Most of them were written by hand first. So far it has eluded me how to let poetry emerge by directly typing it into the computer. The way I write, poems are never complete in the first setting. Like quality cognac they need to mature--some even over years--before they taste and feel exactly the way they need to according their inherent life-force, and thus can help embodying the view the words are there to express.
I started writing poetry many years ago. My first collection was complete by 1971 (written in German, my first language) and the manuscript was thrown from a bridge into the river Rhine the same year, a few days before I went on the 'hippie trail' to Nepal Can't say why I did that, just discarding five years of working on them and polishing. As far as I can remember, they weren't even so bad. The few friends who had read them had commented positively and were encouraging me to share with a wider audience. Nevertheless, in the river they went.
Two more collections in German shared a similar fate. In the late 1980s I started writing in English as well. Much of it went into the trash bin, but not all of it. Some pieces have survived and went through many versions. I also keep writing on and off, till today.
Let's wait and see what will happen with the present collection. Enough said; right now, I feel like sharing this on. It so appears it had some kind of effect on someone whom I cherish, when I shared it with her in private.
FREEDOM SINGING TO ITSELF
Freedom is razor-sharp
the curved blade that cuts
the head off my neck
& lets the heart blood spout
fountain like
freedom is tender
with my arms around you
as if they were feathers
for the wool before my eyes
I cannot see one separate thing
freedom is boring
going to the toilet
to shit & piss
every morning looking in the mirror
probing for pimples on the nose
freedom is fire
I hammer the blazing steel of the thoughts
that shackle everything
only to have the acid of fear corrode
all that I ever grabbed & held
freedom is delicate
the dewdrop that falls
from the leaf above
from the leaf above
makes the web tremble
& the spider rope down further
freedom is despair
no food on the table
with all the good people in chains
while our leaders spit roast our livers
to assuage their own fear of lack
freedom is desire
never getting
enough of it
when everything
is always there
freedom is sentimental
my tears soak your pillow salty
of my being so very special
as my is head remains stuck between your breasts
I cannot explore the great blue yonder
freedom is straight & narrow
deadlines
timelines
fault lines –
to bring about many a cleansing disaster
freedom is simply free
no quality but its own
& there is stillness
leaves burgeoning in spring
tumble to rot in November
essentially
even stupor is freedom
so is clinging
& so is hate
knowing thus definitely freedom is
naturally self-affirming
projecting more of gossamer
subtly tremulous presence
I can drink my tea
I can sip my wine
every once in a while
I can look up in the sky
the thought doesn’t even arise
that anyone will ever not partake
in this heart of freedom
forever beating
the only question remains
does appreciation really require
some self mirroring voice
to sell freedom as more special than what is
c) choyin dorje/matthias dehne 2020
