Tiger Poetry

Slice of India

2007-12-31T17:22:00.000-08:00

The same year I came to America, 1997, I also visited India with my former boyfriend. He was interested in Sri Aurobindo, and he wanted me to check out Auroville, an intentional community in the South dedicated to Aurobindo’s principles to see if we might want to move there (I didn’t want to). India is the most amazing country I have ever been to. You can’t understand it with your mind. It’s a country where you have to surrender, otherwise you might be killed in a freak traffic accident.

I bend down and hand them
a bag of potato chips.
The bundle of bodies
begins to stir.
It unfolds as a woman,
a man, and two
serious children.
The woman speaks harshly to me.
A fresh scar
marks her belly,
as if a sword had sliced her.
The man looks tired,
the children are dirty.
They live on the sidewalk.
A blanket sprawls beneath them.
A steel pot and some cups are
the borders of their territory,
lined on the far end by
a ragged brown dog who surrenders
to four puppies sucking her dry.
Next to the curb a small rivulet runs slowly.
Street people squat within sight.

While I stand there,
inhaling the chaos,
of Pondicherry,
an elephant
with painted ornaments
on his gentle face
moves majestically past me
touching my crown with his trunk
in blessing.

Two Feathers

2007-12-07T10:39:00.000-08:00

I was born with two feathers in my hand
to remind me of star songs,
of the true space between things,
to remind me of home.

I once talked to dandelions and ladybugs
in the green meadows of my childhood,
and made clouds disappear
with the sheer power of my will.
A weathered woman in Florida taught me,
while smoking golden cigarettes.

In autumn there was the rustle of leaves in my chest,
and the longing of birds pulled south by the sun.
I unearthed potatoes in the farmer’s fields and loved
their simple breakfast of bacon, bread, butter, and silence.

I drank milk still warm from a cow’s belly,
walked barefoot through steaming manure,
and wondered about the happiness of birds.

There is no time to watch clouds,
or follow the footsteps of a spider.
Letters are waiting to be opened,
clothes to be folded,
the child needs breakfast,
I hear the neighbors’ gossip through an open window,
weeds are waiting to be pulled,
the alarm goes off each morning
reminding me...

Single-Handed

2007-12-07T10:35:00.000-08:00

I was a single mothers for many years and dreamed of being saved.

Looking at the sky
for signs of God,
I see the tree
outside my bedroom window
fulfill a destiny without complications.

Stubborn pride
keeps me afloat
when I listen
to my mother's gray-blue stories
about my father leaving her
with a swollen belly
and bruises around her neck;
about marrying the second man
when she wasn't pregnant after all;
about the aches of aging
and merciless regrets.

Where is the white horse,
where the prince
that I read about when I was young,
listening to my Snow White and the Dwarfs record
by my grandmother's sewing machine,
the one I hid under when Santa Claus came one year
prepared to flock me for my bad behavior.

They say each color has an emotion.
Childhood diseases do too:
Chickenpox is angry,
Measles is sad,
Mumps is lonely.

Lavender Date

2007-12-07T10:34:00.000-08:00

My lavender date
in the door frame.

Light of September sun
behind him,
cutting him out like a cookie.

published: Big Pulp, March 2008

Rabbit

2007-12-07T10:33:00.000-08:00

I hadn't seen him.
He just ran into me.
In the rear view mirror I see
half a rabbit
dragging his body to the grassy ditch.
His legs have already died.
It's only Tuesday
and I am walking
towards the twitching creature
hoping he is just in shock,
that everything is going to be all right.

Like when my stepfather
beat me with an unhinged door
and my mom told me later
everything would be fine.
Like when my best friend started licking
my cheeks in the middle of the night,
and we never talked about it.

The rabbit's eyes
are glowing and he
has to trust me.
I hold him and feel
his quivering.
Does he know
he is going to die?
And when he does,
his black jello eyes
go behind the curtain.

What world do I live in?
I am not accustomed to death
without TV.

My Uncle's Farm

2007-12-07T10:31:00.002-08:00

I loved these vacations on the farm of my aunt and uncle, because my life there was so different than at home. Everything was matter of fact. They had a black watch dog that was always chained to the dog house, never played with, and fed our leftovers. In my world people took walks with their dogs and fed them dog food. I chose the poem to be in the voice of my younger self.

Some summers I spend on my uncle’s farm.
The house smells like potatoes,
cider cellar, fresh air,
and my dead great-grandmother.

I am nine years old and driving tractor is
almost like being grown up.
The scent of freshly cut grass fills my small body
and lives inside me.
Makes me want to be a cow and chew slowly,
with that crunching sound.

A skinned rabbit hangs on the fence,
his eyes seemed still alive
as if caught in surprise.
Dinners are soup, dumplings, homemade bread,
and meat on white table cloth.

My older cousin Helmut hides a magazine
under his mattress and shows it to me
one evening.

In the morning I go with uncle Willi
to the pigeon coop.
It is built on stilts above a small creek
like a tree house.
He has so many birds
and sometimes he makes them fly away
with a letter wired to their leg.
He climbs up the ladder and comes back
with a pigeon.
Her eyes are like little pieces of coal
and a string of purple feathers
lines her neck like a necklace.
Her body is the color of dolphin.

Uncle Willi's two fingers
wrap around the pigeon's neck
and with a twist and a quick jerk
he rips off her head.
He tosses it into the river.
While he walks towards the house
with her body,
I watch her face swim away.

Once Upon a Time

2007-12-07T10:31:00.001-08:00

Blackberry branches
in my grandmother’s garden
lick my four-year old feet.
Her voice is colored like tiger lilies
and rises beyond the fence
into the forest and the sky,
where she whirls the clouds
like pancake batter.

published: Big Pulp, March 2008

Dream of the Seal

2007-12-07T10:28:00.000-08:00

A poem written in response to an oil spill years ago.

It felt like a dream.
The utter hopelessness
of the seal,
drenched in black muck
that clung to her
without consent.
A few attempts to be the one she knew
then the finale:
A deathly dive into the oily slime
never to surface again.

Later the professor showed me
boxes of books.
They all told about creation
and destruction.

How absolute it all is, I thought in wonder.

He said: "And in the midst of all this,
the trees go on breathing."

Cloudberries

2007-12-07T10:27:00.000-08:00

There was a Russian poet
named Mayakovsky who called
himself cloud in pants.
He spoke of his velvet voice,
so I wanted to make
love to him.

And I think of Bruce Chatwin,
who died too young
of a disease
that invaded him
in China.

He brought songlines to the world,
and I dream that I lend him one letter
of my alphabet
to use at his discretion.
I would become invisible
and enter his bloodstream.

Was his gait confident and grounded,
like that of a real estate agent?
Or did his steps sway and give,
like a sailor?

Being German in America

2007-12-07T10:22:00.000-08:00

The first time I came to this country, I was an exchange student at 18. That year I felt at home on this planet for the first time. The spaciousness, incurable optimism, and hospitality of America touched me. It took me a few more visits, until I came for good 15 years later. I am European at heart, and some things here baffle me.

I arrive at the brink
of womanhood.
Skinny body,
bra-less breasts,
unshaven legs and armpits.

In the school cafeteria kids stand up
and touch their hearts
at breakfast.
I have to keep the door open
when a boy
is in my room.
People smile with their mouths
when their eyes tell a lie.
They ask how I am
when they don’t have time
to listen.

Loud, happy, blond faces.
Homemade pumpkin pie.
Cocaine with Apocalypse Now.
Circumcised penis
in the back of a ‘62 Ford.

In school one morning
a mean guy
stretches his stiff arm
to the sky,
clicking his heels,
hailing a salute.
Shame floats me
through the long, yellow hallway.
The German in me
shrivels
to speechlessness.

Seven slices of buttered toast for breakfast,
piled, and tablespoons of peanut butter
from a secret bucket in the pantry.
So much food. So much
everything.
So much space. So much
freedom.

I come from a country without cake mixes.
A country of trauma, sadness,
and dark memories.
A country of stiff bodies
scrambling for too little space.
A country of poets,
and survivors.

I left my country many years later
to live in America
with my down comforter,
and books,
and my still German daughter,
who for weeks kept saying to everyone
for lack of other language

How are you?

Freckles

2007-12-04T18:45:00.001-08:00

I woke up one morning with this poem on my tongue. It was one I did not have to work on. It was published in Main Channel Voices, December 2006.

I stepped into the night,
my belly full of your love,
and picked the stars
one by one
off the sky.

I laid them
onto your sleeping face
to be your freckles.

Threshold

2007-12-04T17:41:00.000-08:00

I still get a kick out of the visuals accompanying my memories of “the first time”. His name was Albrecht. One of his eyes always looked tired.

Once I was in love with a blond angel.
His curls almost hid his tired eyes.
Before I knew his caresses,
I was suspicious
of touch and saliva,
of hands on my breasts and thighs,
of the scent reminding me of pulsing death.
His casual love, insisting to be unimportant
opened me to the first waves of woman love.
The indigenous girl stood by watching shyly,
with a dirty face.
Mute, with a hollow space to throw words into,
she watched as this ancient ache arose, quivered,
and broke to pieces.

How did it all begin?
In a sunlit, apricot room
with the silhouette of an African tree
above the desk.
Church bells next door.
A baking house across the street.
Many women arrive with balls of dough,
marked by a symbol of ownership.
Man in blue
hacks wood,
with two front teeth missing.
Orderly bookshelves and an heirloom rug,
too expensive to throw away,
too ugly for the main house,
so Mother gave it to me.

We had tongued each other for weeks,
then laid down on the quilt
Mother had made for my 21st birthday.
He moved on top of me,
as I searched for feelings.
I am a woman now . . .
On his white T-shirt,
a blond Viking smiled confidently at me.
His halo read:
Virgin maidens register here.
Is it allowed to laugh during sex?
Sex was so serious that my mother's eyes
always looked wounded,
when she came out of the bedroom,
bravely resuming her chores.
My stepfather appeared shortly thereafter,
adjusting his leather belt
in a triumphant gesture.

I run into the kitchen
looking into my mother's gray eyes.
I must look different.
She has to notice.
I am a woman now.

Vaccination Day

2007-12-04T17:40:00.001-08:00

One evening I sat in my garden with a glass of wine reviewing my life. I wondered what my greatest pain slash regret was. I let my mind wander, expecting it to settle on the day when my fiancé told me he had found someone else (on the phone for crying out loud!) and my heart splintered in thousand pieces; I thought my mind might settle on the unspeakable things that happened when I was a little girl and learned the handy skill of leaving my body. But it didn’t. Like it did not have a doubt, my mind came to rest on the day when my little daughter had another vaccine and was changed forever.

You are two years old,
and our white kitchen walls are filled
with your color drawings.
You can be happy for hours
with your big markers and pencils.
Red, yellow, and blue balloons
in geometric constellations
striving towards the sky.
You draw everything flying,
like birds and kites.

On a bright September day
we take the subway to see Dr. Osang.
There is a gentle breeze
as I push the stroller towards his office.
Your brown ringlets bounce gently
And I notice how small your feet are.
You have another vaccine for
Poliomyelitis,
Diphteria,
Tetanus,
and Pertussis.
Names like beautiful orchids
growing in foreign lands.

The next morning you go to
the kitchen table to draw
just like any other day.
You sit on your knees on the bench
in knitted garments of purple and green
and pick up a marker.
I put a load of whites in the washing machine.
And you pause.
I turn the knob to hot.
I get a cup from the shelf.
Your face says: I don’t understand.
I pour myself a cup of coffee.
Your face says: I don’t know this anymore.
There is an empty sound in my stomach.
You sit for a long time
holding the green marker.
The washing machine says swoosh, swoosh,
as it turns your little shirts and underwear.
A cold flash of fear crawls into my spine.
Then you give up and walk away.
I watch you go.
I slowly slide down onto the floor feeling
the vibration of the washing machine
in my back.
I hold my cup with both hands
and sit for a long time.
After that day there are no more balloons.
No more birds, kites,
or anything flying.

In the Hills of Yugoslavia

2007-12-04T17:35:00.000-08:00

I met my father for the first time in 1998, after having imagined him my entire life. I was 36 years old. My body knew him immediately. His laughter, vanity, and gait was eerily familiar to me. I have not seen him since.

His strong, vital belly
welcomes me into his world,
checkered shirt flapping.
He laughs with his goats,
and mocks old grandmother in black,
tiny as a shrunken bird.

She chills the milk
in the light of dusk,
swooping the ladle up and down.
Chin resting in her palm,
she witnesses the white liquid
that has been with her all her life.

On the second day
he slaughters Milosevic.
Her guts are spilling out of the branches
she hangs from.

In the evening I eat her flesh
with cheese, homemade and
white as a virgin,
tomatoes,
red as first blood,
and cucumbers,
green as Eden.

My father and I
have known one another
four days.