How would your life story sound as a melody? Based on a class session about songlines, a term which describes the Aboriginal Australian’s practice of finding one’s way in the land through music, I wrote an autobiographical poem with a special focus on Berlin that I guide with a variation of Yiruma’s “River Flows in
CategoryCreative writing
From the Archives – Berlin, here we go again
This week, as the leaves turn color, the days grow shorter, and there’s simply no more denying the end of summer, Die Bärliner has prepared a special treat to warm the cockles of your heart. We’ve looked into the treasure trove of our archives and dug up some of our favourite pieces on Pankow and
Living Berlin – Berlin Bleeds Green
The concrete, steel and glass goliath that is Berlin has many wounds. Berlin bleeds Green. In some places this verdure oozes from the parks: places explicitly set aside for the leisure of Berlin’s inhabitants; places to go to feel a connection with the Earth; or to barbecue in the warm summer sunlight. These wounds are
Living Berlin – An Ode to the BVG*
Plunge into the bowels of Berlin the spiderweb system of iron rails and screeching brakes that connects the far corners of this city. Like some piecemeal Frankensteinian monster brought to life Berlin has been cobbled and stitched together animated to act like a grotesque whole. Each district is like a living, pulsating organ of the
I AM – a poem
I am my umbilical cord My mother’s sleepless nights My father’s long drives I am the scent in my mother’s wardrobe The high heels I never fit I am the ingrained institutionalized religion Founded on fear. I am the shame and the guilt The vagina I am the black eyeliner I draw around my eyes
The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From the Tree
My mother never eats toast on a plate, she holds the bread in her long hands and eats over the kitchen sink. I think these are the moments she prefers, looking out to the garden, morning sun dim and blue and made of all the forgiving in the world easier here in morning’s two-part
Ana’s Spilled Water
I stared through the open window. My lungs filled with the cold winter air, and an odd sense of hope invaded my soul. A small ray of light peaked out from behind the clouds and rested next to me. God then whispered through my right ear: “This year will be good, Ana. Not that the
Home
Where I come from, I’m the devil’s incarnation The fallen woman Lilith. You see, there’s always a dichotomy at play: The sinner, not the saint. The whore and the prostitute. I am the one without a hymen The one mothers spend lifetimes protecting their daughters from becoming. Even by cutting off their clitoris By subjecting