Dorothee Lang


Rave

an overcast morning
but the sun rises just there
in the only stripe of sky
between cherry twigs
grays blend into rays of light
while a stone shadow
stretches into the breathing
of an asana posture
later, on the way to the bakery
a white raven circles
above a blocked crossing
when she returns
carrying the hazy warmth
of sesame bread rolls
in a news paper bag
the raven is still there sitting on a light
less street lampit looks for holes in the clouds
and cries like fear

*This poem previously appeared in Void Magazine - Dec. ‘06


Transition

she had been there, in the heart of Rome,
standing there, in front of the statues
while the sky was whitewashed
by blazing sunlight

"avanti, avanti," the guide had said
and so she had left, without a chance
to change words with the stones
or with her self

instead of a memory, she took
a photo to tint it like dusk,

later, in a night of mediterranean
October rain filled

with the lost tunes
of this place so far away
from where she had been
that day


One

one drop of water
falling into blue
creates perfect
centric waves

why can't we
be like water
when we fall
down


Swallow

When you have the hiccups
someone’s thinking of you
somewhere in the world,
my grandma explained to me once
while I sat in her kitchen
on my embroidered cushion
counting the tapestry roses
that grew in rows on the wall.
Tell me about your school day,
she would always say,
and I would tell her about
the fossils of birds, the way they
can last forever when they fall
to the ground in the right place
and how they are made to plates
to hang on the auditorium wall.
When I arrived too late for lunch
she told me not to worry,
the youngest and the oldest
have a right to be heedless,
she would state, and leave
the door accidentally open.
But what if I want
the hiccups to stop,
I asked one day, there,
between strawberry jars.
Then you drown a sugar cube
in vinegar and swallow it,
she said, and I thought
it was a joke until I tried.
Until this sweet sour taste
blended into the memory of her.

*This poem previously appeared in Eclectica Oct/Nov ‘06


Asleep

the forest, asleep
while i walk, while i take
a photo of trees covered
with frozen december dew

a single hour of sun rays
could wake the birds,
could melt the frost
and churn the sky to blue

back home, a line in a printed
interview, stating that i'm
someone else altogether, yet
somehow missed to be that one.

ich bin eigentlich ganz anders
aber ich bin nie dazu gekommen

folding away the newspaper i try
to imagine the tree who gave
its life for this line to be printed,
to be rooted in black on white.