Rem's poetic pandemonium ★ Index

The first time I wrote a poem was in August of 2023. It was called 'Flower in a jar', and spoke of a childhood friend, a girl I have not seen in years, whom I loved from the depths of my soul to a kiss on the cheek in the supermarket. The man who inspired me to write was Colin Kerr, a published poet from Scotland. He came to a writer's open reading session at the Munich Readery. After reading a few of his works from some decades past he handed my friend and I four tiny books - they were free, self-published collections of poems by Edinburgh disenfranchsied authors. He told us they had looked for everyone from drug addicts, convicted felons, to homosexuals and prostitutes to contribute works. They financed the priting via ads included in the booklets. They were the most beautiful poems I had ever read. I tried to contact mr Kerr through email afterwards in vain; I hope he is out there living a happy life. He knows, I'm sure, the masterpiece he and his colleagues from their poets' circle brought to life. A jewel, full of soft and bright love and pain and purity.

Woman as the feared one

Threat of her word / in world where I tempt to make myself invisible

Buries me in music I do not like. Rhythm;

colour and echo my mind. My mind? filled with some

Wonderful visions of a different world. One in which I know to

Speak. Of inaudible confessions; but here,

infinite ways to write the letter 'A'. Pry open

My Father, stand tall tell how word does not spear

in what tales writing is not a confession of sin.

Virginia

If one is to count the words of her letter, therein lies a sweet pocket world mid seven and eight:

'...Soot-covered sparrow I heard call in your voice...'

Virginia writes like she paid eons for the license of Sentence, is already indebted to a bigger force

Skipping through prose as one does pebbles over a pond, ebbing through currents with esoteric grace - breaking vowel and rhythm into nuggets of Sound, to forthbring, if for a few hours only, an absolute beauty.

Birdsong in a pine tree on a summer night: her toes in the water, her thoughts to me at best an educated guess... now, the envelope, my name jotted down with a glitter gel pen;

Were she of an other essence! Haply armed with golden ink - and maybe, were she given the choice, she would never have chosen to become the wax seal on a painting, my clever Virginia.

Star-Shaped

Nostalgia doesn't drown you as firmly when you decide to consider its offer: being instead of loving, becoming the looming feeling of something lost in the shadows of your ribcage, which then drains your heart like a parasite. What cosmic being took the warm hug of your big sister away from you?

I want a light green autumn jacket, and a trashy mcr tank top

To crush the mollusk that infects my veins with the ice sharp knowledge

That I am missing out on a life that was never mine, I'm beaming even thinking about it

Life is wonderful

Mother of all things wild and not

Clotho's lover is a WOMAN;

a white cloth sprouting crimson beads seeps across her neck

- reminder that omens are all things beautiful.

The woman loves and hates and bleeds enough for two entire heads; she eats twice her mother's weight, her fattened heart spills out in watercolour rudiments.

She gently nudges her audience into her installations,

and hangs its flesh reduced to sculpture onto strings stretched out from balcony to ceiling - it ripples with experience of things large and also something more?

Destiny's lover cannot be lesser to a contradiction.

Draped, she is, in golden robes, and she adorns herself in vines laced with stolen adoration; so trembling Clotho weeps for the beauty of the world, as in a distant time a crowded blade meddles with her lover's swollen skin.

In her eyes she wonders at a skyline of memories so linear; a city flattened into an abyss by reflective hatred of the universe, only understood by beings insofar finite, that love the greater father they cannot, lest He trickle down His stars to drown them in His endless Cosmos.

She weeps, for there is nothing more to give, for she cannot exist to be other than everything and nothing all at once.

So Destiny tears the world out through a gaze so foreign yet belonging to her own, and rips her spleens apart to feast the woman who demands to bear a collar made of pearls born from every single universe and also every other thing.