Karinaland River

  Die Blechtrommel   The Tin Drum by Günter Grass holds a special place in my life. It has history. Growing up in Germany, I am reading it for the first time in 1966, at the tender age of thirteen. Later I keep returning, to the English translation as well. Published in 1959, the novel is part of early post World War Two literature engaging in the necessary work of collective re-membering via literature – Erinnerungsliteratur . There is no walking forward without doing the work of “re-collecting” as an act of repairing, bringing light and insight. Artists often know how to do this well. Shame, guilt, denial. The novel’s broader historical setting is familiar to me already, thanks to my unique parents. Both looking to new ways of dealing personally and collectively with the nation’s horrific past. Political satire, subtle and grotesque humor, poetic imagery, all embodied by the voice of the ‘untrustworthy’ narrator named Oskar. For my young teenage spirit, the style of magic r...

  Honesty as an act of resistance full moon freely illuminates forlorn nights will try to teach us wistful winds, the chimes will speak direct and multi-languaged, but never double tongued   as an act of resistance skeleton of sand, grains, waves soundless honest shapes, sign language whatever we always obeyed, submitted to avoiding, actively ignoring plain truth courage to be   bison being, human memories still haunting us because we did not ask, could not face what is in front of us till death enters as an act of revelation we never admitted, but it was always present   whether rudely robbing, extorting enslaving, exterminating, hiding history not willing to unmask, we take part passively gladly removed, also seemingly so innocent fierce rays of suffering now reveal helpless resisting   cold tragedy, troubled business of peace directly avoiding deft dialogue, within, without dutifully we remain deaf-blind to what is in the picture till clearly a...

  Ode to Loss When loss strikes, we have to dig deep. Such goes the saying. Looking back at the arc of my life, I realize what a large part loss has played, small and big, devastating and minor. Unexpected, and unavoidable, always carrying gifts and growth with it. Offering transformation in mysterious ways. On our life’s path, we encounter many kinds of valleys and mountains, rains and melting snow. Gentle or ferocious, our sorrow sings in streams, roars in rivers. On a steep winding trail, measured steps merge rhythmically with heartbeat. Resting on a mossed covered rock, we spot hidden mushrooms. Gratefully polishing an apple, eating it whole, leaving only the stem behind. Slices of rye bread held together with sweet butter. New ways of being, people, things, emerge miraculously. Nothing stays the same when we lose. A friend, a partner, a homeland. That’s why I fall in love with the little blue shovel that finds me – out of the blue – at the beach in January, after the last fero...

My Snake Skin   Once upon a time – a long long time ago – there was and was not, a little girl traveling over the big big ocean on a big big ship, as big as a village, or even bigger. She was not alone however. Her mother, father and brother were there too. On this boat life seemed strange and boring. All around were grey sky and ocean, sometimes blue. And waves, nothing else. People speaking all kind of languages, sitting in deck chairs, reading, bundled up. But when they land, it becomes interesting. Finally, they have arrived on this other continent. The family is going to live in the south of Brazil, far far from Germany.  A new life.  In a simple small home. And a yard with banana, mulberry, goiaba (guava), maracujá and orange trees, date palms and many bright big flowers. Magic all around. The little girl is called Jutta. She feels very close to her brother Heiner who is one year younger. They play outside all the time. It is balmy, sometimes hot, lots of sun. And r...

the ocean breathes courage to be In Service   der Ozean atmet silvery skin expanding breath enters   brings relief and nothing is more important than salt   life   light   broken shells   first there is hunger   is thirst   but now now   or is it later   we break the shell this takes courage   Mut zum Leben oh   how fragile   breathing hurts bitter medicine   all fields open   no walls no fences   bubbling wells what are we tending   spider is waiting ready to jump on prey   now   now   now is so beautiful is hungry is crying is shivering is pulsing trembling wandering drinking sighing   always   always we come back to who we are our soul remembers   awe is useful   circling walking in the green valley of mystery nobody robs us   nobody rushes us grains of sand...

  Where Are We?   No-one knows Minute to minute Everyone has to adjust   No more mercy No more seasons Nothing to count on   Where is the middle Center of splendor Safe and calm   Truly precious Our smallness grows Dusty ashes in the wind   Splashed with pure curiosity We witness willows’ Salty sorrow   And first ginkgo petals Sweet green Young   Tango tunes leaping from Smiling moon above Our ears unfold   Everyone is blabbering on As if it is normal to be Disappeared alone   Terror and boots On the ground Without roots   Alive today Dead tomorrow Just one arm and leg   Whatever falls from heaven Tumbles back to source Stars sun metal rain Bathed in stream of tears Chiseled by wonder We are molded   Nestling in fertile lush dark We feel vulnerable Delicate old   Balancing deeper within Gratitude glows gaily Heart beats slow   Through vast unknown realms Silent stillness shimmers No need to control   Newborn...