day 100 - sam hamill's comment

i was going to write some special day 100 anniversary post first, but then i reconsidered. there'll come a time for resumés, but i feel we're not quite there yet. also, sam hamill replied on my post on his reading and allowed me to share his answer with you.

Dear Annina:
In case you didn´t notice, I am severely hearing impaired. I did not
understand your question correctly.

Bottom line: I am a Buddhist and hence a pacifist and therefore oppose
"peace-keeping" at the point of a gun. Gandhi and Camus and many others
offer us better means. That is my position, and not representative of Poets
Against War.

Good luck with your studies and writing.

Ma´assalama,

Sam

day 99 - calling things by their rightful name, one poem a time

in the picture to the left are poet and activist sam hamill of poets against war, an ngo founded by him that features a huge online anthology of poetry against war, and translator isabel cole. i took it right before sam read a couple of his poems, both old and new, and before isabel asked him a couple of questions about his fierce anti-war engagement. being a vietnam veteran himself, his position throughout the subsequent discussion was an uncompromisingly pacifistic one. sadly he evaded my question whether, when he says anti-war, he means anti-military and thus anti-peacekeeping, too. i believe he misunderstood me as a proponent of the military-industrial complex or something and thus gave me a rather twaddly answer about the present day lack of opponents of war in american politics. my dear friends jeanne and steve, however, brought to my attention dennis kucinich, who is trying to become president of the united states by trying to win patriots for peace. obviously his budget and thus chances of being elected are smaller than those of his fellow candidates who gather financial strength and lobbyists behind them, but it's not like there aren't other people out there trying.

nevertheless it was very interesting to hear how sam hamill conceives every poem as a political statement in one way or another, simply because it carries a poets' message forward. apparently, poets are a very humanistic and peaceful guild, too: in all america, sam said, he only knows of one pro-war poet (whose name i didn't memorise, i'm sorry). he quoted camus ("in the midst of a murderous world, we agree to reflect on murder and to make a choice. After that, we can distinguish those who accept the consequences of being murderers themselves or the accomplices of murderers, and those who refuse to do so with all their force and being. Since this terrible dividing line does actually exist, it will be a gain if it be clearly marked.") and confucius ("all wisdom is rooted in learning how to call things by the right name.") and found that mr. bush is a fascist and hillary clinton a right-wing democrat, if at all, because she believes that in years to come the US "may need a vastly reduced residual force [in Iraq] to train Iraqi troops, provide logistical support, and conduct counterterrorism operations". as far as i know, however, she doesn't plan on occupying iraq permanently, and i highly doubt that a sudden (!) pullout of all american troops in iraq had a stabilizing effect on the region. but sam hamill was at war and has worked with numerous victims of armed conflicts, and given that he speaks chinese, japanese, latin and greek, i suppose his powers of comprehension are above-average - he must have known what he was saying there. among some interesting facts he mentioned, he stated that the US is currently supporting every citizen of israel with the equivalent sum of USD 10'000 per annum, while citizens of nigeria are only supported with USD 0,10 over the same period. if this is true, isreal gets USD 65 billions a year, while nigeria, africa's most populous country where only 60% of the women above the age of fifteen can read and write, is allocated only 13.5 million dollars. that, indeed, is outraging!

currently, sam hamill is hoping for poets against war to strike roots in most any country in the world. i think this is a brilliant idea. if i knew how to put up a proper website, i'd probably try and launch a german version. so in case someone out there knows how to do that and would be interested, please let me know.

i am unthinking this

i am unthinking thi i am unthinking th i am unthinking t i am unthinking i am unthinkin i am unthinki i am unthink i am unthin i am unthi i am unth i am unt i am un i am u i am i a i

day 98

i really hate it when i when i want to write a poem, but can't:

insomnie

immer reissende ketten deren perlen auf die schädel decke hageln stepp lagen immer bimmelnde schrille die dinge verflüstern sich immer verblinkende signale gedanken zerfallen auf halbsatzpostkarten kratzen und gähnen der kiefer die kiefern das -

[insomnia

ever breaking necklets pearls of which hail onto skullcaps blankets quilt layers ever ringing shrillness the things de-whisper themselves ever de-blinking signals thoughts collapse on clausepostcards scratching and yawning the jaw the s pines the -]

day 97

rosie o'donnell published this picture of her daughter on her blog without comment. i take it as a statement against war in general and children used in military action and small arms proliferation in particular. peace counts. war is not the answer!

day 96 - i'm not supposed to tell you this, BUT...

since this is a blog about my progress as a writer, and since it probably won't make much of a difference anyways:

yesterday afternoon i got a call from fm4, and my flood-story made it into the last twenty texts!! among the six jury members who are going to read my story now are german authors arno geiger and christian kracht. i read kracht's book Der gelbe Bleistift when it was first published five or more years ago and really liked it back then. he's also one of the guys who co-wrote Tristesse Royale, a pretty famous collection of german generation X novels.

of the twenty texts now selected, ten will be chosen for publication and recording, so now chances are 50 - 50. but considering how many people sent in their stories (last year more than 800, this year probably 1000 plus), i'm over the moon already. having made the top twenty alone feels f***ing amazing! please keep your fingers crossed...

day 95

this week's translation isn't quite like the previous ones for various reasons: a) it's a slam text that won felix römer a tv show price, b) it's a very personal and rather long text, c) i won't record it, d) i won't put his german original on here, but the video of his performance instead. his poem is called Ich war einmal ein Kind, I once was a child, and deals with his great-grandfather's war experiences. this poem earned him various prices and even standing ovations (a slam text, remember!). felix is one of four members of the german poetry slam boy band smaat.

should you want to skip the host's drivel, jump to 0:50, the final text then begins after 1:26.



I once was a child, a small boy in a frock, celebrated the emperor's birthday,
offered my flag to the wind, ready to fledge, to grow tall and strong.
I learned how to read, how to write, how to count and to fire.

And then they sent me to war. For the country, the vision,
and I celebrated Hitler's birthday, swung my arm to salute,
the arm then still strong and I, I was ready to fight.
They sent me far, ever farther in in eastward direction,
and i knew how to read, how to write, but no Russian,
that helped with the killing, I think.
The screams, though, they sounded alike,
pierced to the marrow and from the injured poured blood,
red, from all of them. And the corpses smelt rotten.
All of them.

I read the letters from home. "You have a daughter" they said.
"A daughter" I wondered, a child,
I had long forgotten what children smell like,
forever smelt ashes and death,
and i knew how to read how to write how to count and to fire
now i learned how to weep how to suffer and how to be silent.
I celebrated birthdays no longer since all time had absconded,
the feet froze and we ate the bark off the trees.

When the shot hit my shoulder I hoped it were finally over,
but it lived on for some reason, it kept living on inside me.

Heartbeat Gasp Heartbeat Gasp

For weeks on end in the sick bay the sister wiped sweat off my forehead
gave me bread, at last, bread, crawled into my bed
and we warmed our cool hearts in a time long absconded.
At night I dreamt of killing, the dying and of a small daughter,
but in times long absconded hope, too, had dissolved.
The war was lost when they sent me to war once again with a stiff arm
to kill, to suffer, to weep, to be silent.
The one enemy left now was hunger
and i killed a farmer for a fistful of potatoes
and i put my gun to an old woman's head for a pot.
And cooked potatoes and smelt home and wept and smelt and ate.

I once was a child, a small boy in a frock, celebrated the emperor's birthday
offered my flag to the wind, willing to grow, to grow tall and strong...

And I smelt and ate and I wept.
Wept for the boy, the shot farmer, the times long absconded, the screams,
the corpses, the arms and the legs and the guts,
for the fatherless children the motherless fathers.
For every unread book and all unwritten letters.
And it lived on inside me, just kept living on.

Heartbeat Gasp Heartbeat Gasp

The battle was over, I just sat, sat and wept and they found me
and put their guns to my head, pushed me forward.
And I knew hot to read how to write how to count and to fire
and now I learned hatred, despise, to surrender and how to forgive.

Then I was free to go home, as a homeless, to a wife and a child,
smelt the wife smelt the child and cooked my potatoes.
The brother a dead, mother and sisters raped,
the father sunken in sorrow,
the friend deported to a concentration camp.
I cooked my potatoes and smelt the child,
smelt the child right until time recurred
and the souls dreamt my dreams,
the brother and the shot farmer,
the woman, the pot and the gassed friend.

And there was a child.
A small girl in a frock, we celebrated her birthday
and her hair flew in the wind,
and she was willing to grow, to grow tall and strong.
And she learned how to read how to write and to count.
And it lived on inside me, just kept living on.

Heartbeat Gasp Heartbeat Gasp

The recurred time sprawled, spread its blanket over the past,
brought books and letters and cars and washing machines, instant mash.
And it kept living on inside me, ever on.
Birthdays flashed by, the child grew and grew strong
and my eyesight impaired and the ears became deaf and what time hid
ascended once more.

It smells like ashes and death.
And the door of the time long absconded is opening up
and no sister to warm my heart.
What lived on inside me surrenders.
My war never ended.
I learned how to read how to write how to count and to fire.
And now I learn how to pass on and how to pardon.
Pardon me.
Pardon!

I once was a child,
a child,
a child...

day 94

here are some pictures of yesterday afternoon's poets' corner in prenzlauer berg. due to the very bad weather, the readings couldn't be held outside as planned. instead julian, the owner of the yes bar, offered his location for free. how nice, and somehow everybody even found us there. although maybe not as big an audience as there would have been outside, a few hardcore poetry fans showed up. the poets, too, dissembled their irritation and it became a cosy afternoon. in the pictures below are (mixed up now, because they disappeared AGAIN): jalal sarfaraz, agnieszka debska, donna stonecipher, hendrik jackson, ulrike draesner and norbert hummelt.















and while i was sitting under some sunshade, waiting for the rain to stop and something poetic to happen, i wrote this:

hoping that all things would dissolve/ somehow, magically/ and they do/ als ich unter dem sonnenschirm/ fallen die flüssigen wolken/ laut neben mich hin.

[in der hoffnung, dass alle dinge sich auflösen würden/ auf eine art, magisch/ und sie tun's/ when i under the sunshade/ fluid clouds fall/ loud by me here.]

an this later, when i was waiting for my friends in front of the kesselhaus, where the weltklang event was about to take place, all this, weird as usual:

die stillen zikaden die/ blondinen ihre hellen/ töne neiden/ peroxide linsen lunsen/ nach kontakt/ ein kurzer sprechversuch/ mit seiden/ spinnern raupt/ den letzten nerv entlang.

[the silent cicadas that/ envy the blondes for their/ bright sounds/ peroxides lenses peeking/ for pin/ a brief talkattempt/ with silk/ idiots larvs/ along the last nerve.]

findelkindcharme/ schamsalam/ allianzachsen/ freuschaft/ freuschaftliche ladung/ zum fest/ festraketenbeschuß/ schlußfreudigkeit.

[foundlingcharme/ shamesalam/ axis of alliance/ frillship/ amicable load/ the feast/ feastrocketfire/ endjoyfulness.]

ich bin die taube/ fluggrau/ die in deinen handzeichen nistet ein/ kehlchen aus gurren/ tiefrot.

[i am the pigeon/ flightgrey/ that nests in your hand signals a/ throatie of curring/ deep red.]

day 93

yesterday night i felt so bad about not having written a single sentence of my story that i pulled myself together and wrote a second page. one whole page! so now i'm at 677 words and already know more about my characters.

today starts the week-long poesiefestival, an annual berlin poetry festival, that features interesting readings and events. the first i'll attend - despite having a touch of the flu, i'm afraid - is a reading hendrik jackson and ulrike draesner partake in, amongst others. should you happen to live in berlin and haven't got plans for today yet, i highly recommend to go and listen yourself. let's just hope the weather will keep up and my health, too.

day 92 - a great piece of journalism: jennifer garner is doing THIS

i stole this picture and paragraph from What Would Tyler Durden Do, because it's well written and funny and because i couldn't come up with anything even a tad bit smarter today. i'm sorry.


Jennifer Garner is still in Hawaii this week with husband Ben Affleck, and today Jennifer did this. I have no idea what it is or if she's doing it right, but, look, there she is. Man, these two really know how to experience the pleasures of life. This great sport seems to combine all the cardio benefits of standing still with all the excitement of holding a paddle. It's about the same workout you might get from lighting a candle or having a scary dream.

i did work a little today, though, and finished coming monday's long translation. now that's something.

day 91 - women in art

also, i would like to point out to you poets against war and the global fund for women.

i've written one paragraph of my story and a couple of poems yesterday, and found out about the lucrative walter-serner-preis 2007. this year's topic is 'life in big cities' or something. now, let me see...

here's tracey emin walking out on some UK talkshow host. drunk.

she's the one who sold her dirty bed to mr. saatchi for 150'000 british pounds. and the one who decorated a tent with the embroidered names of all the people she had ever slept with at the time. please find these two installations and more of her artwork here.



her book, strangeland, is pretty good, too.

day 90 - no joke

last night i dreamed of china. for some reason i was brought to a big, uninhabited house that featured a multi-lingual cleaning lady and, more importantly, a run-down indoor botanical garden. in the right hand corner of that botanical garden, in a long, dry bathtub under the trees, a tiger moved around. in the left hand corner of that botanical garden, at the other end of that very same, loopy bathtub, lived a big white chicken. in my dream i was so fascinated, i pulled out my black unruled notebook and wrote a poem about the tiger and the chicken and how one day the tiger would probably eat it.

day 89

ok. after two weeks of dwelling in procrastination, i have finally started writing a second version my open mike story (not that i had finished the first, i just never quite liked it). it's funny how i develop all sorts of delay techniques, like eating, for example. whenever the room has been tidied up and cleaned for the second time, all washing has been washed and all emails have been answered, i decide that what i really need before fully engaging in writing is food. some strange food, of course, that i wouldn't have in the house, so that then i'd need to still go grocery shopping first.

the problem, i think, is pretty obvious.

today, however, i got up around 9.30, started writing at 11.15 and managed to keep on doing so right until thirty minutes ago. even though a large part of these two hours went on research, i wrote 277 words altogether. bearing in mind how slowly i write, that's a lot and i'm happy. to make it look even more, i changed my pt 12 font from arial to courier and my line spacing to 1.5; that way at least i can say i wrote 'a whole page' today and not only a half.

ha.

day 88

when i was fourteen, a friend of mine gave me günter bruno fuchs' poem Für ein Kind. i put it in my wallet and carried it around with me until i stopped carrying a wallet.

For a Child

I have said prayers. So take from the sun and then go.
The trees will foliate.
I have asked the blossoms to grace you.

Once you get to the current, there waits a ferryman.
In the evenings his heart chimes over the water.
His boat is planked golden, that carries you.

The watersides will foliate.
I have asked the beings to love you.
One you will meet who has heared me.


Für ein Kind

Ich habe gebetet. So nimm von der Sonne und geh.
Die Bäume werden belaubt sein.
Ich habe den Blüten gesagt, sie mögen dich schmücken.

Kommst du zum Strom, da wartet ein Fährmann.
Zur Nacht läutet sein Herz übers Wasser.
Sein Boot hat goldene Planken, das trägt dich.

Die Ufer werden belaubt sein.
Ich habe den Menschen gesagt, sie mögen dich lieben.
Es wird dir einer begegnen, der hat mich gehört.

day 87

before i forget today's post, here's a 2006 poem of mine:

outings

lightning and pearls/ petals steel towers/ flickering pastels/ one day/ to surf swelling waves/ backwards ok/ on a board/ on a bored open sea/ one is a single existence/ two stands by three/ inside a black knight/ army of seekers/ who lust for/ gulfs full/ with esculent fish.

day 86

coming up with a post every day is pretty hard. especially, when you have to think of a new excuse for getting nowhere each time... but hey, at least i'm sorting through my music. personal song of the week: harrison moses by the hype foundation. and ok, i have a myspace, too.

yesterday night i went to bordercrossing berlin's 2nd edition lauch party. they had authorial readings and even a comedian. i don't know why really, but i was quite surprised by the high quality of the texts the editors have chosen.

only the catering was managed poorly: the advertised barbecue was cancelled, the waitress couldn't handle the situation and the piece of cake i bought was mouldy. after sending it back, i made the following note:

nach hautkrebs ausschau halten.
[watch out for skin cancer.]

day 85 - The Dead: Billy Collins Animated Poetry

day 84

the downside of writing good stuff is the difficulty of coming up with something as good or, ideally, even better afterwards. every time i've managed to finish a piece of writing i'm content with, it takes me up to a week to sit down and get going again.

in the meantime, i come up with more weirdness:

das leben kämmt seine zeit haut ecken aus brillengläsern strählt augen aus blicken zu murmeln klebt münder zum kuss dreht zunge um zunge zu locken aus duft stopft liebe bis in den stoffzopf der puppen.

[life combs its time chops corners off spectacle lenses brushes winks of looks to murmurs glues mouths to a kiss rolls tongue and tongue to curls of flavour stuffs love into the dolls' clothplaits far into the night.]

very difficult to translate this one, as several of the german words used have double meanings, e.g.

haut = skin + (he/ she/ it) hits
augen [aus] blicken = eyes + looks + moments
murmeln = (to) murmur + glass beads/ taws
locken = curls + (to) lure
bis in die puppen = far into the night/ into the dolls.

that's why translations of my own work are usually very rough, in case you ever wondered.

day 83

i have a thing for class a narcotics poetry.

listen, for example, to jim carroll reading some of his poetry for the paris review. he sounds pretty fucked up there, but i guess that's a must. or, who knows, perhaps he's just nervous.

his junkieness became a movie called the basketball diaries, too. leonardo diCaprio played him.

then, sometime after 1994, he wrote a poem called '8 fragments for kurt cobain'. i don't like it, cause it's all cliché. the one good and honest line to be found:

'But Kurt...'.

day 82

i hate to admit this, but my novel is dying a slow and ugly death. probably, because it doesn't rhyme. nah, just kidding. after all, i have a new project, which is gonna take me forever to complete, but that's ok, because i have time.

i'm thinking of spending the better part of this summer in berlin... i like how people here are so relaxed and nice. i'm having the best time at the moment - and am already hoping i'll be able to retrieve some of that laidbackness and authorial and organizational freedom during my time in london.