Not a poet, but here’s a poem:

Amsterdam

by Danielle Ackermann

 

Meet me down the cobbled alley

tell your friends to come along.

Let’s dance and drink and light a smoke

to an old, familiar song.

 

My feet are aching tonight

in these secondhand leather boots Continue reading

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A writer with nothing to say.

I was in love with you, Writing. How embarrassing, admitting that we are strangers again. How embarrassing to admit that the way I boasted about you in public, the way I flaunted our intimacy to others – has come to this.

Crumpled up papers. Nothing.

We were lovers once and passionate words burnt in my throat like the hand rolled cigarettes I smoke to avoid you now. Like a passive aggressive teenager, I’ll avoid you when we walk pass each other in the street. I refuse to make eye contact, and when a close friend asks how you are doing, I avoid the question as if we never knew each other.

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Dear bedroom ceiling

IMG_20170710_090435.pngHi,

Sorry for staring, but I can’t sleep. You see, it’s not like you mean to, but honestly, sometimes I feel like you boomerang all my thoughts straight back to me. All my questions and inconclusive thoughts.

I’m not sending them off to you in the hopes of an answer, but rather to clear my head. Can’t you hold them for a while? Can you move around the boxes in the attic and find some space for them?

And if the attic is filled up to the brim with childhood memorabilia and forgotten furniture, amuse me why don’t you? Make a deal with the lightbulb and take all my nasty thoughts and turn them into a flickering movie I can watch untill I fall asleep. Turn my thoughts that have overstayed their visit in my mind into shadow figures that fly on your surface like trapeez artists. Instead of just lingering over me.
If you can’t do any of that dear ceiling, and you decide to be a passive piece in my midnight monologue, atleast make yourself transparent. Turn yourself into glass, so I can stare at the stars and the night sky and put my fears into beautiful perspective.

A letter of (un)motivation as to why you should pay me:

Suddenly, three years have passed by, like the countless nights that was set on fast forward by the double vodka lime’s. Now you’re here. In between your little pseudo adulthood, wrapped up neatly with a bow and the security blanket of mom and dad making sure you’re still okay – and the nitty gritty reality of the real world.

Now what?

I wish I had the answer – but instead, I will use my polished undergraduate humanities skills to try and romanticize my little existential crisis. If that doesn’t work, my next option is to deny the fact that I will ever have to face next year, and lastly, when next year hits me hard, like saturday morning hangovers, I will strongly consider becoming an academic and never leaving uni. – Sidenote: This would only be possible if I somehow manage to raise my class average to about 150% to balance out my neat, close cut 50’s from the last 3 years.

Another alternative, which is the one I am most drawn to (keeping the neo-colonialist teaching english abroad as a back up) is drawing up a letter to all future employers along with my CV (which will probably include me being class captain in 2nd grade).

It will read:

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A letter to my mother(tongue).

Dear Mom

Remember that one sweater? You know, the one with the technicolor stripes? It was made out of the most marvelous different shades of colorful hand-knitted wool and it fit perfectly. It was warm and comfortable and I would wear it almost every day. That sweater reminds me of you. Warm, comfortable, colorful and most importantly, mine. As I grew up and as I grew tall, however, the sweater didn’t grow with me. It became all the more uncomfortable. Lovely, still, but something that just doesn’t quite fit that well anymore. Quite frankly a bit awkward to wear.

I know we haven’t spoken for a while. I know I sound different, I know I haven’t visited enough. I know all these things. Ek weet, mamma. But to be honest, to be heeltemal eerlik, I don’t know if I’m coming back home right now. I don’t know. Ek weet nie. I am so tired of not knowing anything. I am here and I am there and I am nowhere and I am everywhere at the same time. Sorry if I’m not making any sense. I know that can be frustrating.

I hope you are well though, I miss you. I miss you when my head’s a mess and I can’t find anyone else to explain it to except you. I miss you when I hear strangers who I swear sound exactly like you. Also, I do sincerely love when we bump into each other. You always seem to catch me slightly off guard here, but the world is a beautiful place to discover. Too beautiful to always be homesick. I hope you understand that.

I still have that sweater though.

All my love

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