tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15914872789247111692012-02-03T10:54:28.729+02:00Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors. Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like to understand them. Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air. Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack. They speak of humanity. My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of that same poverty. Time is living me. - Jorge Luis BorgeRuth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.comBlogger821100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-63395489226038289602010-03-13T20:22:00.007+02:002010-04-09T18:29:04.909+03:00

I can't believe it's time to say goodbye already. I can't believe you're gone. I literally can't believe it. MORE

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-1134766492289150092009-10-14T10:22:00.003+02:002009-10-14T21:55:49.213+02:00

Who am I to speak of freedom?I – who cannot even imagine (just imagine!) what I want:A brand new flavor, or color;What the world would be like if justice reigned,If time and selffullness were not chasing us so hard;Even perfection –Of conversation, sustainable scenery, human bonds –Eludes me:Evading not only the grasp of my mindBut my vocabulary as wellCome on come on! my dreams shout at meAs

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-56828881274848041382009-10-03T20:46:00.000+02:002009-10-14T09:23:04.197+02:00

You areNot only for your thinkingBut for your absenceAnd the longing it createsIn other words,You exist in me as wellWhen did we stop realizing that we exist outside ourselves?Like someone said –Whatever is uploadedLeaves permanent (un)traceable tentaclesOn the world wide webAs do weIn whatever we doIn people(under which category does such a poem belong then?)

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-80165487885374396352009-10-02T10:46:00.005+02:002009-10-14T09:36:16.407+02:00

Here's my take on it:The beyondness came first.All this visible, tangible jumble around usOnly followedAs footprints in the sandOutlined after bigger concepts of being (human or otherwise)For instance:Dreams serve as a reminder of the fallacy of (un)realityAs an embodiment of how illusive our sense of space and time isOf how little things can matter once they're goneFor senses, words make little

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-44345194075061943942009-09-26T22:00:00.000+03:002009-10-14T09:24:43.517+02:00

Sense being madeOut of what is only new for secondsFor you aloneFor you could spend a lifetime learningNew thingsThat have already been created, are well knownOn the other (happy) handI still don't know what I'm thinking feeling doingSo that must be new, no?

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-15598918117348882372009-09-25T22:40:00.000+03:002009-10-14T09:35:26.239+02:00

SeriouslyHow can anything be taken seriously?Least of all ourselvesFor abundant reasons:Time changes our hearts -We can't even expect this tiny realm of our existence;Music moves something withinThat is, really, neither intellect nor spiritBut remains unquestioned, unnamed.Words cover our perception of the worldSo much so that we forget to think outside them;We get used to everything –Seeing

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-47876392223033037992009-09-14T20:35:00.013+03:002009-10-02T15:04:31.025+02:00

… how to describe such beauty as that which is laid out plainly before me now? A solitary lake: what luxury in the year 2009, a lake all to oneself, if only just for a week – if only just for an hour! But here I am, just Løvdalsvannet and me, and I have no vocabulary to convey a scenery so succulent... MORE

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-43074248339289489372009-08-07T11:28:00.008+03:002009-10-14T09:20:31.148+02:00

My brother hears voices, he saysPerhaps in his hunger for attentionPerhaps in his longing for our childhood's imaginary friendsAlbeit innocuous, I know they plague himFor real they are, however interpreted –Psychiatrically, neurologicallyEven imaginatively spunSo – he writes them into being.Here they are now, before me, vividMore permanent than all the supposedly concrete livesWho once roamed the

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-22418221853177837312009-07-01T23:39:00.003+03:002009-07-01T23:41:56.159+03:00

Michael Jackson was my best friend from the time I was 12 until I was 16 (when I fell in love with a slightly more accessible boy). He traveled with me as my parents moved me from place to place, he comforted me through many pimpled days, he taught me to appreciate animals and children, he gave me solid education on Motown and African-American culture in general, he (unfortunately) taught me a

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-89402573991587265692009-06-09T21:33:00.001+03:002009-07-09T21:41:35.611+03:00

The quantity of humanityThe sheer impossibleness of grasping how many livesAre livedRight nowMake me marvel at postal servicesWhich, amongst the general chaos and corruption of being(and the much more tangible virtuality of omnipresent emails)Are able to directA piece of paperFrom any one person to the nextAlmost like the ideaThat somewhere someone is working seriously on -And understanding -The

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-41558988644808614442009-06-06T20:21:00.002+03:002009-10-02T15:38:55.853+02:00

In the smoothness of time worn down by secondsLove no longer is, only, unrequitedBut has become unfeltWhether through control or self-preservationThe jagged edges of overwhelming infatuationAre lost to meAlmost, that isUntil the injustice of giving in to time materializesIn new, hungry youthAnd old impassive routinesI am still in betweenReluctantly falling into admirationOnly to realize its

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-5576015040301336572009-05-27T23:56:00.006+03:002009-10-07T11:14:25.856+02:00

Existence, constructedOut of the certainty of vanishingOut of an invisible cageMade up of all I don’t -Know, see, understandNot that this is an excuse for not reading up on our communally accumulated knowledge:The daily-rising pile of clever subalternity and humorous global all-embracingnessReinterpretations and reimaginationsAgainst which I am muteEven here, in my writingBut only to say –

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-50197842001404522312009-05-19T19:26:00.005+03:002009-06-06T19:24:45.188+03:00

If to doThen to do newIf to dieThen, at least, first to fly(like jumping off a cliff)For there is no good wayTo decay(This is to you Jørgen)

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-71304514905175161032009-05-07T02:14:00.000+03:002009-06-12T08:35:59.906+03:00

Again, alive in this accentOf constant transitionsYour core fades into transparencyLeaving behind sterile mannersAnd such profound emotional intelligenceTo allow success to cover upThe burden it createsYet it flashes across your face -A new despair over repetitionsThat grows on you with ageLike wrinkels, so personally disturbing,Which you've already seen on your father's faceYet what all these

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-34313406104986046112009-05-06T21:45:00.000+03:002009-05-21T08:10:22.424+03:00

Suspended in a black and white pictureOf what blackness still signifiesThese two faces seem to recreate themselves in abundant versions:That of ingrained misery –A stage for pity, prejudice, or philanthropic self-satisfaction(or all three, if you insist)And that of 'poor but happy' –A stage for idealization, banalization, and idiotic stereotypesAnd I find no in betweensTo navigate through these

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-6955052138260538302009-05-04T21:21:00.004+03:002009-10-07T11:45:31.228+02:00

Brimming with awarenessCarefully cultivated with the best of our intellectual manureWe applaud ourselves in spite of(because of?)Being a minute speck of culture in a global worldA minority, reallyColonial, yes, but so self-critical that we are forgivenUntil we see that "world" contains "word"And we can't help but read it into a circleWhere word and world feed each other, create one anotherWhich

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-8016194768657196672009-04-29T19:12:00.000+03:002009-06-12T08:33:51.386+03:00

All the seven wonders of the worldBoil down to these two substancesOf infinite marvelsSkinWide awake to the touch of windAll-absorbingSelf-healingShieldingAnd no matter how closeUnable to mergeEven in love makingAlways, wonderfully, separateWaterTangibly congealed airWhich is within everythingSeepingDefying gravitySustaining lifeDrowningEvaporatingTo be rebornRemaining transparentOnly to reflect

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-34235549125107518672009-04-19T22:15:00.003+03:002009-06-06T19:33:11.206+03:00

The paradox of innovation baffles me again:In order to create newnessOne must first be acquainted with the accumulated knowledge of the past(so as not to repeat it)But once all this information has left imprints on the mindIt takes metahuman powers to break free of influencesIn short, innovation is not the child of creativityBut of willpower and rebellion(and maybe even some lucky, well-placed

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-77027558349328911642009-03-13T17:56:00.009+02:002009-03-22T12:06:55.538+02:00

This is a toast to a breakfast eater who thrives in her own mess (no, not me). Or to a lunch eater who sulks because of the small misshapen pieces of daily life that float in his aspiring-to-be sterile cup of drinking water. Or to my favorite person, a supper eater who hums tunes of cynical indecision as he gulps down what remains of our day.Come on, I (don't) tell them when we meet in a corridor

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-72173966231046608112009-03-01T16:44:00.004+02:002009-05-13T00:21:32.771+03:00

So obvious, it isThat I never even dare miss it:That we shall never have conversationsCrossing the borders of propriety and senseNor allow ourselves to indulge in an hour of restWithin each other's understandingI cannot even bear to speak of touchThough it has, I confess, crossed my mindEspecially in times when death looms around every corner;For here I stand naked in the floodof my unarticulated

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-41430755351435706992009-02-22T12:41:00.003+02:002009-03-01T16:23:28.084+02:00

I love lifeSo muchThat sometimes I want to escape itJust to avoid facing its endIn others

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-38650696065382427812009-02-07T23:54:00.017+02:002009-05-13T00:31:36.590+03:00

Timmie,I am sorry I don't speak dog. These words are probably mostly for myself, you know, since you would not have understood them even if you were lying here under the table as usual. In a way, I have taken you for granted, always. Not in the bad sense of it, but in the sense of safety and symbiosis. Only now do I get the chance to appreciate, articulate, understand: how unbelievable, how

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-28558766417368507482009-02-01T21:39:00.000+02:002010-02-28T22:23:32.670+02:00

Bullshit, this talk of the journeyThe clichés of the importance of the roadOf how we travelRather than where we goI say thisNot for having any premeditated good destinationBut only in recognitionThat all this is self-comfort talkInstead, I am going to be sad for a whileFor this one big lossWhich, I admit, is not the end of the worldNot even the end of mineAnd yet it is not my journey eitherBut

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-5626146115533047492009-01-30T10:37:00.009+02:002009-06-06T19:54:38.937+03:00

I cannot believeThat I have lived so longTo make coconuts and passionfruits seem trivial;Instead appreciate:The opposite of life is not deathBut rather never existing(this goes for coconuts too)

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-59406694281074204932009-01-25T23:36:00.002+02:002009-01-26T00:08:32.237+02:00

The stare of these letters frightens me. I say willingly, this is my fear: losing my dreams within the attempt of turning them from ideas into actions; into words. Of not finding a new truth. Of mediocrity.I keep repeating to myself: the beginning cannot matter. Only the way I navigate through. The catch is that once we are in, there is always the issue of survival; of always better, more. Until

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-64251853809665635332009-01-21T22:14:00.013+02:002009-05-13T00:33:21.715+03:00

Today, of all days,My prejudices stared back at my faceAnd I could not erase themOnly say -I'm glad I finally get to meet youFor you mark the end of my worldToday for the first time I looked out over this dusty cityWhich, from my perspective, has simply sprung into lifeBut today I looked and saw someone else's land -Another, much older townThat we have drowned.So I grieve, not only for lost

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-59196416275624188382009-01-20T11:53:00.001+02:002009-01-20T11:53:46.120+02:00

So many things call out to usLonging to be waited forAs we wake up day by dayForgetting our mortalityAnd thus we sayYes, I'll wait

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-83084526916243077842009-01-19T18:58:00.000+02:002009-10-07T11:50:40.369+02:00

Apparently, the irony of impossible individualismHas lashed out on us:Let no one tell you we do not need a new carAn ipodOr fancy dinnersUnless we are readyTo face a multitude of unemployed peersWith whom we identifyThrough shared education, experiences, habits, clichés(– or better yet, the loss of our own source of income)This is what it has come to –We need all these spoiled, empty luxuriesIn

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-27449875975911866262009-01-15T19:15:00.008+02:002009-05-15T18:02:18.180+03:00

This must be the end to peaceNot that it ever existedBut to a tangible future option thereofNo?No!For eventually (I hope)Patriotism, racism, partialismAnd above all our feeling of god-given superiorityWill not be able to cover what we did, what we doAnd on a personal level –what we don't do.But it seems that only when we seeThat we are all selfish, violence-prone, oblivious egoists(monsters, as

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-52242169127236800162009-01-12T23:37:00.003+02:002009-01-30T10:33:04.988+02:00

If it is true that there is only one universal story:of youth, and loss, and yearning for redemptionI gladly succumb to itFor I know that there are, in fact, other stories:of death, and war, and inconsolable traumaor alternately, of solid and self-sustaining happinessAnd none of themWill ever belong to me(hopefully)

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-72187395052020468622009-01-12T23:35:00.007+02:002009-01-13T20:47:18.148+02:00

And what if it is all true?What if there are endless uncompromising sides to this story?But I was not cultivated into all-embracingness.We must (all) have been so luckyTo have been born into the single right faith(or tribe, or nation, or family)But what if, in some way, it is all containable?Reconcilable?Wouldn't that mean that I could find a way to see the truth, hear the truth, tell the truth?(

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-20649416971805207512008-12-14T15:08:00.000+02:002008-12-14T15:09:49.166+02:00

There are no new placesOnly places I haven't heard of(and space)And, unlike in childhoodThe bliss of the unknown echoes ignoranceRather than a wonder with an ever-expanding world

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-7086778729891911112008-11-18T21:23:00.000+02:002010-02-28T22:24:26.469+02:00

This is my silence of recent:Trying to forget myself.Again, think about it:Forget yourself.Forget myself I tryNot for lack of confidence in my own meritsOr excessive humilityBut for recognizing this as my way to what I should, I will, beFor these are the facts:I have had a beginningAnd whatever I have since becomeHas mostly been granted, designed.Whether through talent or virtue or failure or

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-46227269378185119022008-11-17T23:20:00.000+02:002010-02-28T22:23:53.311+02:00

Faith and fearFeel fraught by each otherCancel one anotherFor fear is not overcome by fearlessness –The disregard of consequences,Or the fallacy of omnipotent freedom;Nor is faith cut down by mere disillusionment –The skepticism of comfortable forgetfulnessOr the faithlessness caused by the above-mentioned fraudulent freedomNor, even, by the burdens of lifeForget it.What fights faith is only fear

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-40370513983539573772008-11-11T08:23:00.004+02:002009-01-15T19:22:53.112+02:00

I feel, truly, that there is nothing left to say. For me at least. When words of genius consist of covering up the banality of family histories with empty-tempting eloquence, when success equals an unending competition for quantitative accomplishments, when growing up consists of falling back into unanimously predicted patterns – what is left for pure joy to mushroom out of?I dream of death, or

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-90950024897717267292008-10-22T11:50:00.000+02:002008-10-22T11:51:09.096+02:00

This is the most disturbing limit on freedom -Knowing you are born into your political and religious beliefs;Not because they don't make senseBut precisely the opposite -Because they do

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-37545736240370017322008-09-23T11:18:00.000+03:002010-02-28T22:28:26.359+02:00

These are the small joysOf remembering the obviousThat have been afforded (not cheaply at all)By the pain of a yanked-back-into-place back:Swelling with the swallowing of fresh words of poetry-reading in the morningOpening a dictionary to find that an unknown wordHad already, instinctively, given up its meaning(rationally, sensationally, telepathically?)Then the intake of substance:Contrasting

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-50050418832398879432008-09-16T16:43:00.009+03:002008-09-17T18:38:17.491+03:00

As I sit here drinking honeyFrom a tiny colorful glass jarI marvelHow amazing and unfair the world must beFor me to afford such a complex product(and take it so for granted)For which bees and people toiledWhile all I doIs throw wordsInto a hungry computerA computer!I wonder how many generations of posterityWould be requiredJust to make a computer run(let alone build one)On a desert islandNow,

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-32318901221923931982008-07-23T19:48:00.007+03:002009-01-10T10:24:06.753+02:00

How memories acheOnce we grow old enough to realizeThat time is a spiral, not a just a raceAnd that the past keeps coming closerThrough smellsAnd dialogues (almost) forgottenIt seems as if the center will always beThis house I am in nowWhich remains unchangedBy the scarcity of my visitsThanks to our love of traditionAnd the birth of new children into itWho play the games we playedIn green

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-58389411111531826792008-07-13T18:44:00.001+03:002008-07-23T19:53:54.864+03:00

Being born in a generationWhere nothing is new under the sunExcept technologies(as small as possible please)And everyone's eccentrically narrow point of view(the more incomprehensible the better)It's no wonderThat we sink so deep into ourselvesWhen we try to shineBut I just have to sayYou can no longer blame anyoneFor what they do not write in booksOr what they never teach you;In the age of

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-52431616594816070882008-07-12T18:21:00.006+03:002008-07-13T18:34:00.667+03:00

The question at hand is not one of why or how or if at all colonialism destroyed Africa, nor of nationalism's antagonism to African social structure; it is not even one of cultural tolerance in the face of past injustices, or of finding a consensus to condemn violence. This is not a quest to find out what is wrong, how it went wrong, or how it can be restored; it is not a hunt for past or for

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-14578849416804059882008-07-08T11:02:00.015+03:002009-01-17T09:56:17.667+02:00

We wake upTo a world beyond mythEvolution they sayWas the grand thiefOf our ability to imagine togetherYet the stories survivedNarrowlyThey live now in booksIn childrenOn our lipsSometimes, to someoneThey are even revived in a serious thesisWhere they becomeAnswers to psychological needs;Or maybe unanswered existential questionsImprisoned in a fantastic past cultureWhich we have shedIn our quest

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-71716266096000788722008-07-05T11:23:00.013+03:002008-07-06T08:37:56.032+03:00

You see that hut over there? It is a home to spiders, and people, and who knows what else. The walls are not sealed tight, like in my gigantically exaggerated apartment; neither is the roof. And on nights of full moon the shy light penetrates us like patches of magic, reviving myths that no one believes in any more, at least not where I come from. If you're lucky the moonlight falls on the cat,

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-62159209534903562032008-07-04T10:45:00.002+03:002008-07-05T10:58:59.062+03:00

No wonder, then, that we break upThrough individualismThat propels us towards writingPoems such as these.When "I" and "my" conquest the restI find myselfAloneAnd in this lonelinessWords become servants of the selfNot just to expressConsoling euphemismsSuch as uniqueInnovativeNewBut also to create a whole worldMade up -Not of wonderful, warm human textureBut of selfsAntagonizing selfsThat lose

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-54936466749558584932008-07-03T10:19:00.015+03:002009-01-15T19:30:33.295+02:00

In a worldWhere buildings have stomachsCars sleep on the streetAnd light bulbs misbehave when they see visitorsI am happyWe miss only two things, they sayClean drinking waterAnd proper medical treatmentNot for cancer, I might addBut for things that have already been curedIn laboratoriesAmong people who have long since been inoculated.Don't you love the irony of medical research?Then we move on to

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-55456640452315781102008-07-03T06:54:00.001+03:002008-07-03T09:49:52.482+03:00

Maybe you have no eternal soul!I never thought it possibleFor they (who…?) saidThat some things are true whether you believe in them or notIf we listen to what some people claimIn moments of pure verbal nakednessThen they do not believe in an immortal human essenceOnly this carnal swoosh of an existenceThat is gone before the big turtle of history blinks.Gone! You see that?No matter how many

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-32259478265714022862008-06-29T08:51:00.009+03:002009-01-15T19:29:54.621+02:00

You just don't know how right you areWhat rights you haveTo imagine!Oh go to sleep, for crying out loudAnd dream of unimaginable beautyHuman beautyThe kind that now only comesIn small doses of lucid conversationWhen we forget how busy we areCling to it - even if it lasts for just one momentOne small, intoxicating dose of happinessIn which you are able to feelWith every last nerve in your body -(

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-53730927908482019682008-06-28T16:43:00.002+03:002008-06-28T16:45:59.550+03:00

I've look all over for youNot just over, but insideInside repressed memoriesProprietyCommon senseUntil I stand nakedIn front of the mute audienceOf my fearsAnd they laugh!I hate the sound of their silent laughterThough it makes me smileWith its absurdityThat leaves a trail of frosted candyIn the forest of my childhoodTo be followed back homeHome!A constant locationWithin changing timesIt feels so

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-59476880315726211282008-06-23T02:19:00.006+03:002008-06-29T10:10:12.894+03:00

Nothing is wrong.Remember this when you look out the windowAt the newsTo the skyIn people's eyesThrough the pastAt forecastsIn your heart.Nothing is wrongIf you want to cryGo aheadConsider it the luxury of not being dehydratedBut rememberTime is limitedAnd grief yields no produceIf you feel your soulCracking upFragmentedDisplacedDisbelievingNot understandingLook in the mirror and tell yourself

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-88032734045355351952008-06-15T12:09:00.003+03:002008-06-28T16:18:06.567+03:00

The past grumbles underneath the groundAnd I wonder if I'm a volcanoOminously glowingwith beautiful faces of young people who always laughMaking their beauty painfulAs if they died, only toequate my gratitude for good bygone dayswith mourningI pick up the phoneUnfortunately it is as simple as thatThe past in on the other lineI wonder how in the world it (or they) swam unnoticedAcross the sea of

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-28495583293441704092008-06-12T21:57:00.000+03:002010-02-28T22:31:00.337+02:00

What has not been said about dreams –Of the physical rest they allow the mindAlong with cerebral exercise;The psychological and emotional outlet they provideOr their symbolic, even prophetic, gateways to other layers of lifeBut more than this, all of which is probably trueDreams indicate the illusion of timeOf human experienceHow sensations impact us, only to vanishHow seconds can be felt as

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-43995734974385392392008-05-10T14:15:00.004+03:002008-06-17T15:02:59.917+03:00

I now know that the worst that can happenIs not an almighty slap of nature across our common face -Like that of a hurricane or an earthquake.Neither is it the terrorism that can never be fought offWithout robbing the innocent of their rightsOr the hateful aftermath of disputed colonialismThat we only truly feel when our teenage kids are recruited to fight it.The worst is not even the cruelty of

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-60584452424225824222008-05-01T02:34:00.003+03:002008-06-28T16:12:21.014+03:00

I am no longer aloneBut still I dream of mass gravesDug by my fatherWhile God speaks to meAnd I flyThis would be the superpowerI would choose for myself –FlyingFor nothing in this worldCan truly be beatenBut everything can be escapedExcept the past in RwandaWhich clings to youWhen you enter a hotel roomAnd realize that someone was killed right thereWhat is this - Fascination with evil?Masterplan

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-5707224665551976722008-04-30T14:43:00.001+03:002008-05-09T14:48:42.053+03:00

I can only speak for myselfBut to me the saddest part of RwandaWas the loss of neighborhoodIn its literal sense -The constant and unquestioning hospitalityAmongst those who share a small piece of the world(and a language too!)For how can you welcome a neighborEven just to join in a cup of teaWhen he may have killed your niece,Or when she may be the mother of the boy whose arm you cut off?I could

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-76032396181574654382008-03-20T11:29:00.000+02:002009-01-15T19:39:38.096+02:00

You existI have no better argument than my simple lack of imaginationI cannot even imagine a nameless colorMuch less a new dimensionOr infinityNot even a light yearIn all this they tell me that peopleUnder all kinds of skiesRooted in so many types of soilAll dreamt your presenceAll felt an ungraspable worldAll succumbed to injustice fragility mortality- all with the compliments of a mere

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-30036203931100883642008-02-24T23:20:00.009+02:002008-07-05T01:08:57.891+03:00

I wish I were born on an islandWithout an identity cardOn a flat globe that was the center of the universeWith the whole world at a radius of three hours' silent travelWhere age was relative to seasonAnd seasons were told by the moonI wish I were born in a red wooden houseIn a frozen, immortal valleyOn the bank of a river that flows without endAlong stories of creation;With indoor fires to unite

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-60833253233872175232008-02-18T12:22:00.002+02:002008-05-10T14:22:20.805+03:00

I do not miss the humming of drums in the clear distant darknessOr the sound of singing men.I no longer long for torrents of warm rain at noon,Followed by the smell of damp red mud.I can even look at the sun without wishing for the cool shade of a mango treeAmidst open infinities of green, dusty plains.The only thing I cannot get overIs having supperOutsideAll the neighbors can see what we eatAll

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-39258977056770931932008-01-29T10:03:00.002+02:002008-07-03T10:49:25.881+03:00

For what we had before colonialism is just an image in a broken mirror. A verbal, written image that has been lost in translation into English, or French, into white patterns of thoughts. How popular it seems to disown Western culture, the most self-critiquing assembly of profound thinking that has infected human kind. It has all been said, hasn't it? First the gruff criticism of stereotypes,

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-69147946936902287582007-12-31T23:22:00.000+02:002009-01-30T10:34:00.265+02:00

However you want to imagine it -As mossy rainforestsUntainted desertsSavannahsWarm midday rainLet no one fool you to succumb to that beauty.For they are right, our media-made prophets of doomIn their whispers of warEngulfing stench of corruptionBringing famineKillingThe humanity in menYet let no one stop youFrom staring blankly in its faceNot just at picturesNewsreportsImmigrantsFictionGlobal

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-54610551235167071872007-12-17T01:11:00.003+02:002009-01-15T19:37:02.875+02:00

Thank you for making the world a better placeShe wroteAfter describing the beauty of the sceneryAround those ridiculously expensive buildingsWhich will make orphans happyAnd visitors marvelWe save our punchlineFor the blood this soil has drunkTo make it shine redAs we plant tress in it(but can we see how dull it made the eyes of the awing crowd?)Almost romantic, so much pain, giving us a

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-35905901938377504382007-12-10T21:57:00.000+02:002009-01-30T10:33:32.601+02:00

I won't have it.Whoever said that there is nothing outside the textSurely had no senseFor colorful white cotton dressesOr the smell of newly cut grassStill I tryTo paraphrase sensationsTrap them for some future use (abuse?)But it's no useI know it.If they were containableTransferableThey would be no better than the corpse of a butterflyWithering at the very touch of consciousnessEmptied of their

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-73738328053718082422007-06-20T18:05:00.000+03:002007-07-01T08:46:26.207+03:00

The body deceives. How thin you have become in this month of longing, leaving, returning. Your face remains as I remember it from childhood. The kind, grey eyes that seem to have been shaped by sadness. Skilful hands that draw, dig, write. I see the house you made, the paintings, the maps. They become you, the feeble yet strong body that now stares at me like a ghost from beneath the hospital

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-23601397057903499112007-04-20T13:03:00.000+03:002007-04-27T19:23:05.075+03:00

Sunset over a freeway Hubs of human lives buzzWithin high walls of apart-mentsApart indeed we areNow take UgandaYou walk to townSun touching you alwaysAnother proof of how far removed white skin is from naturePeople pass you and look at youas if you were a baboonWonderful!I wish I could still look at strangers with such awe and curiosityYou budget how much water you will use to showerHow much

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-37181401585755195322007-04-19T15:56:00.002+03:002008-07-03T10:51:37.160+03:00

Red dust still rests in the creaks of my shoeSocks show where beautiful red soil wanted to touch foreign skinDeep cut, not yet grown into a scarNo metaphor this time, just gushing blood onto the office floorAs I sit here with no part of me aching any moreI miss the painRestless nights of wonder and amazementAs you sleep next to me again nowUnchanged smell, only tiny new scarsPerhaps the years

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-7770909470303330012007-04-12T23:07:00.000+03:002007-05-05T15:04:23.758+03:00

Nothing is lost to meNot even the excitement with Saturday morningsAlmost bursting with the need to loveToo much loveToo many peopleIt never goes awayOnly accumulatesOnce I thought this ache in my gut was indifferenceNow it has become an excess of emotionNo restDumb creatures as we areHow I long for touch without desireSocial limitations, please get lost

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-21438891339685813282007-02-28T23:24:00.003+02:002008-06-29T10:18:05.082+03:00

I have to ask this new version of youOne question onlyMaybe twoThough I know every last hair on your headHas been replacedSince I last touched itAnd every single memoryHas been painted and tainted by timeFor better or worseEnhancing my madnessSuppressing my loveFirst. Did you ever truly love mefor my soul, my essence, my uniqueness -through my pain, my envy, my unbearable temper?Or was it just my

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-5682735165414794542007-02-22T10:04:00.000+02:002007-04-22T11:36:56.751+03:00

I loved poetryBeing able to strip down to raw emotionsDescriptive verbal diggingLost in translation, gained in subjectivityNow I read what you writeEvery day you do, thank you internetWho thought someone could squeeze so much BSOut of a world so always alreadyImagined audience, please stop writingSuch incestuous self-consuming narcissismNo one caresGood!Look people in the eyeBetter yet, go

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-52964283721205208572006-12-22T11:47:00.000+02:002007-05-05T15:06:34.397+03:00

If I started walking todayHow long would it take me to get to Sudan?Forget bordersThey make Lebanon seem far awayLucky we have missiles to remind us of how close we areNeighbors of mineI wish you could come for tea some daySay it took me four weeksOf walking, freely, no costI am four weeks away from genocideYet I go out for ice creamSometimes the only thing that keeps me goingIs imagining

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-90427370464194999422006-12-09T18:49:00.000+02:002008-06-29T10:22:05.924+03:00

Imagine a kitchen. Better yet, a family in a kitchen. Maybe some bread baking in the oven, mother frying eggs, dad drinking a cup of coffee, a kid getting some milk from the fridge, two teenagers sitting around the kitchen table eating breakfast. They may be having bacon and eggs, or a grilled cheese sandwich, or steaming hot rolls that just came out of the oven. They're talking, laughing,

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-60544114964177122142006-12-07T10:18:00.001+02:002008-07-03T09:39:59.589+03:00

What matters is only that the heart beats. Eating. Wanting to live. Being good? Success? I wonder if that is all. Not even considering superficialities which seem meaningful in moments of boredom extravagant boredom disgustingly fat boredom of modern superfluity. Yet kindness philathropy spirituality, which we who rise above the common crawl consider superior, has such a vast egocentric emptiness

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-17913132186876710102006-12-05T11:53:00.000+02:002007-04-21T22:15:09.789+03:00

Burning, how we need fire – the meaning of words we use every day yet can't define understand touch. Friendship and disappointment, walking together like cattle and egret, especially when it is deep ancient beautiful like a splendid ruin of a town. When they know you; when their sense of humor gels with yours; when they bite you on your deepest wounds, maybe unintentionally; when you say you love

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-84346078916690110122006-11-30T13:04:00.000+02:002006-12-02T00:36:40.315+02:00

This is the whole world to them. Children, not their children, sometimes nobody's children, and still it engulfes. Even at home, when brushing teeth, we think about timelines mistakes documents. When did we stop flying and learn to crawl, together, still always forgetting what matters. Do we feel - of course - anger disappointment stress counts as feelings. Nobody is touched by words. Big big

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-267399929120335422006-11-19T21:59:00.000+02:002006-11-30T13:43:26.377+02:00

Just drop one letter, we walk in a straight lie. It is the same. The line, the lie. They don't understand, they don't see how hard you try, though they all like you. Like you. Lie you. Without passion. And you want to not be lived without. But they still live. Live. Lie. A faulty keyboard can tell you so much about life. All it takes is one person to stop lying, stop running, stop chasing, stop

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-89312131661144399492006-11-18T00:38:00.000+02:002007-01-22T09:10:32.837+02:00

I could love you. But I hold back hold back just like you say I do. It is for the best, don't you think? What would you do if I fell, in spite of myself? With two cats, who sometimes need medical attention - and a dog, who needs to be walked - and Haifa, which seems so far away - and jealousy, which you will never understand? T-shirt like yours, oh damn how deceptive looks are, and yet feeling

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-62598113258708073152006-11-01T22:36:00.000+02:002007-04-22T11:31:07.817+03:00

Ah, life's wonderful small dichotomies that make this vast home coprehendable to us. Black or white (where is Japan?); good and evil (where am I?); those who stay and those who leave; love and hatered; believers and pagans (and Jews are...?); and of course, turtles and chameleons. Turtles - those who carry their all inside themselves, untouchable to the outer world, always with a safe haven at

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-19234019203416903892006-07-01T09:02:00.000+03:002008-05-10T14:22:54.345+03:00

I seem to love youIt's an unbearable thoughtEverything becomes beautifulI wonder how you were as a childAs a youthDoesn’t seem to become you, quite honestlyHow could that wit manifest itself within the clumsiness of youth?Your present awkwardness suits you so much betterYou search for words on the phoneYet your eloquence and sense are so far beyondFar far far beyond everyone else'sHow wonderful

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-8111845895684649292005-09-18T09:04:00.000+03:002008-06-18T09:05:44.461+03:00

Put on my blue suede shoes and boarded a plane, I have a first class ticked but I’m as blue as a white girl can be. Rags to riches, but does it make you happy, does the fatty food satisfy you? Do the days of leisure fulfill your needs? Does lovemaking quench your thirst for people? Does addiction take away reality? Everyone knows it all doesn’t do the trick, yet we’re all waiting for the trick to

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-25630611543359371682005-02-16T09:07:00.000+02:002008-06-18T09:07:58.431+03:00

Damn you. Damn you for destroying my ability to write. For becoming so much part of me that I’m afraid that everything I do or say or write down will be shown to you. For you make me want to share everything, and yet I can’t share everything with you, not by far, not yet, maybe not ever. Why can’t I just write in peace and quiet – to you, about you, about the rest of the world (which is shrinking

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-41569971521193185642004-03-18T21:28:00.000+02:002009-03-18T21:29:24.167+02:00

Ah yes, you do not need to know this much about legal documents. I need no further information than knowing that you once balanced on the back rest of your couch, and danced around the living room with your mother, and took apart your first computer when you were twelve. You have been weighed, measured and found perfect. Please leave.

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-78404303146733956401996-10-11T22:00:00.005+02:002009-01-31T10:39:37.878+02:00

The night I first saw you, in the beginning of October, is left empty; all I remember is the date, and standing outside a friend's house in the light of early morning and enjoying the flirting of two people who had no idea what they would come to mean to each other. If, when I die, they will ask me which moment I want to go back to, that will be it. Not to change anything, but just to see us, to

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-2534562164625895131996-08-31T11:11:00.001+03:002009-01-31T10:41:31.313+02:00

Funny guyWho never made me laugh enoughHow many years can I miss that?You grew to be a funny manAnd I still cant explainBut its all still the sameWhat's your name?I know people who don't know youMight still askI wonder how they can not knowWhat is right in front of their eyesWhen someone so far awayKnows it even in their sleepAnd all the things you ever didAre beautiful to someoneEven if they

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1591487278924711169.post-49202652426425370701996-04-23T22:39:00.000+03:002008-09-13T22:18:53.691+03:00

If this is as pathetic as it suddenly seems, well then, let it be so. I’ve been grinding these thoughts around in my head for the past couple of days, and there is nothing I can say that won’t sound disgustingly tacky, cliché-like, over-killed and excessively banal. Let’s see. When I was 16, I thought that the bizarre chemistry between us was cool, but I also figured that it was something that

Ruth Wenskehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05192878336358852017noreply@blogger.com0