Cabin Fever Months snowed inA man rinsing and repeatingA sweet song played overTea heated on the stove forUnkempt hair and foggy glassesAnd bastard brain bashed inHe left home fast; saysHe never recoveredWhen looking at me through a cameraI was not so sureAbout my presenceAnd what I should be trying forIt comes back to me when
I translated this extract of my mother’s memoirs because of its sentimental meaning for me. I hope that, if the translation is decent, it delineates the moral silhouette of a heroic figure. I would like to share it as a tribute to her courage. E.M.S. I called my brother Roberto and told him
Serenity is hard to find in a city. Even the parks are often crowded with those seeking solace from the bustling pace or somewhere to pause. Only one place is ever truly calm: The cemeteries of Berlin possess a morbid serenity. Friedhof: a field of peace. The German captures a feeling the English “graveyard” misses,
Again I see the leaves turn colour Vibrant yellows, reds, greens and browns Like burning embers they fall to the ground, Not yet snuffed Cloaking the grey street In their living-dying promise Of a barren tomorrow Reborn in springtime Again I wait for flowers to come, The birds to sing The sun to hail a
We were in a supermarket comparing prices of pizza sauce when the idea struck me. I suddenly stopped in the middle of the alley and told Eugenio that we should quit our jobs, our flats and our studies and start travelling to the north. He laughed. But soon his laugh turned nervous when he realized
Late at night when the lights of the city reflect orange off the clouds, the wet pavement glistens like fire. The rain has washed away the impurities of city life and it is as though my passing there is the first passing on the virgin pavement. The silence on these nights is deafening. The clouds
I close my eyes and pinch my nose closed as I take the sardine between my teeth. There is a wet squoshing sound, like a muddy boot tracking on carpet, as I grind the unfortunate specimen between my back molars, doing my best to guide its wet flesh away from my taste buds.
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