Kopfkino

  An Ode to Rain “So what’s your favourite time of the year?” she asked, swinging a crossed foot lazily in the air, as she swirled a stirrer in a tiny cup of hot chocolate. Perhaps the time when I used to lick melted drops of vanilla from the back of my hand? blind to the fact that I was painting a modern art piece on the pavement with ice cream. What a charming memory.  Summer, I should say.  What about the little shivers my feet do, tucked away in the layers of heavy blankets, while my nose and ears complain of the biting cold to my toes.   Hot soups, lazy mornings, clouds from the mouth when I speak and hoodies with cosy pockets to slide my hands into.  Winter beats summer, surely.  To be fair, I was born in spring, the perfect gradient from the cold seasons to hot summers. Just the right temperature, reasonably humid with a drizzle of rain here and there. It had never been dramatic enough to create a lasting memory of itself though. Glancing out the cafe’s window to an overcast sky

 “I have long felt that any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel or a play or a poem is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armour and attacked a hot fudge sundae.” - Kurt Vonnegut. Artist or not, we have all encountered the wrath of ‘The critic’ in our lives. But are critics really necessary? Why then, if we must bring up this question, are they so widespread and popular? The New Yorker Two reviews, one makes headlines. NY Times critic Pete Wells is famous for his scathing reviews of restaurants and here’s a snippet from his most popular one.  “(Mr. Fieri), did you try that blue drink, the one that glows like nuclear waste? The watermelon margarita? Any idea why it tastes like some combination of radiator fluid and formaldehyde?” Here’s another review by the same critic. “I am convinced that if everybody gave up turkey and just had Sailor’s roast chicken once a year, the country would be a better place. Ms. Bloomfield’s desserts are known for t

Sometimes, I wish I was Michelangelo.  I wish I could see the angel, Before I set her free from the stone,  My mind. But alas, I am no sculptor nor painter. Us writers, we are magicians, mages and warlocks. Conjuring words from thin air, Stringing them together as we go. Sometimes,  I wish I could peek at her tender hands through the uncut rock. So I may chip away stone day and night to carve them to perfection. But, I possess no hammer, chisel nor rake. Sounds trapped in letters. Letters stitched to form words. Words which I must now weave, Into a warm winter blanket that shall not exist in the real world. The real world.. where it's cold. Ah yes. Words. They are the only tools I wield. How do I ever see my creation like Michelangelo saw his angels, When I am being asked to embrace her, Before I pour life to her very inception? - P.S

One humid night outside my front door, I was sitting in boredom waiting for the sun to go down so I could maybe catch the twilight dusk. The sky turned dark pretty fast that day and it wasn't nearly as impressive as the day before. Flies started buzzing all around and to my surprise, were suddenly gone. In intrigue, I looked up. Turned out, the light above the door frame had been turned on. Like a pilgrimage, little bugs from all around flew right up to it and made tapping sounds at the glass casing. At first I felt pitiful. For these tiny beings could only have so much energy and were wasting it for no reason. Almost like they wanted to break into the bulb and touch the filament, they battered their heads on the glass repeatedly. Fluttering their little wings with all their might. It was indeed pitiful to watch. Still is, whenever I see them. Near bulbs, tube lights, signboards or open fires. “How could one of nature’s creations be so flawed?” I thought. Moreover, it wasn’t like m

Does it scare you now, when you look down at us? For even at night, We keep the passion of the sun alive. Specks of yellow illuminate the dark earth. A metaphor to life.  Raging.  Thriving life. Like molten fluid shrinking into cold lifeless rock. The universe is your eternal day. And our eternal night. A curse of slow death. Your curse. Go in vain, shall your effort, For we are creatures of light, Keeping the flame of life ablaze and bright. For every fire of the breathing soul, A dot of yellow orange and white, Rages with a fiery fervour, Against the smothering winds of entropy. We are creatures of light, In a lonely and dark world. But through colder winds of the nights, And the curse of this universe, I assure you. The swathes of yellow and white, Will only grow brighter and stronger, Till the blood of darkness, Drenches my mortal hands. Till it pierces your eyes. You may be our demons, But we are thy saviours. For without our purpose of defiance, Turn wintry and barren, will

Look at your clock. A mortal creation made of crystals, gears and glass burdened with the immortal task of keeping time. Its hands trace their cyclical paths each minute, hour and day. Ticks, tocks and mechanical whirs are the voices we give to time. Ironic, how the same voices poke at our fears. Mocking us for our limited possession of time. Art by Cornelis de Heem You may want to throw your clock out the window or pull the batteries out of your watch. But time moves on nevertheless. Aloof, perpetual and indifferent to one’s sufferings or joy. In our tiny lifetimes when compared to the scale of history, we as a species have created order out of zilch and erected societies, into which we are born today. Capitalist or not, one must agree that at the heart of all this progress, lies money. To deepen this discussion, I shall introduce a friend of mine from another world. Meet Lyra. A celestial entity who lives in solitude through the darkness of space. She knows no concept of death.

It's quite wonderous really, How clocks around the world are ticking right now in perfect synchrony. Wonderous how even in such a large world,  We are all nakedly defined by a common present.  A common, now. Wonderous how the sun is setting right this moment, In one corner of the world. While it rises in another, all at the same time. . Perhaps it is all that's left that unites us through the present. Only the sun bears witness to the capering of man,  For the world is simply too large for us. Large enough to let a man in Paris grab an afternoon Latté,  While a woman in Casablanca runs to the sweet embrace of her lover. . Large enough that the loudest sound you hear is this poem, and my voice, Sheltered from the shelling beyond the seven seas. Large enough that at this very second, There's a little girl with ringing ears, Looking through the rubble, For her dead mother. . Now, when my voice too goes quiet.  I implore you, tell me what is louder. Is it the luxury of silence?

Song was what they called it. The ones before us could hear it they say. I wonder sometimes,  How must it feel to hear .  To reach in and, Entwine my soul with another creation of god. The ancestors tell tales I don't understand.  Tales of songs, Songs of the waters of the rivers, And the branches of the trees. Songs of beings with no face nor limb. I wonder, What is the colour of their souls, The rivers, rocks and the earth. What do they sing about? What was nature's great symphony. But alas, we are now cursed men.  Robbed of the charm of song. "Do not lose hope little one." they say. Hope to maybe rekindle this forbidden art? but I, I don't know to hope like they do. We spend our days in regret,  Of the sins of our forefathers who've left us cursed, Plunging our arms into the earth, Trying to reach out for something long forgotten. Tremors and vibrations are all that's left, Like a ruinous monument of the past. A dying goddess, and her last breaths, ech

Why must I leave?  If this place I'm going to is as nice as you say.  I'm already there. But I know, everything will be okay.  I remember the days when the rumbling of the skies made the ground shake. Still, everything was okay because you'd tell me so. And you sang to me as I snuggled into your lap. I'll remember the memory of a sunset golden, glittering in the moist grass as my paws chase a lone blue butterfly. By my side, your comforting voice of bliss, warmer than the sun itself. I'll remember chasing your feet every summer noon, and sinking into your arms while we lay in the green meadow by the little hill. All out of breath. I'll carry the memories of the golden sun, the soft embrace of your hands and the voice I call heaven. And when I go, I'll have known that I was your good boy every moment of my life.  Till the very end. ~Klaus W.S 20-8-23

Audio tracks add to the reading experience.  (They are mood synced. Press play when they appear.) Setting down his book on the table, Malcolm rocked the spoon back and forth in his cup of earl grey, stirring up the contents before he took a long deep sip with closed eyes.  The shadows cast by the nearby buildings marched forth inch by inch into the little cafe tucked into Piazza di Santa Croce, 14. He shifted his little stool to face the window and sipped away at his tea. The vapours of which rose like clouds of cotton in the dying sunlight.  It bothered him to not know where everyone on the street was headed. Every pedestrian outside seemed to walk with such a sense of purpose and determination as if they would perish if their feet touched the pavement another second. Unless one stopped to notice each person’s face and gait, there was no real difference at all. Just cold pillars of such determination wandering aimlessly on the streets. One went left. Two went right. Another left