Petermichael von Bawey
Saw a beautiful woman in the supermarket, gorgeous with a brilliant smile, magnificent hair, grey and white, tied up in bun on top, and held with a chopstick in place.
Elegantly dressed with double button gray coat, long black boots and stylish pants, she guided my eyes.
As she paused to pay at the counter, I noticed her left hand, partially hidden by her coat, the fingers crippled and shriveled, the hand useless and not moving.
A beautiful daisy, vibrant and alive …
precariously…yet preciously…
Arriving on the East of Silesia on the first day of January in the last German Reich,
my mother was congratulated for giving birth to a son, the first of the year in 1942.
Two years later my sister arrived and shortly after died, starvation was the cause as we fled the Russian assault of Marshall Konev’s offensive, fleeing from our home.
My grandfather deprived by fleeing German soldiers of his car, hitched his horses to the winter sled and our troika went west.
Arriving in a refugee camp in Austria, I explored a cellar with other boys, where we discovered boxes of soap from Auschwitz, and my mother warned me, no son, that soap was made of human bones.
We were settled on a farm in the German West, where we gleaned potatoes for food during the harvest with other refugees from the East. To the fields we went, where at sunset someone found a baby rabbit, and snatched it to high jubilation in anticipation of a tasty dinner.
Not able to sleep, I liberated the baby rabbit from its cage, and walked all night to return it to its mother’s nest, earning the scorn of all the rest.
Arriving on the East Coast
My mother said America was great,
life here was sweet,
one that just could not be beat!
On entering the US Army I returned to Germany again, and was a spy for the West outsmarting the Stasi’s best in Berlin Est.
Arriving on the West Coast
I thought I was pretty hip trucking
in my patchouli laced, rug draped bus
alongside my hairy dog and groovy chick.
Arriving on the South Coast
I was spotted as mellow and a cool fellow,
drank mint julep at the Dean’s Hour,
and chilled in the Fox Hunt,
jiving with foxy brothers and vixen sisters,
on steamy Saturday nights.
Arriving in divided West Berlin
I was called an Ami capitalist,
desperately in need of re-education,
to read Marx, discuss the proletarian
paradise.
and meet bourgeois women guzzling beer in dicy workers bars.
Arriving In gay Paris I was an academic flaneur, lectured on urban culture,
and drank pinot noir with flair,
on cafe terraces with les plus belles femmes on rue Claire.
Now in Nature content I sit touching the musty earth by a stream,
and see time flowing by.
I smell the fragrant flowers coloring the grass, and hear the bees buzzing around.
I gaze long at the mighty trees so firmly rooted deep in the ground with their branches reaching high to the open vast sky,
and I finally dare to ask the question ...
Why....
Such pleasure to watch the swallows fly, their graceful glide through the sky. Their wings a-flutter between movement and sail, their energy boundless, yet spent with purpose and great skill.
The weather they know well, for when it rains they fly low, chirping loudly, circling the wet lawn in front of the village church.
And when the sun shines bright, they circle high, chirping fast above the church’s spire, crossing and greeting each other cheerfully from East to West, and North to South.
To see them arrive each year around Easter is a great joy, and marks the end of winter’s dull stillness.
To watch them fly South in September leaves nature’s beauty bare, and a melancholic cloud darkens the sky of something precious not here.
September 13th, 2020
The Candle has half burnt giving its mellow and yellow light.
The bottle of champagne is half empty, sharing pleasure and delight.
And darkness has spread with its silence in the countryside, evoking nature’s true right:
With a sky of speckled stars gleaming in the blackness of the night,
With an owl screeching and fluttering its large wings above tree tops,
With a falcon circling and guarding the tower of the village church,
And hedgehogs, mice, cats and fox all awake and scurrying through the night.
So much to hear and see, smell and taste, touch and nourish,
In this lovely French country side.
September, 2020
Ja, ich weiß wer ich bin, nur die Zeit, die nimmt mich hin.
Sinnlicher Körper, das merk ich schon,
Sinnlicher Geist, das weiß ich auch.
Doch die Zeit, die hab ich leider
missverstanden.
Denn sie ist ständig da, um tückisch zu überraschen.
Am überlegen wo ich letztens war, habe ich da mein Glass verlegen, oder war ich überhaupt nicht da?
Lust schwebt durch mein Körper mit starkem Verlangen, doch ich merke gleich, mein Körper meldet, nur vielleicht.
Die Zeit hat mir viel geschenkt, ein Leben mit Freude und Lust.
Doch, erst jetzt merke ich, am Ende macht die Zeit ein Schluss!
June 7th, 2020
Was machst du nur armer Mann ohne eine Frau,
Die Dich sanft und lieb streicheln kann?
Du bist alleine und verloren, dein Leben glüht nicht mehr und deine Seele wird langsam leer.
Raff dich auf und finde ein Weib sonst vergeht dir deine Lebenslust.
Du weißt nicht wo, wer und was sie ist, und die Suche ist ein neues Abenteuer, eine Reise durch unerforschtes Land, doch gleich dem Leben auch.
Vielleicht kommst du nach deiner Suche an auf Gipfelhöhe mit großer Lust, oder du stürzt hinunter in Dunkelheit und leerer Stille.
June 6th, 2020
Oh Jammer, so einen Hammer!
Jetzt leide ich von Liebeskummer,
Weiß nicht wohin...woher...
Fühle mich verloren, und alleine.
Doch eine Stimme sagt mir sanft und leise:
Ach ne, das sollest du nicht sein.
Reiss dich auf und mach dich auf die Beine,
Und such ein Weib online,
Wo Tinder auf Dich wartet mit saftigen Frauenangebot,
Wähl Dir eine aus mit glühenden Augen, und leichtes Lächeln, offenes Herz und Arme, und dann bist Du nimmer alleine.
June 6th, 2020
Nights alone,
In images of your wakeful touch
I search again, what is Love.
Are you my lover still
who keeps passion secret
With locked lips,
Who shows herself
to others otherwise?
Or
in the twilight hour
will you lay your head
on someone’s heart,
and let sensuous hands
hold you
in the morning light?
Will you drink deep his passion
while mine grows cold and stale?
Will his bed prove friendly
Or
Will you be bed-less without me?
In these nights alone
I search again what is Love.
Speechless,
I whisper love to you at will
and hold you with my heart,
not knowing
what you will do
without me.
June 5th, 2020
It is unreasonable
Says reason.
It is what it is
Says love.
It is misfortune
Says calculation.
It is nothing but pain
Says fear.
It is hopeless
Says insight.
It is what it is
Says love.
It is foolish
Says pride.
It is careless
Says care.
It is impossible
Says experience.
It is what it is
Says love.
*Freely translated from the German of torn and musty notes found by the writer in a seedy East Berlin underground bar.
Sollte ich verrecken in dieser Nacht,
Denke ich jetzt schon an Dich in Deiner Trauertracht....und vor meinem Grabe da stehen.
Schwarz bekleidet mit blutrotem Lippenstift, und schwarz-grau gefärbt die tränenden, wunderschönen, Haselnuss braunen und glänzenden Augen.
Roter Hut und rote Schuhe passen gut dazu...
Sanfte mit Sorgfalt legst Du die weißen Rosen auf meine letzte Bleibe, und schwer bewegt sich Dein voller Busen.
Sollte ich in der Nachwelt Dich von oben durch die Wolken schauen, Deine lieben brauen Augen möchte ich nochmal sehen, und dessen Glanz erfassen.
Doch sollte ich Dich doch von unten durch den Schwefel sehen, dann möchte ich gern keine Unterhosen erblicken, und nur Deine feuchte Scheide sehen.
May 18th, 2020
Die Katzen die wissen was sie machen,
Nur die Menschen nicht.
Sie schnurren wenn gestreichelt und nach dem Fressen aus Lust und Freude gleich.
Nur die Menschen nicht.
Die Katzen die begraben ihr kacken mit Sorgfalt und aus Pflicht.
Nur die Menschen nicht.
Sie haben Schwanz Funk mit Riech Verkehr.
Nur die Menschen nicht.
Die Katzen besitzen sanftes Schnurrhaar Gefühl und Summen gelassen daher.
Nur die Menschen nicht.
Sie haben Ohren steif mit großen Hörvermögen und horchen alle Laute.
Nur die Menschen nicht, denn sie sind ständig in einer ...unhörbaren Flaute.
In der Po Gegend.
Den Po, den wollte ich immer sehen.
Da wo die herrlichen Kurven sich drehen,
Und wo die kleinen Schwellen sich wellen.
Die Kurven leiten runter zu den entzückenden Backen, öfters drapiert in bunten Lacken.
Wandern da ist sehr schön, den Du hast die Wahl, fängst von oben an,
gleitest durch das Tal und dann hoch zu den edlen Hügeln und an der Schlucht vorbei.
Kommst Du von unten hoch,
begrüßen Dich die sanften Hügeln, und leiten Dich ins zauberndes Tal,
immer an der Schlucht vorbei.
Doch manchmal aus Wanderlust wagst Du Dich in die Schlucht,
wo Du bald die Backenhöhle erreichst,
die Du vorsichtig umwanderst,
und stille Fragst ob Du weiter darfst.
Denn in der Backenhöhle einmal angekommen, kann vieles Dich erregen da unten in der tiefen Schlucht,
oder so manches Dich verlegen,
und Du verlierst Deine Wanderlust.
May 10th, 2020
Was ist jetzt? Ohh....
... You’re such a pest!
Bothering me all the time,
Calling me when I am so busy,
with life not easy, and my children
queasy, one physically effected,
the other more noisy than expected.
Yes, I’m a romantic, yearn for adventure,
unknown places
in nature with beauty
and wide-open spaces.
But as a mother as you know,
I care for my life-blood, and my children, are my dearest flock,
and keep me busy around the clock.
May 2nd, 2020
To Be Average
If you were beautiful, you would have to care for your beauty
all day long.
If you were talented you would have to sing the same
old tired song.
If you were intelligent you would have to prove your smarts
to everyone.
If you were charismatic you would have to charm people
all the time.
Be glad that your average and can live happily
and your just fine.
March 10th, 2020
Die Welt, ein ewiger Strom
Alles fließt im unendlichem Wasser,
Ein ewiges Hin und Her
Von Quelle zum ewigen Meer.
Und Du Mensch, wo bist Du?
Du fließt, wirst wirbelnd mitgezogen,
Von Geburt zu Grab, ein rasender Fluss,
Dein Leben.
Wagst Du noch zu fragen, wohin, woher?
Wer weiß es, wer soll es wissen,
Und wer da die Frage stellen?
Mensch! Nur im Fluss des Lebens
bist Du,
Und zum ewigen Meer fließt Du,
In stiller, unhörbarer Ruh.
Gedanken, Dezember 1967.
Von meiner Mutter aufbewahrt, und erst jetzt gefunden, Februar 2020.
What becomes of a dreamer, who does not know he can dream?
What becomes of a dream imprisoned in its creation?
What becomes of a dreamer’s dream when it becomes experience?
What becomes of experience once a dream shapes it?
What becomes of the dreamer when the dream is lost?
What becomes of dreams, and what of dreamers?
What becomes of dream on, your dream has come true, your dreaming, it’s only a dream?
July 12th , 2019
Every evening she is at the window,
Looking out,
Broken-hearted because she is leaving in a while,
Yet she made up her mind, this is the last tea, the last laugh,
Before he can hear her shoes,
Lightly pounding the hall way,
The door firmly slamming shut.
So it's that bad, he thought,
No redemption in the morning's light,
All gone like evening shadows,
Swallowed by the darkness of the Night.
Laughter and tea, now silence and tears.
All faded, dispersed by fears,
A brief flicker left,
Of a once sparkling light.
May, 29th 2016
Petermichael von Bawey
You closed the door behind you
And joy and pleasure departed with you.
Yet you left an image of your bright and starry eyes
And I dreamed what if in the darkness of the night
You were to return and I wake to your lucid light.
Knowing I shall not hold you fast tonight
I gazed out of the window into the amber night
And searched for your face among the falling leaves
Gathered by November’s chilly breeze.
And I thought of your cold feet.
Let them bring you back to me again!
And I shall warm them
As we eat raspberries out of season
And love out of reason.
Lightly, lightly in the wetness
Love gently comes.
I hear you as rain mildly falling
Your dark eyes softly calling.
Once her words flushed my blood
Come flood on my soft plains…she wrote…
I will rain dance and be your priestess
I will be your shaman, your blood fare,
And be your… mistress.
Passion once so tightly bound
In the attic the note now found.
Intimacy with Nature and Machine
An owl screeches
A clock stops
A woman dies
All in one nocturnal plight.
That’s life! —The way it could have been.
The way it perhaps was, or should have been.
Without us knowing it, really.
Without us sensing it, actually.
Blinded by another, or the other.
By too much, or by too little that came our way.
That was it!
Or is it?
Oh, another song for me…
Another song, let’s hear it!
Song of days gone by, song of days to come…
Song of living, song of loving, song of dying.
*Sung melodically to the popular ol’ tune of
“Razzmatazz I’ve got that ol’ Muskrat by his musky arse.”
Fuer-niemand-und-nichts-warten.
Warten, im Abendschatten
vor Schranken.
Vielleicht ja, vielleicht nein
beissende Frage.
Im Zweifel ob sich mit Blick, mit Gefuehl
die Schranken ueberschreiten lassen.
Fuer-jemand-und-etwas-warten.
Warten, im Schattendasein
auf Empfindungen,
mit alldem, was darin Spiel hat,
auch ohne (Wissen).
Erwartungen
im Liebesschatten
vor Schranken.
Die Wa(h)re Liebe im Sinne der Philosophen
Wer kennt die wa(h)re Liebe und ihren Preis?
Nur eine Nutte weiss,
dass zugleich sie
Ware und Verkaeuferin ist.
Deswegen ist sie das Kantsche Ding-an-Sich:
sie kennt nicht nur wer sie ist
sondern auch ihren Preis.
It is unreasonable
Says reason.
It is what it is
Says love.
It is misfortune
Says calculation.
It is nothing but pain
Says fear.
It is hopeless
Says insight.
It is what it is
Says love.
It is foolish
Says pride.
It is careless
Says care.
It is impossible
Says experience.
It is what it is
Says love.
* Freely translated from the German of torn and musty notes found by the
writer in a seedy East Berlin underground bar
Every evening she is at the window,
Looking out,
Broken-hearted because she is leaving in a while,
Yet she made up her mind, this is the last tea, the last laugh,
Before he can hear her shoes,
Lightly pounding the hall way,
The door firmly slamming shut.
So it's that bad, he thought,
No redemption in the morning's light,
All gone like evening shadows,
Swallowed by the darkness of the Night.
Laughter and tea, now silence and tears.
All faded, dispersed by fears,
A brief flicker left,
Of a once sparkling light.