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Poetry October 2024


As the wind bears the leaves aloft,

In the gentle evening light, the day goes soft,

The end approaches with a tender pace.


Swallows trace their final flight,

Shadows lengthen, time slips by in quiet light,

A growing longing in the human race.


Like the lilac by the garden's side,

Silent eternity bends wide,

Reaching down to the cool earth’s place.


In this stillness, spreading clear,

Summer lingers briefly here,

Before it goes away with you.


-


German Version: 


Und der Herbst starb lang,

bevor die Sonne ging;

das letzte Blatt fiel leis.

Denn der Tod vergisst uns,

so lang der Sommer lebt.


Der Abend klang so weit,

und unsere Seelen flieh'n.

Für Kunst und jede Idee,

verweilt ein Geist in uns.


Gedanken blühn am Morgen,

und sehen fern den Abend.

Jeder Anfang ist nah,

doch das Ende fordert Zeit.


Shattered mirrors  

on the living room floor,  

a place where mirrors —  

in any form —  

should not be.  


Lying and laying —  

up and down the room  

they reflect each whole thing,  

its completeness,  

as if the very sight  

could harm us —  

so perfect, so unreal  

from their perspective.  


I drown on the floorboards,  

you waste my tears  

by drying them.  


All the lies,  

the lies you told,  

up and down the room  

like mirrors, broken ones.  


Truth reflects nothing  

unless it’s broken.  


Outside this room,  

you roam the hallways,  

searching for feelings within.  


Dating a lie,  

dangerous and monstrous  

like your mind and soul.  


Survival is a matter of time  

and a dance on balanced sheets.  


The shattered pieces still lie there —  

waiting for completeness to end,  

chaos ensuring perfection.  


The lies fall still  

in the afternoon light  

that rests on the floorboards.  


Breathing easily now,  

vanishing glimpses —  

truth fades slowly,  

holding no place  

between you and me  

and all the lies you told.


Once we become our own ghosts,  

we constantly ask how we died  

and who ultimately killed us—  


we never recall the moment  

when everything turned against us,  

how we drowned in the demands of life.  


Like someone waking from a dream,  

suddenly wary-eyed and cold,  

we finally remember that we  


haunted others and fled our own souls  

by imitating their lives nearly perfectly,  

yet death eventually caught up with us.  


Somehow, we ask ourselves  

where everyone else has gone and how  

nothing ever escaped the mind we now possess.


What moves you  

Makes you write,  

Like the wind  

Rattles the leaves  

And turns the pages.


What lies buried  

Is unearthed by words,  

Creating space  

Between the graves  

We call lines.



QUOTES

- I always tried to hold on to the beautiful things, never realising that true beauty lies in letting go.

- To make the ordinary beautiful — that is true art.

The October rain writes cursive letters

 on my window once again;


Poem after poem it has to tell, 

becoming an ocean in my hands;


Words and words it asks of me to write, 

while the bottle fills up with tears -


 just to be emptied with sorrow 

in the pale morning light.


I can not kiss you 
unless you unraveled 
every line of my heart
and declared with your lips 
the beauty of our unfading love.
- Laura Chouette

Autumn sharpens the night air 

and paints the morning gold

on the edge of winter’s silver breath, 

dancing delicately between life and death,

between 4 pm and 3 am.  

- Laura Chouette


At a certain point, 

you no longer hope; 

you just keep on existing.  

One day at a time, 

for the rest of your life.  


And that feeling 

is not shallow but runs deep—  

deeper than any happiness 

or love could ever run.  


A vein is a mere line 

poets like me used to write on 

and a lifeline where sailors 

swim towards at night.  


If we keep on writing and giving, 

we grow on that existing line 

with millions of words that save hope -

and thus give existence and life. 


October creeps into the room 

through faint grey light  

that stopped dancing on the windowsill 

since July left.


Being haunted by silence 

makes the air grow weary 

and faintly colder.  


I hear the noise of people 

walking in solitude,  

thinking to themselves about others—  

sitting alone in between their steps.  


Company of ghosts on lonely eves,  

threading through the rustling of leaves.  

I can write down what haunts me, 

yet I cannot read the ones who do.  


October.


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