Overcast Easter, the Alps – Zell am See-Kaprun, Salzburger Land

every time I glance out of the window, love,
grey clouds slink down into our valley deep

and filter out all colour: grey above,

below, and grey behind our balcony when sleep
creeps up like time on light, and all around our space

the mist coils spreading from the glacier

of Kitzsteinhorn, and River Salzach’s waters race

and roil beyond the moor’s dark clumps of birch and alder
where wagtail, dipper, and sad willow warbler

chatter cross the fens beside the spa’s hot springs.
around us in the town, the fog clings

to the streets, a scattering of ghosts without a face –
we sip a schnapps, our spirits warm, and love

each other, smiling, dissolved into the place.

*
freddie omm

Mid-April 2017


la muse et la petite mort – a sonnet

la muse et la petite mort

___
i sometimes wish I didn’t love you yet

so much that I do I do for you but

nothing ever works for us both, and words mistook cut

us up and out of our connection, when we let

them.
___

*
            i always love the way you never get

stuck on stuff – some folk would fall into a rut

when hard and heavy tribulations put

their lives on hold – thoughts mired like fish in a net.
___

*
but you, you seem to blithely slip

through that broad open ocean of freedom

from all the drifting flotsam pains you ever met
___

*
setting sail on a climactic far-out trip 

through wine-dark heavens, where you and all our friends can come –

loving, yet somehow wishing we didn’t love you yet.
_____

*
       freddie omm

       April 2017

in our happy hour 

                                                      

  in our happy hour

  blooming among wild tulips

   sappily sprung in spring – 

                       *

   fresh April showers fall,

  sweeten earthy sluggish veins –

    riffs of birdsong wake

                        *

       liminal lovers

    on the season’s bare threshold,

     shivering off the cold –

                          *

    shed our chrysalis clothes,

      winter’s pale accessories,

        to emerge naked –

                            *

    limitless like love

    shaken from hibernation

        in our happy hour

                                                                    __________________
                                                                                                            freddie omm , april 2017

sexy, slightly scary (her sweet self)


She’s sweet like a friend

Yet sexy, slightly scary

Like no one other

                 *

You like her. She smiles

The smile of one who knows that

That liking you feel

                  *

Likes her for her self

Like she wishes she could too

But she doesn’t like

                  *

Like herself… She says

She can’t explain how she likes 

What she likes in words

                  *

She has this dream

In which she merges in her

Lies of love with others like

                  *

She’s living some truth

Neither selfish nor selfless

– Like her to be both –

                  *

Sweet, wholesome, love-scarred

And sexy, exposed – scared that

She’s just like herself

                  *

But is not herself –

Like no one else is oneself:

We’re like each other.

soho sunday

image

Ganton Street Soho.
In a café called Sacred:
Small blue sky crossed

With pink, white lightbulbs,
Old facades of painted brick.
The dog is panting

The poet is waiting
On the pavement footfalls pass
By shops, tourists snap.

Summer 2016

on ventura beach: haiku chain

ventura keys bay

ventura keys bay

*

borne on a loose-tongued tide

when dolphins sang in our bay,

i swam alongside.

*

learning my english

in california, oh yeah –

i dug those endless sands

*

west of ventura keys

soaked up the lingo in waves,

loghorreic seas,

*

chilled long days drunk down

so deep, my first summer of love,

synaesthetized like

*

a child of the sun –

honey-skied strands, peacemeal love,

kool-aid cookied, fun!

*

like surf out of reach,

lyrics drift through smoke-tinged breeze

on ventura beach.

 

kool-aid cookies

kool-aid cookies

photo(2)

shoredays, yoredays: seven haiku on a beach

DSC02124

now, then, soon – shoredays,

wave-lapped hours, wind-spun and warm

like summer kisses

*

blown in midwinter

distillated on our lips

blissed out, oh! timeless

*

yoredays – flown, but here

with you forever, come spring

and the buds and birds –

*

skies drunk on light, blue

till blacked-out, then flopping blank

on a spinning globe

*

summerled like myth,

tripping out on dewy toes –

yoredays, yours, mine, theirs,

*

the only sure thing

left is love in all our lives,

strewn along the dunes

*

days of sun, shoredays –

all transilluminated,

hewn in memory

DSC02120

who am i (lana wachowski)

for lana wachowski

001Lana-Wachowski

… who am i, and when

wachowski to wachowska

metamorphosized

was there a moment

before i became me? – no,

and yet i wonder…

♥♥

what turns us queerly

recast in a different film

to act against type?

♥♥♥

(type?) (without a face?)

life’s not some single screenplay…

(type?) (without a cast?)

♥♥♥♥

we ask ourselves this

not knowing if an answer

ever was, will be:

♥♥♥♥♥

never yet someone,

neither a nonentity

nor quite nobody

♥♥♥♥

mostly we don’t ask

for fear of wondering, lost

in rapt selflessness

♥♥♥

one eye on the road

which tears our lives inside out

one hand on the wheel

♥♥

and we become one

body, not anybody,

don’t ask who am i…

♥♥

22nd January 2014

note:

i admire lana wachowski’s work a lot and also her general attitude to stuff (as far as one can make out from her few public statements) – she combines humour with intelligence and experimentation – artistic bravery, openminded energy, a sense of inspirational anarchy…

i wrote this poem in one go last night just after i’d been thinking about her life so far.

(it is likely to get edited, tweeted and played with, being in the nature of an experiment, one of my haiku chains…)

endings & beginnings

my new year’s message this year is this quaint little ditty. i was writing out the fair copy this morning when i was interrupted not by a man from porlock but a mother-in-law from neuss bearing presents. so i had to finish it on a fresh sheet of paper which i then stuck together so you can see that the interruption came at a pertinent point:

endings & beginnings31122013_00000

for those who cannot decipher my writing:

 

                                                                  endings & beginnings

                                                                  (in a winter’s garden)

BEGIN with the word that comes first, like light

from a twilit winter’s garden, when soft rainfalls

drop on dewy, leaf-pocked grass, showering bright

like a sudden flow of MOMENTS through the calls

of a goosequilled V tooting past, this starry night…

*

I sometimes try to freeze TIME, so it stops

and in an INSTANT feel and think all blend

and merge within MOMENTS—consciousness drops

like heaven’s rainfall in a winter garden—

inconsummate, unbegun, word without END,

*

but now SOMETIMES I forget such somethings,

and in your love I’ve found SEASONS to care

about the here, NOW, not some perfected place where

there are no more ENDINGS and BEGINNINGS.

                                                                                              freddie o

                                                                        viersen, 29-31 december 2013

 

love became a lonely land: autumnal haiku chain

leaves on loam

leaves like love let go

spiral down to snoozing earth,

dark, russet-brown loam.

*

when fall took those leaves

love became a lonely land—

warmth withdrawn, wan sun’s

*

waning light bled slow

blind trails of mud and sodden

footsteps veined with ice

*

wan sun's waning light bled slow blind trails

where ghosts shadowed past,

skulked all through that leafless land

to haunt our autumns…

*

stark, unfelled, strange-boughed—

love’s remains in lonely land:

bare old beeches, clumped,

*

storm-ridden and gaunt,

sheltering our homeless hearts,

winterblown—like us,

*

love’s a vagabond

wandering to a nameless place

of endless leaving—

*

on tracks untravelled

from fall to spring, we will see

leaves, let go, return.

leaves, let go, return

leaves, let go, return

___________________________________________________________________________________

 – I originally wrote this haiku chain on Twitter — a bad habit of mine — poetry on Twitter being so hit and miss, nobody’s looking for it — but I find it a good place maybe for knocking out a first draft.

– When I’d written it I thought Love is a lonely land was a new phrase but then I checked and I saw I had actually lifted it (subconsciously…) from an old, sweet song.

–  This was Billie Holiday’s beautiful, mournful Deep Song (by Cory and Cross), which includes the line:

Love lives in a lonely land

and ends:

Love is a barren land, a lonely land/A lonely land.

–  That’s a song I must have listened to more than a couple dozen times since childhood (my parents also loved Billie Holiday).

– At any rate, my haiku chain has ended up as a sort of retort — a positive echo if you like — to the somewhat bleak sentiments of Deep Song

– So thanks to Billie, Cory and Cross!

– And here’s their song in all its glory:

Billie Holiday: Deep Song