SVEN KRETZSCHMAR

★ ★ ★ ★

POETRY

A private sphere

True silence exists
in a bathroom only;
it opens a space for inner turbulence,
intimate musings, and the feeling
of not opted-for solitariness. Specially
in the night you can be sad there
in a proper fashion; feel the towel
soft as a ghost when it comes
and goes drying the wetness under
these eyes of yours scanning the mirror
for answers not to be found in any reflection;
better accept you are alone in your flesh,
until a flushing toilet and water
rapidly streaming through the sink
and into the drain bring you
to your senses and reassure you
to unlock the bathroom door into a world
of noise; where rain will dampen your face again,
but rain clouds will give shelter
covering your red-rimmed eyes.

Involuntarily awake
(at Kinlay House)

A chainsaw commencing.
The grunting of boars.
Death rattle in the trenches of Flanders.
Grumble of a young man’s stomach in the early morn.
Tyres rolling slowly on abrasive asphalt.
A sound like charcoal getting crushed under a door.

Roar of thunder on a hot summer afternoon.
Clatter of an old moped standing at the stoplight.
Tearing a glued carpet off a concrete floor.
A scree avalanche roaring down toward the valley.
Somebody practising for a competition in snoring.
A chainsaw at-rest.

Can you imagine now what kept me up all night?

A dream

I missed the blood moon
Never mind – I was sleeping

and I dreamed of you