how?

how does one poetize from 
the thoughtless place
there where it is 
only pure spontaneous metaphor
that leaks recklessly from the throat
and in filigree syllables
drips like stalactites in ears?

nucleus

every morning my spine thaws
and truly, it is my wings that keep on stirring
right into the primordial nucleus
of sensation of the embryonic darkness
that luckily has enough throat 
to groan with the stubborn will of flight

like nails

poetry grows slowly and patiently 
like nails

and like nails poetry is there 
to scratch the itch

and even when the body dies
the nails keep on growing

word-fever

my fingers shake the sweat 
of the word-fever over
the holes of your ears
that are the subways to 
the underground of your souls
the mercury in the tube 
of your mouths
breaks free with the pressured heat
of the unmasking feverability of word

 - Lara Kirsten

In downy mist

In downy mist

the robin sits,

repeating patterns of notes,

practising sweetly.

His end trill I know

from a robin at home –

it must be the fashion

among robins this season.

In downy mist

the robin sits

practising sweetly 

his song.

Married couple at evening

Elbows on a low leather pouffe,

bum warm before a fire

she’s stretched in catlike twist

eyes closed

ears pricked

hearing

the rain

stop,

her husband’s hand shift

on the page

where his poem is coming

into being.

Clouds

Flat-bummed clouds

sit on the air

as if it were

a pane of glass.

 -  Silke Heiss