Meines Nachgesang

Fisches Nachgesang

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Christian Morgenstern

Meines Nachgesang.
 

Like a fish I'm slipping away.

The current's pulling heavy, fast and hard.

Unlike a fish, I'm sinking through water:

Green like sea glass.

I'm flailing on dry land.

Drowning in the open air.

Why am I melting through the sand?

Losing control as every inch of me is banned?

Unlike a fish, I have no tail.

Only a twist of weighted limbs, indistinguishable, defiant, incompliant.

I am no creature of legend nor fantasy but I consider
myself to be a Mereperson of sorts.

Tschüss,

Marta Frieda Hart

Peacekeeper?

Red and Blue I fear you.
Flashing, slashing, bashing what was me. Endangering what will be.

I careen away from being, seeing, hearing.
And you're still there.

Flashing.                                         Flashing.                                          Flashing.

It's time for me to screech with your sirens.
Let me escape.
But I can't run...

Flash.

He has me pressed against the cool refrigerator door.
His hand on the safety of his hip.
Knife tilted precariously on the counter.
Badge proud on his breast.
Words bubble nonsensically across the surface of my jolted lips...
                                                       to break with the pills scattered across the floor.

I'm at a stoplight, present.
Blinding my eyes with my hands, hoping to pass you and your flashing.

Blue and Red I wish you were dead: merely a twinkle in the far-off sky.
But here I hit the pavement...

Today you are free of pretentions and accusations.
And I have seized the day that the men in blue pretended to care.


Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart

Kein Gedicht...Mehr eine Art von Geschichte

Eine kriechende Stimme schreit zum gestörten Himmel. Sie kann alles noch nicht verstehen, erfassen, oder kapieren weil sie solche eine Sache immer bevor nicht gesehen hat. Und sie hofft mit ihr ganzen Herz dass sie nicht die Unglück hätten wurden, um eine andere Situation wie diese überleben mussen.

Aber sie weißt dass kleine Freude zu ihr nimmer mehr kommen werden.

Im Panik, sie lächelt und sagt,
 „Freundliche Grüße, Herr Bekümmernis. Wilkommen in unse-...meinem Haus.“

Ihr Herz ist voll von Traurigkeit, Ihre Augen sind aschetrocken.
Die Tränen haben nur Leerheit zurück belassen.

Und alles, dass sie denken kann ist,

„Was nun?“

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For all of you lovelies who can't read the German language, I know it might seem silly that I posted this here, and even sillier for me to suggest that you try to read it anyway to get the feel of the rythm and stuff. Just in case you are feeling left out or curious and really want to read it in English, one of my friends suggested I translate it, which was brilliant! So I did just that. Word of warning: this poem was written in German for German and it's meaning is better in German and the language is better in German and it's crafted better in German. (I'm not saying my German is mistake-free...I'm sure there are plenty in there...I'm just saying the English version isn't very artistic...)Enjoy!
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Not a Poem...More a Kind of Story

 A screeching voice cries out to the disrupted skies above.
She can’t yet understand, grasp, figure it all out because she has never seen such a thing before.
And she hopes with her whole heart that she won’t have the misfortune of having to survive another situation like this one.

But she knows that little joys will never come to her again

In panic, she smiles and says,
“Friendly greetings, Mr.Grief, welcome to ou-…my home.”

Her heart is full of sadness, her eyes are ash-dry.
The tears left behind only emptiness.

And all that she can think is,

“What now?”

Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart

Delgnat

Heavy tresses in the insoluble recesses of the mind seek
                                                                                                       Resolution.
         

They are
             Incomplete.
  
Complicated.
 InCoHerEnT.


                        A     mass     of   brambles,
                               gnarled,     frosty-glowing,
                     whispering   to  a  night
                                                full of     angel-devils 
                           they    twist upon         themselves
                                                        and       extinguish in the     darkness.

They are
            Tangled.


Yet they are thought.

Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart

Foreboding

Beware the falling scents of tear-stained, blood-curdled sky.
Today the human touch is a grenade twas once cuddly soft.
Screeches erupt from not far off, their source unbeknownst.
Tread softly, my chickens, for apprehension is in the air.

Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart