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We looked inside some of the posts by misssophieoftheupstairsaviary and here's what we found interesting.
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17
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back in the attic of my soul a box bangs open and lets loose a spring with dormant love that bounces round my jittery heart and won't be recontained.
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Autumn
Mist hangs in the trees Two sunbeams creep 'cross the road Our twined breaths curdle.
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Rain
Yesterday: Thirty-one degrees Once more, As every day, For weeks.
« Il fait beau et il fait chaud, » My students learn in French. No one knows the word for rain. Toddlers can‘t recall what clouds look like; “Like dripping sheep up in the sky,” Their parents say. The children ask, “When do they baa?”
The city has been fossilised. Wetness? Nothing more than an illusion’s faded smell. All summer I‘ve been narcotised, Sleep-walking through hot dreams With feet and sandals grey; At work I sneeze and see I didn’t wipe the dust Off where it gathered yesterday.
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Home Leave
The air is ripe with cheery chatter
of starlings in my cherry trees
in the backyard of my childhood home
and from the hundred windows
of my neighbours' souls
looks no one but a single tabby cat.
I don't know her name and anyway,
if I dared to ask she would not tell me
for I have made myself a stranger
in this land of wallowing ranunculus
and stones too sunny-hot to walk on
with naked little feet.
the walls, they miss the echo of high voices,
just like the sky has rid itself of clouds in vain today
for the elderly can take the stairs no more
to go outside.
and their windows don't need cleaning anymore
for catharactic eyes are content if they can
make out the sill beneath their feet.
the cat survives, the sole heir of my happiness.
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To the Swift in Church on a Summer Sunday
O visitor, o captive Sunday swift, do tell,
How does it feel to circle these high holy naves
On the sound waves of Bach‘s Fugue in d-minor
Played silver-loud on fifteen-hundred pipes of tin?
Have you an ear for what delights a human heart,
What we proudly deem our species‘ best achievements?
Is our song preferable to wing-beat silence?
Which organ pipe most closely resembles God‘s voice?
Who opened wide the portal doors for morning air
To rinse out summer‘s heavy breath, who let you in?
What drew you here and is worth more than the vast skies
For you to make yourself our prisoner of the day?
Are you inclined to nest in song-filled arteries
And build a home within the rosignolo stop,
Where tiny pipes will sigh like whispers of my soul?
And if you did, could I one day drop in for tea?
How do the golden spikes of the high altarpiece
Twinkle from just below the vaulted sky? And, say,
How many freckles did you count on Mary‘s cheeks
Up there next to the saints with everlasting smiles?
How many of the friendly thousands have you met
Of shy dust bunnies hiding in their organ home?
And when we leave the church for tea and Sunday roasts
Who do you have to wait for you outside these walls?
Who can go home today and doubt when we have been
Dancing on breath, a hundred souls on your grey wings?
Just like the swiftest shadow of an ancient flame,
With you, the Holy Ghost was here for us to see.
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Sous Un Ciel Haut
Où se termine-t-elle,
la liberté
de respirer sans restriction ?
Il faut se transformer en arbre ou en hélicoptère
ici, parmi les tours de verre gris où
toute évolution que l’on me permet
est celle en vertical.
Si je lève mes bras
et mes yeux avec eux,
le toit est – avec un peu d’effort (ou de chance ?) – touchable
mais jamais le ciel.
Je tourne sur moi-même pour trouver
des compagnons de voyage
mais personne ne relève la tête
et l’espoir d’un fois juste embrasser
l’étoile
ne reste que le mien.
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In Lieu of Saying Goodbye
I drew a dew-dropping heart on the window
And nobody knows to whom it belongs.
Take care of yourself — it may not be much
But please don‘t forget what we have.
Our last embrace remains lost
In the folds of our coats,
Now my glasses have fogged up
And my coat will smell of stale coffee for days.
I cannot remember you in my arms
And there is no-one to take the blame for it
But me, who let you vanish, distractedly—
Next year, I want to be more careful.
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Im März
Angelehnt an's Nachtbahnfenster
Brennt mein rechtes Auge ungefähr
Vier Tränen lang
Als wär' das Denken an dich Zwiebelöl.
Die Schlehe blüht
Und morgen sind es achtzehn Grad
Ich atme tief und solch nachtkalter Blütenduft
Wird dieses Jahr der deine sein.
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Spiegellos
Ich wohne in mir
Wie in einem Kloster
Ohne mich selbst zu betrachten
Ich weiß, wer ich bin
Mit nach außen gerichtetem Blick
Im Echo der Stimmen in meinem Gemäuer
Und meiner Reflexion in Anderer Augen
Mein Name ist nicht mehr Narzissa
Und ich habe mich selbst zur Schwester.
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Nach dem Winterspaziergang
Hier sind die Wege mit Feenhaar gestreut,
Das ist wie meine verklärten Träume nachts Ein Zeichen guter Luftqualität.
Am Fenster lehnst du,
Malst Herzen in den Hauch
Und an der Scheibe sitzen zwei Fliegen Im Präteritum und summen
Von Sommer, während draußen
Im Lichtkreis der einen Laterne
Der Schnee fällt.
Die Flocken so dick, Dass sie Schatten werfen
Auf den Boden dieser unentdeckten Welt.
Du drehst dich um und lächelst,
Wie schnell rieselt eigentlich Schnee?,
Und im Ofen atmet der Käse
Im Takt deines Herzschlags.
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Requiem for a Chameleon
The chameleon in my front yard is dying:
It‘s changing its hues,
Turns hotter and brighter but oh!
Where are the blues?
Its scales are floating on the breeze
And gathered close around its feet —
The coloured carpet will be home
To those alive, and yet alone.
Within a day, my friend is gone
Up in blushed mist, and here remains
A thought of life, just summer-long —
You‘ve never seen this, a chameleon‘s skeleton?
Some hermit, on a hollow night,
Whispers to me, when miracles are liquefied,
Of resurrection after winter‘s lull,
“Year after year, it gets more beautiful.”
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The frost won't leave and so I drink
Four pints of tea a day,
In a big mug against
The absence of your hand in mine.
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Nebenjob (2021)
was ich mich frage, während ich ohne maske auf einem drehstuhl durch's labor kreisele:
wieverteilensichmeineaerosolewennichmichbeimatmenimkreisdrehe?
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Mon Hiver (2020)
Voilà, c'est le temps
De la neige qui tombe
Du ciel dormant.
Tu le caches sur ta langue,
Et je ne suis pas sûre
Qui est plus joli :
Toi, ou le flocon de neige ?
*
Et de temps en temps,
On se moque du printemps,
Quand l'éclat de lumière
Et beaucoup de bougies
Se reflètent vivement.
L'éclat danse sur les vitres
Et dans tes yeux brillants.
*
L'hiver, c'est le temps
Pour imaginer :
Nous faisons des plans,
Qu'est-ce qu'on fait en été ?
Tout est en suspens,
Tout semble possible
Et le monde s'offre à nous.
*
La fin d'année est hésitante
Quand, sans aucun but,
Nous cheminons dans les rues
Et l'amour flotte au vent.
Nous passons à côté des sapins,
Main dans la main,
Les mains dans les gants.
— 2020
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Precautions
"Gently, gently with my heart!",
she cried from floor thirteen.
"Don't drop it on the stairs, or worse,
and leave room in-between
my heart and all the other dirt
in your removal van."
— 2020
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