Spring awakening
Gales have stopped tearing time from branches
since calendars have declared the official end
of winter. Stray bees soar skyward to roam
between early leaves and blossoms when air still
carries
the cold of mid-morning and the sun of March
has not yet fully wrapped the world in subtle warmth.
Young beetles are schooled in the calligraphy
of grass and ground and take small notes
telling of small lives. Of lichen still clinging on
although a twig has long since broken off, fallen.
Brown limbs of trees greening to leaves,
and the breeze underneath has birds exult
in mating cries. Lovers and listeners, romancers
and runners-from – everyone streams out
onto potholed asphalt to witness the awakening.
And roadmen unload heavy machinery
to mend what cold and cars have done,
and for us spring to their annual deed.
Every year I follow
Orange-veined leaves of autumn barely
hang, each singular ray of sunlight
almost tears them off the branches.
Still, they persist. Nature carries
her resilience into spring every year.
And every year I follow. For how long
still? For how much longer?
I will never be a lover. And I have realized
my body will never curve against another.
Only a grey pillow, invisible
in night and sleep and the dark
of day hours spent absent
from this otherwise empty bed.
On its mattress I counted the hangovers
in hop plants and of barley fields,
and swam in the amber stream.
On this pillow your kiss lasted as long
as a dream. And that’s what it was.
And that was it.
The morning’s zombie eyes stared back
when I, half-asleep, stumbled
in front of the hallway mirror, to come
to an open door outing toward
orange-veined leaves not yet ready to fall.
But fall they will. And In the service of time
blossoms will carry the promise of spring.
And every year I follow.
Village rites
Always it was a tall tree. It had to be
a birch. Men and teenage boys met
in the morning and made their way
uphill into the woodlot;
a patter of boots from asphalt to forest trail.
First discussions ensued of the quality of tools
everyone brought, and when was the time
to tear off the first crown cap. After the chainsaw
went blunt a full decade ago,
they opted for handsaws, jack saws, and axes;
all the proofs their masculinity needed. A car
was needed too for transporting back
whatever slim tree was chosen this time,
but mostly for provisions of the juice of the barley.
On their return from the shrubbery, the women stood
in waiting at the village hall, had already
readied bread and meat. After refreshments
the tables were left in place – a makeshift
workshop to prepare the tree, rid the trunk
of branches, except for the crown. Ribbons were
weaved into it, and into a wreath dangling
below. Even the old guild insignia were applied
every year before the whole high thing
faced erection. Those were the days before trees
got replaced by one metal pole, and togetherness
lasted long after the work was done. Until
everyone rose, walked, staggered home.
Only the May tree left behind, standing.
A blowball ponders
(after Lia Sturua)
How trees love each other
is far outside the grass verge of my expertise,
or how they give in to spring.
I know nothing of the pain
axe or red-crowned pied woodpecker cause;
with no indecision they spear out of the green
leaving the likes of me down low on meadows
as the lowly fellows we are.
Light pours through their leaves
only if wind and favourable location allow
for rays to find a way. With no omens showing,
no signs in sight I am waiting
and wondering when my wandering will start –
my way of writing tales in air
when I eventually take off; the leaving
of trees and shadows and dependency
on their benevolence. Whether toward another verge
or flower bed, forest edge or midden heap –
lowliness is learned in the presence of trees.
Blackhaw
Petal snow flutters on the wind,
while I rise with reeking scents.
I walk under blossoms, the way
is safe and secure, birds will
not spot me on the bark.
I am a bee, not yet extinct,
humming in a calyx.
On the wind, leaves open
letting me in to dreams and dust.
Sven Kretzschmar hails from County Saarland, Germany,
his place of birth and residency. His poetry has been published widely in
Europe and overseas, among other outlets with Poetry Jukebox in Belfast,
in Writing Home. The ‘New Irish’ Poets (Dedalus Press, 2019), Poets
Meet Politics (Hungry Hill Writing, 2020) Hold Open the Door (UCD
Press, 2020), Voices 2020 (Cold River Press, 2020) and 100 Words of
Solitude (Rare Swan Press, 2021), in The Irish Times, Live
Encounters, Skylight 47, Das Gedicht, Loch Raven Review,
Wordpeace, 2 Meter Review, The Bangor Literary Journal and
Selcouth Station. Further work is forthcoming in Sunlight Press,
Drawn to the Light Press and Sparks of Calliope. He was awarded 1st
prize in the ‘Creating a Buzz in Strokestown’ competition in 2018 and he was
shortlisted for the Allingham Poetry Award 2019, the Over the Edge
New Writer of the Year 2019 and the Saolta Arts Annual Poetry
Competition 2020, special mention in the Desmond O’Grady International
Poetry Competition 2020.
See more at: https://trackking.wordpress.com/ and Instagram: @sven_saar_poetry
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