Poetry #too.

To the Girl in Berlin

Oh, you,
the girl in Berlin,
oh,
how I miss you!

I miss you like a broken bicycle
misses a bicycle repairman
and like a sailboat misses
a fairly strong gush of wind
I miss you.

I still remember
many of the fine details
of your physical body,
such as:
1. your dark eyes like little marbles
2. your crooked smile
like some relatively small and curvaceous thing
(I can't really think of anything)
and 3. your black and partly turquoise(!) hair
like a rare and exotic bird
of some kind.

It seems so incredibly sad now
that I knew you for two or three years
and never even touched your knee.
It seems so incredibly,
so incredibly sad
now.

Vompatti wrote: I Did Some Real Charity Today! To cut a short story even shorter here's basically what happened: I was standing on the street next to the wall next to which the ATM machine was situated. While I was standing there a bum appeared next to me like an angel from the heavens (except that he actually just walked from behind the corner) and asked me for a 1 euro coin. But - and here's the exciting part - instead of giving him a 1 euro coin I went and gave him a 2(!) euro coin, which basically means that instead of just one beer bottle he could probably afford two or possibly even three, which, either way, is pretty awesome if you ask me.

1.

Change resides
inside the vegetable.

Change attaches
to the god
beneath the nail.

How does the inhabited package
suppose the definitive paradise?

Change suspects
near the scared sack.


2.

The freeway results
above his defeat.

Change arrives
inside any
sunrise compromise.

A degree process
combats change.

An ally
silvers an analyst
outside the cluster.

Will change object
against an artist?

Change warms
the unrelated disaster
outside
the profit.

Regional(?) Prunes

You tell me these prunes are regional.
I tell you that I don't care.
You tell me that I am garden gnome.
I tell you that you are a hare.
You tell me that I should be careful
when stepping on angular stones.
I tell you my shoes are so awesome
that hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm- blues.


Edited by Vompatti - May 19 2010 at 14:58

GLASS GOBLIN

the car
in the summer
is a relatively hot vehicle
to sit in.

but I read the first poem on this page
the one about the girl in Berlin
and I understood the hidden connection
between the colour of her hair
and the colour of my mind (turquoise)
which I previously
had consciously connected
to nothing but Indians
and their ritual jewelry.

still,
what could be more appropriate
than to drive to the desert
(alone)
and to find her
hidden in the night
right next to the good bushes?

(all this,
of course,
is nothing but a dream.)

This one I wrote in collaboration with Novalis (and whoever translated him into English):

from hills color dust the all-enkindling

Soon
of a heaven
just spirit lap
through lifeless Glory --
The world,
home.

What of angel-comrade,
was bore
So builds clung handicraft --
unwearied
the it the swaying --
was grape-clusters
who welcome poetic did come,
insolently in for bore
so great to inexpressibly
that the with into beast for and in of shiver
exalted lap thy hast
to strange
unscorchable
and pains appeared then,
boding solitude
of colors high widespread
and ineffable.

she in who breed
reveals messenger thy chords
mound unkindly -- last tasted Imagination.
earthly -- doth to mountain the stone of man.

ripened, torment undeciphered
its with see --
shall held what if universal oppression
many we have swaying him, loves over its the aged at asleep.

Still trembling of to a endless
its owest for resting infinite.
Once a wave-like, clomb her fire dire a sleep
few went with Fast of in from
of pleasant Death
real possessed

But first longing of wee
the what and it of lonely
with away the without
with beloved do all flood them
so owest fury unfolded the worshipful,
thou the and day mingles
it hallow a the Death into dumb balmy face
The So
the faint
for beloved an bosom
and unwearied of of virgin
thou tasted who wings transformations

longing:
to counsel -- age more inspires hidden in man.
earth-dwellers.
them the place.

Light.

for stories, old I its with over gulfs
youth in floats
and with his a god-ladies highest out lives.

We keep, the stir from shadow-floods
In old -- and flow skilled love
be the me mysterious hand in the is hills
And oil from thou fear
flood comfort this our finer its Lifts,
the the of have the world.

tree the fell
Night-inspiration,
power iron
a How I a the the through become of hand creation
aid I sweetly glorious nothing
me dominion into Light, forever.

The Kind of Shoes They Are Not and the Kind of Shoes They Are

They are not
the most unique
kind of shoes.

They are not
the most attractive
kind of shoes.

They are not even
the most comfortable
or the most practical
kind of shoes.

No,
they are NOT
the kind of shoes
you see at jazz clubs
or on television
late night
shows.

But they're the kind of shoes
you can afford
and they're the kind of shoes
you will keep on buying
because there's no other choice
and there never
will be.

With a clean face and a dead smile,
Come and join us for a while.
A drink of wine, a bit of bread,
As for the main course, it's your head.

these shoes are not made for walking

so I got this idea
that I'd go to the kind of shop
that sells computers and stuff
and buy a memory card
with an adapter so I could stick it
into my laptop
and copy some sound clips on it
put it in my cell phone
(it has a slot where it fits)
and use those sound clips
as ringtones.

basically
what happened was
that I googled a bit
picked a store where I would go to
(all the ones I used to go to have now gone out of business)
took a quick look at the map
memorized some streets
decided where I would turn left
and where right.

those were the only turns
I thought I would have
to make.

I was wrong.

I must have spent two or three hours
walking around
looking for the second street
the one I was supposed to turn right from
but
(so it seemed)
I had already walked right past it.

anyway,
when I got to a kind of place
where there were nothing but small houses
here and there
and some factories and such
in the distance
I stopped
and turned back
and eventually I did find the street I was looking for
but even though I walked the whole street
I couldn't find the third street
the one where the store I was looking for
was supposed to be on.

so finally I gave up
and went to this shopping mall
even though I was fairly certain
they wouldn't have the kind of memory cards
I was looking for.

I was wrong.

they had exactly the kind of memory card
I had thought about buying
but the one that came with an adapter
would have cost me 19.95€
which I thought was too much for a card
I should have gotten for less
than 10.00€.

so I gave up again
and went to a bookstore
for no particular reason
(I don't think I need to explain
why I go to a bookstore
sometimes)
and happened to notice
that they too sell those memory cards
even though memory cards have fairly little to do
with reading
writing
or other things related to books.

so anyway,
they had the kind of card I was looking for
and it came with the kind of adapter I needed
and the price was 8.50€
which I thought was fairly decent.

I also found
a book of poems
by Charles Simic
(a Finnish translation)
so I decided to buy that
and the card
which came with the adapter.

as I walked
to the counter
I noticed that the girl
at the counter
was someone
I knew
and someone who used to study creative writing
last year
or the one before that
when I was studying it too.

as a matter of fact
she told me she was still studying it
and asked me why I'm not
and told me that everybody there liked my stuff
and so on and so on
and also that memory card with the price of 8.50€
only cost me 5.00€.

I don't know
if the price was wrong
or if she gave me a discount
because she liked my stuff.

anyway,
I think I was going to say something
with this poem
but now I've forgotten what it was
and my feet still hurt
from all that walking
and I can't seem to think straight
because my feet still hurt
and because she told me
she liked my stuff.