Die Unzugehörigen

Poem By Liāna Langa

Ich fuhr empor aus tiefem Schlaf.
Im Waldgesträuch mein Schatten irrend.
Die Mäuler fest am Krug des Nebels
durch hunderttausend Jahre sogen gierig Feuchte.

Wie ein großes, nasses Blatt grünen Tees
schwamm der Himmel in meine Augen, die Enge
ängstigte ihn nicht. Sternenschiffe
schmiegten sich an mich, das Wrack.

Ich wusste nicht, was mir die Tiere sagen würden
und nicht, weshalb die Gäste schweigen.
Ich war dein Schlüssel, junger Wein,
den Gottesfurcht in schwarze Fässer sperrt.

Als Dunkelheit in Trance verhauchte,
in meine Züge Widerschein von anderen
noch anderen Vergangenen, andren Leben werfend,
erstarb ein weiter Teil von mir.

Ich fuhr empor aus tiefem Schlaf,
die Körner deines Hagels bissen mein Gesicht.
Neben mir wer sagte in der Eulensprache Gott,
und leer war sie, leer deine Hand

Comments about Die Unzugehörigen

There is no comment submitted by members.

Rating Card

5 out of 5
0 total ratings

Other poems of LANGA

The Ones Who Don't Belong 1.

I wake suddenly from deep sleep.
In the forest's undergrowth my shadow roams.
Hundred-thousand-year greedy muzzles suck
moisture clinging to a vessel of mist.

The Ones Who Don't Belong 2.

Leaves frost-bitten by a harsh night rustle between my fingers.
A rook siddles closer
to a cross painted mud-colour. A white pebble thrown against
the cheap granite slab summons an echo

The Ones Who Don't Belong 3.

You say to me - summer? Stop! Too much of glowing flesh, glassy
grey light on eyelids, the odour of decaying melons. Maybe
a movie, ditam, ditam? Dipetti, dipetti, perhaps to the Antarctic?
Don't be angry. Escape heals, but only for a space of time, just until

The Ones Who Don't Belong 4.

Come, life's winter! In a corner of a window ledge a titmouse
pecks at a bit of bacon
whiter than the city's snow. Lemon yellow sunbeam bagpipes
tangle in tree branches sounding funeral marches. Racing clouds

The Ones Who Don't Belong 5.

A roadside garden queen boards the train Aizkraukle - Riga.
She's wearing rubber boots, a grey moustache
above a chapped mouth.

The Ones Who Don't Belong 6.

Farewell, homo mediocris! We dream and sleep still among roe
subtly rose. So slow their movement, so sticky. As if someone
will come shortly to glue our transparent flesh together.
We can do it ourselves! Just the water doesn't permit it,

Rudyard Kipling