Walter Ruhlmann

cinq poèmes

 

 

Dead Leaves

 

Were we left alone like dead leaves

rotting on a lone tree?

The light came shaking us feebly

unfathomable formidable.

Orange peels laid in the yard,

winter brings citruses, fruits of sorrow,

candles, dead birds, piles of dirt.

 

Were we left decaying the summer before?

The northern wind betrayed our death wish.

The sun baked us and our skin turned brownish,

tumid derrick in hands on a sandy beach,

crowded over by tourists, dead pigs, magpies.

More light, more sorrow, more feasible suicide.

Flames licked the dead men toes.

 

Will we leave those awful shores behind?

How many waves will there be before freedom?

Damn the light, the sun, the heat, bless be the darkness.

Other juicy fruits, plenty of them again

will be gathered in our baskets, no begging necessary.

Dead leaves will follow us blindly

to decompose in the wet weather.

 

 

 

I’m waiting for the dark

translated from the French

 

No doubt blood will bead on our foreheads,

drops of pink sweat will ooze

pores of our brown skin burnt

by the sun, the moods of the sky.

 

Sometimes this blood will mix with the waves

brackish waters from the mountains,

the misty peaks obscured by sulphur,

the suffocating methane, the ashes of the cities.

 

The flooded valleys will serve as refuges

to animals rescued from fires

caused by deflagration, the late

bombs, numerous explosions.

 

What putrid food will we have

in our hands? What scarlet substance

will quench our thirst? Support us

will become our daily punishment?

 

Will poetry save humans?

Is it moreover desirable that some

don't survive the decline of the invasive species,

destructive? Tomorrow does not exist.

 

 

 

Nightmare

 

Hidden in a box somewhere in the house,

horses neighs and whines nightmarish growls.

Robins fly above our heads while chirping sparrows

shit all over the floor; some tiles need cleaning now.

 

Crucifixes fall down. We pray. “Lord, this is unlike us.”

The moonlight trembles like a child some perv would stalk.

Fireworks scare the cats, burn barns, pollute the air.

We ventilate the room, let more night shades enter it.

 

 

 

The Oyster Nebula

 

Lost in the Oyster Nebula,

gases surround the ship

tormented by ghastly winds

helium breathed in, 

hydrogen breathed out.

Former terra formers

panic then bathe in tears

or sweat, inside their helmets.

 

Planets implode in their eyes,

stars erupt in their blood,

from subatomic level to interstellar

clouds, of unknown origin.

Light-year-length landscapes,

some once called the sublime,

no human brain can fathom,

mighty forces – divine?

 

Non-believer, remember Space

Unconsciousness, the blank in nothingness,

the void they lose themselves in

so often when question marks outnumber

rational explanations. The Oyster,

a blue iris, the same hue as your eyes’ – 

the eye of the dim Camelopardalis – 

stares at the whole universe.

 

 

 

Seasons in Hell

 

Clouds deform the Autumn’s sky.

They make me feel dizzy, bitter, sour.

The warm air – its poetry – the smell of the sea,

these features need fixing, or do I need moving?

 

A black cap screwed on my skull,

a suede winter coat stolen from the ogre.

Paris was cute in memories, it is transfixed

by fumes, violence, grief, numerous attacks.

 

Dust covered me in the Summer, the northern

wind acted like the devil’s breath: it stank

and dried out my eyes, my skin, the land

where fruits used to grow, harvested now.

 

Winter soon will erupt. Forecasters warn

it will be clement. Will the clementines be

sweet this season, the grapes were tart,

the peaches parched, apricots scarce.

 

Next Spring Normandy will be a haven.

The fat grass where cows graze will shelter

the felines that cuddle next to us.

Meanwhile waiting is like an infinite ordeal.

 

 

 

Walter Ruhlmann is an old friend of the Macabre from way back who works as an English teacher, edits Datura, Beakful and Urtica. He has published close to thirty chapbooks and poetry collections both in French and English, and hundreds of poems worldwide. His blogs http://thenightorchid.blogspot.fr/ and https://nightorchidsselectedpoems.blogspot.com/