Day Nine: Rebellion of Many Forms

Some lines need to be said more than one time. For day Nine.

🍪

Advertisements

Day Seven: Some Mornings

They fall from the trees like

gold coins, these beams

filtering down

settling like dust with a whisper

on the ground

and the jackdaws voice their protest

outraged, shrilly

quarreling

Somewhere

in this patch of sunlight

there is the warmth

of your arms around me

The softest kiss

a trace of heat

and all the hope,

the undeniable hope,

of every morning

I sit, cross legged

and let the light

set my hair on fire

All bronze knives and steel glints

red hot edges

being quenched in running water.

I sit, and I must think of you

Some Mornings

07.04.2019

Day Seven of NaPoWriMo. 🙂 Tag me in your work! 😍

Day 3: Leviathans dans le ciel

Monsters, even in the skies. That white whale defeats me yet. .

.

.

.

.

Day 3 of NaPoWriMo. Oh, we’re doing this! ☀️

.

.

.

Your Cookie has been traveling. Spring greetings from Bonn, Germany. Who’s in the neighborhood? 🙃

Day 23: Fugue State: A Wind of Change?

Can you be nostalgic for a time that you never lived?

Now, I understand completely how gauche it is to use a link and reference of this level of recognition for a pigdin little piece, but bear with me. I’d been meaning to write for this song for a while now, and the prompt for today gave me the push I needed.

It’s a curious bit of happenstance, really. I was on my way to the library, in a vaguely unsettled frame of mind, and Wind of Change by the Scorpions was the first song on my playlist. I ended up listening to it on repeat, because it was making me feel mournful but hopeful, which is a good thing to take away from a bad morning. After having listened to it eight times times, plus one time right outside,  I walked into the library to finish my book.

I was three chapters into Erben der Erinnerung by Philip Meinhold, which was the only perspective book on the Holocaust I’d found in our German library. It’s a singularly stark and stirring description from a man examining three generations’ worth of emotional inheritance. The lack of delicate handling of the theme and his prose create an almost tangible atmosphere around the reader, and I’m bad at separating myself from words to begin with. I kept reading and would have taken too much away from it, had the last chapter not included a sudden mention of Wind of Change by the Scorpions, and the importance of remembering your own place, too.

Naturally, I was floored. It’s a decently sized coincidence that I spend all morning binge-listening to a song, and it happens to show up again a few hours later, at the back of a book that would have left me disturbed. I was sitting there, staring at the book like a foreign entity, when a loud CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! alarm went off, and we were herded out for a fire drill. I walked out into the garden clutching the book, for all purposes yanked rudely out of a fugue state. Everyone was chattering excitedly as we waited in the wintry sunlight for the all clear, and I leaned against the embankment, watching the girl next to me gesticulate wildly, with a mini-extinguisher tucked under her elbow. It woke me up for five minutes, and ten minutes later the effect of the book receded somewhat more…..  but why should it have had that effect at all?

Can we be nostalgic for a time we didn’t know? Millenials who are moved to tears by Toto’s Africa, or every Rock lover in his teens who swears by the unchallenged greatness of AC/DC- what are they nostalgic for? “They don’t make music like this anymore”. You’ll read the same refrain under every music video on YouTube from ten to fifty years old. But what do  you want? How do you plead allegiance and understanding to a world even your parents didn’t exist in?

And yet, I’d be loathe to call it pretentiousness, because it isn’t. We want to feel understood. We want to feel belonging, in a place or time where it feels as though what we are feeling reverberates with everyone. That wanting fuels this nostalgia, this ache and unsettledness,  sense of unhappiness, that had I been born in this time, or had these places/people/events existed as they do in this bit of recording, we would have been happy. And while that is testament to how much music can evoke, I’ll blame our own unreality a little, too.

Or at least, mine. Being enthralled is one thing. Being adrift, another. After a point, it’s not the burden of creativity but the sheer inability to cut the umbilical to a world that doesn’t exist anymore. We are in the here and now. And it’s often ugly and unbearable, but this is where we exist. There isn’t any refuge in an imaginary world. But there is respite, and I’m grateful for it.

It’s hard to walk away completely unfeeling, when you read descriptions of such horrors. Of pain that has saturated generations, of children born angry for an injustice their parents haven’t known. A world away from all this, even dipping your toes leaves you walking stained for a little while.

But walk away. We cannot look to a future when we inflict the past upon ourselves repeatedly. And there’s still hope. There’s a wind of change coming yet.

Fugue States

This road does not exist

The houses long burnt down

Someone wrote of the cracked bones

Embedded in the ground

Trees have grown over the paths

Rain took the remains

Yet I stand and stare at what was

And come away stained

What lives here has already endured

a hundred years, will live a thousand more

There are traces of words in every inch

Handprints on the walls and floors

My fingers know the stories here

Hieroglyphs, stick figures, seeds,

Unfathomable as an alien landscape

Unblinkingly there, like a wound that bleeds

Again, and again

I hum to the refrain

I don’t know this language

Of a world that is ashes

But I’ll cry for them, because

we all speak pain.

We all speak pain.

©️Yusra

23.04.2018

Day Twenty : New?

Strip away every known.

Every tendency

every fallacy

Clean off the bone

Past the skin but

leave the poetry

wash the words away

Dull the clarity

Take the lessons

-spare the sins

They have no meaning.

Dissect understanding.

Amputate

that knife edge balance

of what I have and

what it takes

Snip, snip, all the habits

Every face

Remove the wings

Bind the fingers

Stitch the lips into closing,

eyes frozen

I take every bit of I from me

and I

still remain

But who am I then?

New?

©️Yusra

19.04.2018

Day Sixteen : Hey- Hey!

Hey- Hey!

Chalk white on grass green
Stains on socks, ankle deep
Slick, wet, slip and fall
Feint if you’ve been touched at all
False move, halfback
pay your due
Center forward’s rushing you
Set up, Stopper, wingers in
Charge, set up the ball again
and fail
and crash
Three naught and rack
Slip down the table
Season’s done
Home field advantage
And overrun

But still the wave, still the hands
Roaring voices from the stands
Loyalties to strangers’ blood and
Waving flags from No Man’s Lands

Allegiance is a choice
Like few others, like end lines
Once you cross it, you don’t switch
Scorch or scorn, clear or collide

Some fealties are wrought in stone
Like this one: You’ll Never Walk Alone

c. Yusra

16.04.2018

For Day Sixteen of NaMPoWriMo, I decided to take the easy route and write an unabashed love letter to Liverpool FC. And why not, too. Once upon a time, a little girl started watching football because of them, and never switched teams, or favorite sports. ❤

YNWA!

-C ❤️