Thinking about making poems for stitching yesterday,
I remembered one I wrote some years ago just around
this time of year, and dug it out. I wrote it after
having traveled (which normally I avoid at all costs)
by tram to the eastern outskirts of town.
It´s not the kind of poem one´d want to embroider on
a doily, I´m willing to admit…
But, to avow to my revived ambitions, here it is:

In der Tram

Skladanowsky- via Friedrich-Engels-Straße.
Leute, Autos, Laster, Straßenbahnen. Wir sind alle
Reisende nach anderswo.
Wer sich eben jung und lustig fühlen mochte,
ahnt nun wieder, dass er zweiundfünfzig wird.
Penny, Lidl, Extra, Truxa-Bier, Sporteck, Bärenhöhle.
Reparatur von Unterhaltungsautomaten.
Schöne Bescherung (ein Filialist, der totgeborene Blumen
handelt, wünscht uns das in Rot auf Gold).
I´m dreaming. Die Tram ist ziemlich voll.
Häuser neben Häusern. Verteidigen inzwischen einen
Streifen eignen Grund.
Fliegengitter. Man weiß ja nie. Vogelhaus
mit Knödeln für die Meisen.
Schneemann aus Folie, der
selbst gesetzt den Fall, es schneite) nicht
nachher zerränne wie die Träume.
Aus oberen Etagen türmen Weihnachtsmänner, schlaffe
Säcke auf den Rücken.
Just like the ones I used to know. Die Tram wird schneller.
Plakate rufen auf, für´s Krisentelefon zu spenden
(Vor 2 Jahren brach er ihr Herz. Gestern 2 Rippen).
I´ll be coming home for Christmas. I´ll be coming home
to you.
Die Tram ist da.

Skladanowsky- via Friedrich-Engels Street.
People, cars, trucks, trams. We´re all
travellers to somewhere else.
One who might have been feeling young and merry
just before, regains a sense of turning fifty two.
Penny, Lidl, Extra, Truxa beer, Sporteck, Bärenhöhle.
Slot machine repair.
A nice mess* (a chain store, dealing deadborn flowers,
wishes that to us in red on gold).
I´m dreaming. The tram´s quite crowded.
Houses next to houses. Defending each a strip
of ground by now.
Fly-screens. One never knows. Birdhouse with dumplings
for the tits.
Foil snowman, which (even so there´d be some snow)
wouldn´t vanish later like the dreams.
From upper floors skedaddle Santa Clauses,
shouldering slack sacks.
Just like the ones I used to know. The tram speeds up.
Posters ask for donations to a crisis hotline (2 years
ago he broke her heart. Yesterday 2 rips).
I´ll be coming home for Christmas. I´ll be coming home
to you.
The tram´s arrived.

(* in German, schöne Bescherung means
nice distribution of presents as well
as a nice mess)


jude hat gesagt…

hey listen, i love your love of the words of others but i love your own in the context of your blog. now it is just perfect.

arlee hat gesagt…

ah.,but there are lines in there that could be used--

Chris Gray hat gesagt…

..I agree with jude....

..now IS the time....


Leslie Avon Miller hat gesagt…

You tell a story of observing, the kind I love, with everyday bits held like jewels for us to ponder.

ger hat gesagt…

Thank you... I still kind of like it myself... I´ll do my best to deliver fresh supply - but as rewarding it might be (not to mention it´s qualities as a timekeeper...), writing poetry is pretty hard work, too...

Eva hat gesagt…

I like it a lot. In both languages. The images are really vivid and remind me of being in similar trams...

ger hat gesagt…

Thank you, Eva...

ArtSparker hat gesagt…

Trammeled joy, then.

More, please.

ger hat gesagt…

We´ll see how it goes... thanks

Robin Olsen hat gesagt…

You have lovely bits here that could be embroidered on one of your pieces! "We're all travellers to somewhere else" sounds like a great start to a long, involved piece.

ger hat gesagt…

When I come to think about it - I guess your´re right...! Thanks, Robin...