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Entries tagged 'cat:Poetry'


It was recently put into my mind that a purpose of poetry might be to conver emotions independent from the meaning of its words, phrases and sentences. It might not matter that one doesn't understand the words and lines of poetry or can't relate to what they say. One can take away something from it anyway, by obtaining some mood or getting an idea or a case for thought.

That bis a new idea to me. Kepping that in mind, I may be able to enjoy more poetry. As long as I don't feel compelled to try to understand what must be the one true meaning of a piece of poetry, I may get something else out of it, whether it's what the author intended or thought of or not.

That thought shouldn't feel so new to me. There is music that I enjoy listening to without understanding the lyrics, either because I don't know the language and never bothered to translate them or because their meaning isn't clear to me. And there is Sigur Rós whose lyrics are mostly in "Volenska", a language that has no meaning by itself. The voice is more like an instrument. I enjoy many of their songs. But I usually expect a poem to have a clear meaning. Maybe not anymore.

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sturm, kein blatt bleibt
gluecklich, wer das gestern
rechtzeitig in den keller brachte

im dunkel des neuen jahres
das dunkel des alten
die aufgehende sonne taut
den glitzernden schnee

Unpublished Poetry

There was a time where my days were more influenced by poetry. A time where I ruminated more about feelings. At that time I was a regular reader of some web forums that were hardly or not specific to any topic. Do you remember those web forums? It may have been created as a place for a group of friends to interact online, but kept public, growing into a close community of so-called virtual friends. Or it may have been created to be a place to mainly discuss things around a single topic, like most web forums, but the off-topic sub-forum developed to be an important part of people's lifes, or even the main purpose to visit the web site. Or it may have been a web forum that was created for no declared reason, as a learning object for somebody who wanted to learn more about computers and web hosting. I loved those places. I still love the memories of them, and the thought that I was carelessly interacting with strangers back then, without the issues that are inherent in posting something to an unknown or wide audience of people today.

Anyway, I stumbled over short poems in 2008 that one user kept posting from time to time. Sometimes two a day, sometimes one a quarter. He was posting those for years and usually got no, seldom one, reply. I don't know what meaningful things people could have replied to them. They were just expressions of the authors feelings at the time, philosophical thoughts in a poetic dress, sometimes short stories, furious or gleeful, of events in the author's life. I didn't understand why they didn't catch more attention, expression of gratitude, attempts at answers to open questions or reader's thoughts from their own viewpoint. After all, they posted them publicly, in a friendly community, where it was expected to get all sorts of replies. Maybe the poems didn't often resonate with a lot of people. But many of them did with me. I never before thought that poetry would ever build a nest in my head. But theirs did, before I noticed. They hit a spot in my mind that I didn't know was perfect for reading and feeling poetry. I made a compilation of their posts in which I was sure to find a piece to cheer me up when needed, get the strength to make the right decision against my intuition when I knew my intuition wasn't a good guide, and all sorts of other little helpers in everyday life, as well as new thoughts I wasn't looking for. In that nest in my head there soon were my own thoughts and experiences, that, at some point, wanted to leave that nest. So I made some effort to form them into nice sentences, phrases, lines, sometimes rimes. That is, I started to write my own poetry. It felt necessary. Those thoughts had to go somewhere. I wasn't any good at it, which is why this entry is about somebody else's unpublished poetry, not mine. Mine fell to the ground as soon as they left the nest, and I didn't care for them enough to make them into something that I would have deemed worth backing up or copying to a new hard disk when necessary. I didn't even remember them when I typed the title of this entry.

But the poems of this unnamed author were good. I was back then and pretty much still am as uneducated and inexperienced in poetry as I every was. I have no clue what a good poem is. But their pieces are really good, judged by the effect they had on myself back then and the feelings that they are still able to produce in me today when I read some of them. One time I got into a conversation with the author over personal messages and mentioned the compilation that I made. They replied with a PDF of their own, a complete (up until that day) compilation. It contained many poems that they hadn't published. Some of them because they were too personal or could have the potential to identify them. Many of the published ones were very personal, too. But they didn't want them to be connected to his person in "real life". I promised that I'll never share them with anyone, no matter how much I think they ought to be enjoyed by or given the opportunity to help others. And that's the reason I'm writing this entry instead of posting the PDF. I guess it is considered wrong to tell somebody that there is a secret that you won't say anything about except the fact that it is secret. Allegedly that's no use for anybody. I don't think that's true. It has the use for me to have shared what I sometimes can't stop thinking about and, hopefully, payed a little bit of tribute to the anonymous author.

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reden und streicheln

reden trennt
und streicheln
überwindet die trennung
oder reden überwindet
damit wir streicheln können
oder überwinden wir uns
erst zum reden, dann zum streicheln
oder streicheln wir,
reden dann,
das alles
und sind wieder

Copyright 1998 Andrea Reinhardt


wenn morgens die Bäckereiverkäuferin fragt:
"was arbeiten sie zur Zeit"
antworte ich zögernd
"über die Wahrheit"
"ach ja" entgegnet sie zerstreut,
ich bezahle schnell und gehe.
Davon kann frau natürlich keine Brötchen kaufen,
viele von uns gehen putzen
manche bezahlt
manche sind verheiratet.
Xanthippe hatte geheiratet,
um die Wahrheit zu suchen,
tat es mit dem Größten ihrer Zeit,
über Kinder und Haushalt
vergaß sie niemals
die Suche nach Wahrheit,
doch wir vergaßen,
ihr Suchen aufzuschreiben
und erinnern uns nur
an die keifende Hausfrau

Copyright 1998 Andrea Reinhardt

Leben im Konjunktiv

wäre es anders?
wären wir verheiratet
nicht mit anderen,
oder würde es uns fehlen
das Spiel mit dem

Copyright 1998 Andrea Reinhardt

zu alt

Mußte ich erst soo alt werden
einen Mann kennen lernen, der noch 10 Jahre länger gelebt hat
um festzustellen, daß es das wirklich gibt
wovon die Frauenzeitschriften in ihren
Berichten über Männergruppen schreiben
einen Mann, der über Gefühle sprechen kann?
Eines ist klar:
ein solcher Mann ist unwiderstehlich,
wenn sich das rumspricht,
gibt es für die Frauen,
kein halten mehr.

Copyright 1998 Andrea Reinhardt

keller oder tisch?

wieder einen mann
im wein ertränkt
im rückblick hat er
den guten tropfen nicht
also nüchtern bleiben
und gedichte schreiben
dann habe ich
keine leichen im keller
aber tote auf dem tisch

Copyright 1998 Andrea Reinhardt