Eine Klage-Welt

Last month was, astoundingly, five years since my first post on this blog. It has been good to me. Most essentially, I met all of you! But now it is time for change, a cleaner design, a better format for showing images.

I am more attached to the Klage-Welt than I would have ever expected to become, five years ago. Writing this post feels like turning the key for one last time in the door of the beloved house where I was born, but which has grown too small and cluttered with the debris of the years, and now turning toward the unexplored glow in the West ....

Please visit my my new blog, ein klage-himmel.

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Poetics in the Season of Migration

After fog, the sun unhitches geese
from the gleaned-over stubble-ground
where they have huddled through the night.

They rise now, clumsy, angling up
to blue, above the planet’s shade,
the mist and morning slurred with calls.

How apologize for poetry?
For how it fails the flock’s long pull
against the heaviness of Earth,

against wind, the mortal shear
of entropy that scatters form?







Their one, blared note sums up a year,

but words falter and trip, waste breath,
lose the smell of dirt or rain,
the wings once more climbing sunlight.

Such a long work, waiting to hear
that hard, scraping honk as song….
No longer clumsy, the geese order

and wheel, squared-off and cutting south,
stars intuited along the way,
written tight into their wedge, and gone.

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