shadows of clouds dance upon mountaintops. Here the wind blows the sleep from my mind I stand on the rocks, merging with time and then comes the flood wave by wave streaming, land inwards embracing my feet: For here – I stand.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
TIDES Winds blow Oceantears within us to and fro Waves wash soul and senses into the far and return Sunrays smile up Waterdroplets and dry sorrowful faces
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BY THE SEA I The sea is lapping like a cat gently licking up the beach purring sleepily – soothing me II The view stretches my eyes far far allows the mind to wander beyond every unknown bay and releases the well of words springing from the bottom of my motion. III The rocks look like an old leather book creased and wrinkled pressed from lying between other books for aeons after thorough use. Millions of years written in these rocks I wonder who reads them now 13
IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
IV The lark above the cliffs is invisible Her sweet song in the evening blue tunes me in opens my ears and makes my heart sing.
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WATER-MOON These times dissolve into a sea of colours This night the waters carry her into her fairy-wood This moon is silvered by the river from her centre At this hour her heart smoulders in a sea of clouds And in that dream she fuses with the waters Swimming in that place within her blaze And that night she soaks the fire and the water To cleanse within – She’s free
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
DAWNING When morning-sunlight rises to wash the night away when early sunrays wander to hail the day The nascent Spirit kisses your dreams away from day and night to clear the mind for an open-hearted morning and what lies beyond time
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ABOUT ETERNITY I saw the sky from above. The world goes in slow-motion there Entirely blue and through. And the clouds make a new ice-age under the sun. On Earth everything pursues its route It creeps and hounds forever forward Does not gain land nor time. And the Ocean spans as far as the skies Where they touch everything stands still. And alone the double-layered clouds hold what is and was and bear what lasts on shoulders: Bear the sky and the water and the rock.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
KEEPERS OF TIME From rough serrated mountain peaks above the clouds that touch the sky down to the bathtubs smoothened by the sea the rugged rocks are keepers of our time Magnetic magma chunks from the deepest core, from chasms, rifts and canyons, carmine lava sores – All liquid time afloat since our planet’s birth, condensed to rocky layers in the Earth embedded shells and fossils tell of days gone by. Crystal veins run through the fissured grounds, sediments of molten sand and stones trickling through the jagged face of cliffs sparking up imaginations of the human kind: Time has set to diamonds, gems and gold The pebbles – aeons pressed and licked away Gravelled grit are grounded splints of time like sifted sand adrift in heavy shifts crumbled down and blown by wind to dunes, compacted and compressed again by tides They are the concretion of time evermore: The highest ridges with their cragged crests or the ice-grey granite blocks of glacial drifts, the even flintstones in the bedrock of rivers and the pebbled rubble washed on to the shore Stardust glimmers on the sandy seaside Boulders of meteorites land a piece from space A universal message for the minders of Earth: Stones are the keepers of time.
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DOWN IN THE SUNLESS SEA* Sails disappear behind the horizon killing his hope for life. He holds his breath, strength floats away with the waves. Powers of Water and Land fight a war.
Affected by deep silence he sinks from combat down. Perceives no pain, no pressure as he goes. Now he feels beauty, friendly waves surround him. Warmth and softness, loving friends his enemies are gone.
Whispering wind, the voice of Earthly Spirit revives the small boy’s will: “Do not go down to sunless sea, there is no life, no light yet only darkness, Death’s domain!”
Inviting whisper of the familiar voice allures and he accepts. Seaweeds caress him in Welcome.
The Watergod raises his powers, whispers enchantment into the boy’s mind: “Calm down, let go Don’t fear, come home. The lucid beauty in my domain will give you life more than the Spirit of the Land. Come down, descend to light.”
Deep down beyond the unknown sea a light waves red. He longs to reach what looks like home – feels an ardent joy and sinks relieved into the open arms of Mother Anemone. Indulged in love, red light’s appeal he hears the voice divinely powerful: “There you are my Son, my Hope fulfilled at length – you’re home, Down in the Light of the Sea.”
Surrendering the struggle of his arms exhausts. The boy gives up. Water drags him down, earthly breath evaporates.
*Title inspired by a line of the poem “Kubla Khan”by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
BEGIN ANEW The air still cold, and clear the new moon skies The city lies in a quiet Song of Night And through the sleep, the waiting silence sounds far and strong the old, old cry. They say: The geese are coming home They say that winter has gone by! And through the waiting silence soars pure and clear the cry of life – anew
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CHERRYBLOSSOM Pink Fluff down the road up in the trees blossoming until Their snow falls whirling through the air – Filling the sky with a scent of Heaven
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
ABSTINENCE A meek little tent two sleeping bags three sheep serving us warmly, a humble fire in the half-moon night As the sun rises in a royal-blue sky we walk on coarse grains of sand our imaginary horses trotting playfully cantering, skipping along the sea A rich time of abstinence our little journey into the blue to the camp site by the beach under a blazing sun and the Earth beneath us
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SUMMER HOP Wish I was there – In my mind I drive the way over the Red Mountain my soul longing eyes stretching to see far far the dancing tree Away away to where you’re swaying wordlessly under the dancing tree My dance with the leaves straw under my feet into the branches under a blazing sky is a prayer all night And into my third eye melts a Pentecostal light
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
HOME Once you fly away from home into the journey of migration you become a bird always on your way So look out for a tree you like to call your home for a while....
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THE OLD OAK The old oak-tree like a half-lung stretches out into the mist catches every tiny droplet in the silence of the night, so still – wind-still Under gnarled and winding roots in their dark and tiny caves pixies raise a feast for the breathing of the oak, old and bent half-lung – Champion of life.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
AUTUMN POEM little pansies hide behind clipped hedges from the winds the crystal sky breathes frosty airs on the withering flowers as a nimble feline after flightily skimming the soil flees the flowerbeds objective fulfilled by clapping hands: the garden breathes autumn-peace again.
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PASSAGE The geese are flying south, calling farewell to the summer Their flight foretells new times. Greeting autumn in the blue sky I saw the dark delta silhouette Their cry I heard through clear crisp air: I know this is the parting of the year.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
PRAYER It’s pouring from the heavens, thought-circles in my mind I walk out to the garden to cleanse within the rain I reach out to the skies to pray the Earth good-morning I touch her with my soles – bare my hands, my heart, my eyes I feel my body waking and opening up inside I free myself in dancing for Mother Earth and life I kneel down in the garden, land and grass are soaked, and sink into her comfort to kiss the holy ground And in the passing moment She asks me to arise to place myself within her and walk into the morning and go into the world today with open-hearted eyes
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THE LAND TRILOGY I. Strong Land The Land caresses my soul, blows the worry-lines from my face She puts her arms around me and her ground is firm She raises my sight to the distance and I see clear again
II. Boundless Land The Land caresses my eyes. They say the eyes are gates to the soul Beyond the hills the Land opens to the sea. They say the sea is the gate to new horizons My eyes caress the skies: Dreams of a whole life revealed beyond the distance My eyes caress the Land.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
III. Troubled Land When the streets are sleeping the Land smiles. They awaken in cities where people seethe and houses bristle with fear and wrath When the streets are screaming the Land cries.
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TO MOTHER EARTH They wound you Mother Earth, digging their drift-mines under your skin Parasites that broach your founts draining life. You breathe Mother Earth, in the moontide You heal the tunnels from within They contract with time But the diggers stay blind to the healing. They fear, Mother Earth, to be lost – enclosed by you. Yet I know nothing more secure than to be merged in you – inside the heart of life. You live Mother Earth – longer.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
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SOCIETY AND THE POLITICAL
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
THE WRITER I am a writer who does not write, as everything everything is repeat repeat all is analyzed, criticized, specified all explained, defined, described all expressed and talked and captured. What can I say, what’s left to write what does remain? I’m a paper without a pen I am a writer who does not write. I am the ear that does not hear. Just noise of cities echo, echo waves of traffic through the air ads and news and ads and lies seduction, war, deceit and more. I no more hear the voice that sounds in silence Drowned in the flood of words around. So I’m a voice without a song I am a writer who does not write. I am a mouth that does not speak. Too much talk, empty talk words with holes, the goal is gold blasting ‘round earth, zipping through space web-babbles leaking, cybertext whizzing computer computer computer, www. Who listens and whose answers matter? Opposing opinions an ongoing battle What party do your poems push? I am a mouth that does not speak I am a writer who does not write.
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I am the eye that does not see. Clouded by the ‘Isms’ of academy as formalism blocks the mind rationalism with theory blind no sense for reality – what do we see? Bombs, corruption, catastrophes global warming, money-laund’ring the cuts – you’re fired, no job, no home. Not one word counted, no justice to see in the stronghold of names playing games. I am the eye that does not see I am a writer who does not write. I am the hand that does not do. When politics do their “politricks” everyday everyday politics touch us. Whittling down into homes rattling families to their bones keeping us busy busy and down as they make wars elsewhere. So “There is suffering” suffering suffering. Oh, the damage done when one hand washes the other and the left does not see what the right hand does. So what is there for me to do? I am a writer who does not write! I am the writer who’s writing these words. What is the power of poetry? Let’s be analytical, critical, political! Keep the muscle flexing, get the music singing get the rhythm swinging – and get the point across: Speak the mind that comes to see old mistakes repeated from last century Take on the spiritual responsibility of shaping life to the consciousness of Earth.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
CORK STYLE Blue-eyed and innocent I arrived in Cork, the typical Irish drooping street lamps dimly illuminating the rugged streets at night. Once I owned these streets with my bike and I owned those nights with my drum. At Tribes – still there, I treat myself to a “Death by Chocolate”. Now the pedestrian zone pushes the road aside desymmetrizes the street and over the gaping Dutch-style plain, owned now by skaters, those Italian steel scaffold street lamps towering. Cork is so European nowadays, so globalized, so stylish – it deserves my “Death by Chocolate”.
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CORK BOGS Down the motorway out to the ocean you pass a metal bird. Some artist from elsewhere was awarded to put it there where once the bogs dark, wild and sludgy spread their secretive subcutaneous dangers. A child, a boy running down from his tempestuous family to the shelter of the bogs. Each patch of grass he knows each path each trace each tree And all the birds rising hundreds, millions of wings, voices circling and settling Gone now – dried out. Wiped off the map for this motorway – and a landfill stinking dump-gulls screeching.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
The boy is a man now. Every time he drives out that motorway the South Ring on the map out to the ocean past that metal sculpture of a bird He cries the song of all those birds, growls in rage and thinks: “One day, that metal disgrace in all our faces, that ignorance of all their lost lives – One day – it’s mine.”
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JUDGEMENT I’m felling the land of my longing with words In the fight of my Inner against what’s foreign the verdict falls on myself These words bear witness to my fall
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
LOOKS The first forms the verdict. The second always strikes tinted. It comes with iron bars. The third watches in safety the danger banished in the cage. Who dares to look into the eye of the predator to uncage it – the human
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SUPERFICIALITY Cool, breathtakingly handsome he walks down the stairs to the lightened hall a cigarette in his hand. His smile and friendliness charm the make-up faces. Eyes brighten conversations of ladies in fur coats pause for a while. The champagne in their hands freezes for a second while desirous eyes glide down his gray suit down the straight crease and up to his knowing eyes. His own just go by those who do not look. He has the choice lets his eyes wander across the room full of ladies in anticipation. He picks out a face paces down the last step takes the chosen lady’s hand and speaks with a smoky voice: “I’ll give you all tonight I’ll pay for anything you want. My chauffeur is awaiting us.”
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
Then turns around guides his selection towards the door. The crowd moves as he exhales a last puff and they disappear leaving discomfort and a cold wind.
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TO THE OLD WOMAN Eyes stare windows mirror glances day in, day out and down. The street is breathing emptiness into the windowpane Life passes by outside. Eyes searching alone yet fearing mine that see the street Questioning as they meet coldness and are pushed away. Sometimes my eyes mirror yours Old Woman searching for life. Sometimes I wave at the reflection – and our eyes see at last.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
DRINKERS Isn’t it good that glass in the end becomes sand again on the bottom of the river Where else for the drinkers by dark waters at night, perhaps a fire music, a few people or again alone At hand the empty bottle by dark water Will you slip a message in on time? Or will the glass be broken at the end of the dark water and again become stone
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IN THE STATION Heavy-metal guitars on radio boom into hard iron ears – from dark corners at the escalators where untrained skaters proudly perform with expression bragging coolness their simple tricks on the rolling steps, – or from yellow walkmen in black pockets of silver-riveted leather-jackets. White poodles of chic ladies with large, red flowerhats and elegant, white gloves bark and get into fights with dark-shadowed, scrubby street-tykes wearing heavy gold-collars, who belong to dirty old men sitting homelessly under the waterproof roofs of the overcrowded train-station. Movie-youngsters styled in bluejeans run away from the tobacco-hands begging for money and love. Beerbottled hooligans oozing the odour of hash with skateboards under their feet and heavy-metal-booming walkmen in pockets of black leather-jackets try to attract the chic ladies and escape from the scrubby tykes.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
STÄDTER Alfred Wolfenstein (1914) Nah wie Löcher eines Siebes stehn Fenster beieinander, drängend fassen Häuser sich so dicht an, dass die Straßen Grau geschwollen wie Gewürgte sehn. Ineinander dicht hineingehakt Sitzen in den Trams die zwei Fassaden Leute, wo die Blicke eng ausladen Und Begierde ineinander ragt. Unsre W ände sind so dünn wie Haut, Dass ein jeder teilnimmt, wenn ich weine, Flüstern dringt hinüber wie Gegröhle: Und wie stumm in abgeschlossner Höhle Unberührt und ungeschaut Steht doch jeder fern und fühlt: alleine.
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CITY SLICKERS Dense as pinholes of a strainer windows stand together, tightly seizing houses touch so narrow that the streets look swollen grey as strangled strangers. Into one-another closely hooked in the trams are sitting two façades of people, where jammed looks expand and desires loom and interlock. Our walls are thin as skin so everyone attends me when I cry W hispers pierce across like roars: Yet like mute in solitary vaults Unaffected and unviewed Everyone stands far and feels: alone.
*Translation of Alfred Wolfenstein (1888-1945), “Städter” (1914), Version according to Pinthus/Menschheitsdämmerung 2001, p. 46
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
SUBW AY SILENCE Looks meet the eye seeking, spying for seconds into the deep – restlessly time gapes in the train Fear-struck people flinch and flee, faces derail on guard when touched and dive into flash-freeze.
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W ELTENDE Else Lasker Schüler (1904)
Es ist ein W einen in der W elt, Als ob der liebe Gott gestorben wär, Und der bleierne Schatten, der niederfällt, Lastet grabesschwer. Komm, wir wollen uns näher verbergen… Das Leben liegt in aller Herzen W ie in Särgen. Du! wir wollen uns tief küssen -Es pocht eine Sehnsucht an die W elt, An der wir sterben müssen.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
APOCALYPSE There is a weeping in the world as though our dear God had died. And the leaden shadow falling weighs as heavy as a grave. Come closer, we’ll enwomb ourselves… Life is laid out in all hearts like in a casket. You! Hold me, and we’ll deeply kiss – A yearning is beating at the world from which we must all die.
Translation of the poem “Weltende” by Else Lasker Schüler, in: Vietta, Lyrik des Expressionismus, Tübingen 1999, S. 103f
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GROUND ZERO Police the sky over Ground Zero: No angry God shall ever thunderbolt again! The sky policed – prepared for war: May no-one ever fly an outcry again! Terror is suppression – far East and W est May no just man dare to avenge the suppressed! Police the sky over Ground Zero so the angry God won’t turn around....
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
PROGRESS The sky is ablaze over Globalville W hile we thirst for warmth. Pacemakers squandering fire away: W e’re left with cropping fern frost. The world puffs out as we suck the icicles. And yet to us the horizon remains bound.
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THE CRUNCH With a frosty grasp the crunch clasps humanity: Money scrunches the free soul, squashed to ice squared the humane mind Time flows away and no-one knows where it goes to waste Cold hearts sever from love and suffer warmth withdrawal With a frosty grasp humanity clasps the crunch.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
HUMANKIND Fallen – the apple from the Mother tree – far now We try to heave the Earth out of its pit Our lever a match glowing with hope and fear into the dark of our present tortoiseshell this insidious trap in which the apple fell – We call it “World”
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PARADISE LOST The Emerald Island of the past and the present is lying – no future and dying A green mountain crumbling like glass shattered – the dreams of the many in exile The jade Land drowning – smashed the hopes of the brain-drain back home Democracy sunken by the hands of the Gods who followed the Mammon and here comes the flood: A silent implosion war without gloves Who will throw the first stone on the Emerald Island – Our Paradise – a last resort now lying in dying as Europe stands by with a deaf eye: – Paradise Lost.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
PARASITES “My People, I see red!” the Despot shouts his threat: “All those lazy welfare-dregs squandering our valued tax We’ll banish them and combat those despicable offenders! Purge the useless Parasites out of our State!” But the actual parasites live off the fat like termites They form the frame themselves that guzzles up our wealth. They call us “parasites” We’re fighting for our rights They gamble our taxes to build themselves estates. “Tighten up your belts! Save us!” scream the Despots from all seats in all senates “We forbid you to have wealth!” – Eat your rule, you thick Despot fattening up on our stocks! You’re the greedy Parasite – Time for you to take a diet!!
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THE HOBO I am the homeless man of the city I sit by the shopfronts on the streets The cup before me fills less by the day and I can clearly hear you say: “I need my funds for my family!” Yes, times are tough, but I can see: You still have more than what I need! I am a hobo on the city streets. I’m one of the begging bums of the town. Lost my house in the Tiger’s crash then I got ill, but no welfare for me. I’d love to work and have a home still with shower, my bed and a kitchen and every day a good healthy meal. But like many others I’m living rough as Europe’s demands get ever more tough. At night I sleep on a cardboard plain or hidden under it in the rain My shelter the entrance of a bank. From that golden hole in the wall I see people draw out millions of notes Yet my cup’s fill is ever so small – And you bail out the banksters for sure! I’m just a hobo on the city streets. My coat is ragged and brown from dirt I reek my stink against the wind, the crowds avoid to pass me closely and no-one speaks a gentle word. But I can clearly hear you think: “Clean yourself up and go find work!” Yet no-one invites me in for a shower. There is no job for the hobos in town.
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IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF EARTH
So I’m one of the filthy bums of the city My skin is weathered red and rough from winds and rain, and itchy from the dirt and dust of the street and the cheap grub that I eat. The soup-kitchen’s queue is longer today I’m hungry, so I join in with shame, a hobo on the sticky streets of the city. Cold in the drizzle, clammy my clothes my sleeping-bag is my lonely home and only the booze keeps me warm. So my face is red, I can’t walk straight But I can clearly hear you think: “It’s your own fault, just stop the drink!” Unaware that we’d die here without it. We’re hobos on the streets of the city. We merely exist under politics’ eyes, luckless loosers of banksters’ greed and austerity will thrust more on the streets! We trusted in Europe and welcomed wealth, but the bubble burst from their lies and stealth. So high were our hopes, our downfall so deep! And no-one bails us out – homeless at the street-corners of so many towns.
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THE WILD WILD GALES OF EIRE Oh the wild wild winds of Eire how they swipe and bend the trees. And their howling has the power like the floods from sky and seas to enforce all life’s renewal and take out what’s bad and weak. Oh the wild wild storms of Eire show us all our place on Earth. So the people duck in silence into the rolling folds of rock as they meekly wait with patience till the time comes to destruct. May the wild wild gales of Eire give their powers to the pawn. May the people rise to fight shouting: “Predators, be warned!” And may none withstand our forces until we have put things right. Oh ye wild wild winds of Eire come and cast your magic spell! Let the people of this island sweep and soar up as a gale! May the raging storms of Eire swipe the greedy sharks to hell!
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UPRISE after Weltende (1904) by Else Lasker-Schüler
There is a waiting in the world as if the earth would never die. And we plumply doze in funds, weighing heavy as a grave watching splurging wasting dumb. Come, we want to live again, feet on the ground, spirit in the blue and the heart in the left place. You! Lets arise. Revolt. Renew! – So for our frantic waiting our children won’t die too.
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RECESSION LOVE Once upon a time in Eire the Celtic Tiger held the reins, It was all awash with money and the sunshine beat the rains So I came to Emerald Island, like many following their dreams Here I found my hope and lover and a land so strong it seemed Now I’m grieving for this country for its peoples’ breaking heart, for this time of bank corruption has broke their bonds apart For my lover I am grieving I pray his fire will revive, for this boom of Celtic sell-out just broke his back – his life And I’m grieving for his loving Our love is weeping too, for this time of hard endurance has torn our bond in two And I’m grieving for the children who feel like ripped apart, like an angel with one wing, the scar runs through their heart For this homeland I am grieving, for my hopes and all the strife that have brought me here to love and to bring this love to life Oh, I’m grieving for this country and for all whose dreams must go, for it was this outer hardship that broke our love with woe.
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ULTRA MODERNITY Oh world of modern time, mindlessly uprooted homo progressivus’ feet are off the ground Always out of breath, unswervingly pathless – shattered by velocity to the power of infinity. We’re disintegrated by the speed of progress frantically entangled in the data-craze excess. Homeless is the mind from heaven detached dredging the gloom in the woe of solitude with no light and wisdom ruthlessly unlatched feeble and confused in its quest to thrive. Homo rationalis to blame for segregation the root of abjuration, inactivating life. All is out of place when the heart is unheard Blindness of history as greed rules the world. So far from one another, hard and cold to Earth What we do unto us and every other being – We react like victims dispossessed and homeless and our divided downfall is abysmal, boundless. How will this twisted raging in the world resolve if we won’t make a turn for ourselves to evolve.…
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OTHER dim dulling dumbed speech inarbitrarily in circus-dressing fitting into smiles don’t look behind the mirror. it could be a different world
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NO TITLE The writer in me sticks his head out – sometimes like nipples or bubbles and POP ––– Gone.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Readers, This collection of poetry is my personal credo and message. I look at the Earth as a living being which we are all part of. From that faith rises a heartfelt spiritual responsibility to protect and care for our planet. This includes to be political in the sense of “organising our living environment together”, and to take a critical look at what happens in society and the world around us. Shaping life with re-spect towards all fellow beings and the Earth is a social responsibility to me, as much as it is a spiritual one. May these poems move your hearts and minds, so together we can rise and “shape life to the consciousness of Earth”. Rosalin Blue
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BIBLIOGRAPHY
Some poems were published in Irish jounals and anthologies: “The Old Oak” (III/3), “Religion”, “Summer Hop” (IV/1-2) in: Five Words Volumes, published annually by Ó Bhéal, Cork, Ireland 2009-12. “Religion” in: Revival Poetry Journal No.16, Limerick, Ireland 2010, p. 29. “In the Station”, “Dawning” in: An Gob Saor, A Cork Millennium Anthology, Munster Literature Centre, Cork Ireland 2000, pp. 52, 54. “Recession Love” a video recording of the song at the Occupy Cork Protest on December 3rd 2011 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iKV3dDdqorg Some poems have appeared in their German versions in journals and anthologies in Germany: Journals: “Gezeiten” (Tides), “Der Mangel” (The Crunch), “Neubeginn” (Begin Anew), in: Der Krähende Hahn Literatur-Zeitschrift, Eckhard Stütze (Hg.), Hildesheim, Germany 1999/2000. “Wassermond” (Water-Moon), “Neubeginn” (Begin Anew), “Über Ewigkeit” (About Eternity), “Botschaft” (Message) in: ZwischenZeit Literatur No. 2, Hg. Roland Prüfer und Markus Meister, Hildesheim, Germany May 2001, pp. 10-15. Anthologies: “Gezeiten” (Tides) in: Dichter und Schriftsteller Deutschlands 1996. Echterdingen, Germany 1996, p. 26. “Neubeginn” (Begin Anew) In: Wir sind aus solchem Zeug, wie das zu träumen. Anthology of new German Poetry. Edition L, Hockenheim, Germany 1997, p. 39. “An die Alte Frau” (To the Old Woman) (German and Russian translation) in: Wenn doch die Erde sich erwärmte. Anthology of Russian and German Poetry from Gelendjik and Hildesheim. Verlag Lax, Hildesheim Germany 1998, pp. 64/65. “oder” (other) in: Frankfurter Edition, Gedicht und Gesellschaft, Jahrbuch fur das neue Gedicht, Goethe Gesellschaft Frankfurt, Germany 2001, p. 724 The chapbook Suche und Ohnmacht for my thesis contains the German versions of the poems “Subway Silence” (Zugzwang), “Progress” (Fortschritt), “Troubled Land” (Wehes Land) and “other” (oder): Susanne Fiessler, “Entfremdung und Sprachzerfall. Spuren des skeptischen Expressionismus in der Lyrik Rosalin Blues.” Praktischliteraturwissenschaftliche Diplomarbeit im Studiengang Angewandte 66
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Kulturwissenschaften und Ästhetische Praxis, Fach Literatur. Universität Hildesheim 2008; enthält Manuskript von 15 Gedichten Blues: “Suche und Ohnmacht. Texte aus der Sprachlehrzeit, von Rosalin Blue; CD mit Aufnahmen der Texte liegt bei. Susanne Fiessler, “Dissociation and Linguistic Breakdown. Traces of Sceptical Expressionism in the Poetry of Rosalin Blue.” University of Hildesheim 2008; includes Chapbook of 15 poems by Rosalin Blue: “Search and Powerlessness. Poems from the Lessons of Language, by Rosalin Blue; CD with recordings of poems included The originals of the two Expressionist poems are published in: “Städter” (1914) by Alfred Wolfenstein (1888-1945), in: Kurt Pinthus, Menschheitsdämmerung. Ein Dokument des Expressionismus, Ernst Rowohlt Verlag, (1st edition 1920), Berlin 2001, p. 46. “Weltende” by Else Lasker Schüler, first published in Die Gesammelten Gedichte, Leipzig 1917. Taken from: Silvio Vietta, Lyrik des Expressionismus, 4th edition, Max Niemeyer Verlag, Tübingen 1999, S. 103f
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L A P W I N G PUB L I C A T I O N S
ROSALIN BLUE
…was born in a small town near Cologne in 1973 and schooled in Münster, Germany. She has an MA in “Cultural Studies and Applied Arts” from the University of Hildesheim. Her thesis compares a selection of her own poetry with Expressionist poetry (1910-1920). During her studies, Blue performed her poetry in various locations in Germany and co-organised poetry readings, focussing on PR, programme design and MC. After visiting Ireland a few times, Blue followed the vibrant literary life in Ireland and came to Cork in 2000 for an internship with the Munster Literature Centre. She was also involved in readings with Cork Women’s Writer’s Group and Tígh Filí. Five years later, she finally moved to Cork with her daughter and currently works as a Project Assistant at the Triskel Arts Centre, Cork. Blue has performed in poetry readings on various occasions i.e. in the Future Forest, at the Irish Green Gathering, on Culture Night, on International Women‘s Day and at Ó Bhéal open mike nights. She has also performed in Poetry Slams in Munster. Her poems have appeared in Southword, An Gob Saor, A Cork Millennium Anthology by the Munster Literature Centre, the Revival Poetry Journal and the Five Words Volumes published by Ó Bhéal. Blue has also published some poetry in literary magazines and anthologies in Germany. This collection of poetry is her first independent publication.
The Lapwing is a bird, in Irish lore - so it has been written indicative of hope. Printed by Kestrel Print. Hand-bound at the Winepress, Ireland
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