Posts Tagged ‘zeitgeistlyrik’

HEUTE /TODAY, Montag, 12.5., 18-21 Uhr, bietet Satis Shroff seinen ersten Creative Writing Workshop (literarisches Schreiben auf Englisch) im Schreibzentrum an. Es wird weitere Termine geben und am Schluss des Semesters eine öffentliche Lesung, gemeinsam mit der Literarischen Werkstatt (Literarisches Schreiben auf Deutsch). Weitere Informationen zum Workshop finden Sie hier: https://www.ph-freiburg.de/hochschule/weitere-einrichtungen/schreibzentrum/literarische-werkstatt.html
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Pädagogische Hochschule Freiburg: Literarische Werkstatt
Die meisten AutorInnen kennen den Punkt, an dem sie das Gefühl haben, alles für einen Text getan, ihn an ein bestmögliches Ziel geführt zu haben. Sie kennen ihn so gut wie denjenigen, an dem eine Geschichte, ein Gedicht stockt, sich das Gefühl einer Unstimmigkeit einstellt, irgendetwas hakt oder kni…
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Pädagogische Hochschule Freiburg: Literarische Werkstatt
satis shroff: satisle@myway.com

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And after April,when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds,

And all the swallows!

(Robert Browning)


 Zeitgeistlyrik: The Schwarzwald in May (Satis Shroff)


Ah, the Black Forest,

Whether you’re in Triberg

Or in Feldberg,

The smell of the lush green grass,

After the April showers,

In the gentle glaciated meadows,

Where the calves and cows

Are grazing peacefully with horses.


Now and then you discern a moo,

Like an Alpine horn,

In the tranquil landscape.

Along the gushing brooks,

The toads and frogs greet you,

With their croaks.

The Spring begins blossom for blossom.

May, the merriest month,

When lusty hearts begin to blossom.

Ah, it’s the sunshine,

The fresh air and the hormones released.




Apple-trees in bloom,

And daffodils flourishing

Alongside wild grass.

The leaves flapping like wings,

As the Höllentäler blows.


I sit in my Schwarzwald terrace,

 With its stone walls,

Hares and birds around me.

As I sip my morning coffee,

A brown squirrel dashes past,

For he’s the new inhabitant

In a blackbird’s nest,

And lives on freshly hatched eggs.


A one-legged blackbird comes by,

Hopping on one leg,

Only to fly away clumsily.

 The brown squirrel isn’t

The only nest-plunderer,

The beautiful feathered jay

Is fond of it too.


Hovering above are

A pair of Mäusebuzzards,

Scanning and scrutunizing

The Black Forest and meadows below,

Searching for even

The faintest movements,

Of mice in the fields.


Above the terrace is a palisade

Of dark pine trees,

With a clearing below the slope.

A solitary deer comes by,

Stoops, relishes, chews and swallows

The wild berries and buds.

The deer is used to humans.

An old, fat fox appears occasionally,

His mouth waters when he espies

The rabbits in thick fur,

On a sunny day in May.

There are humans around,

Perhaps another time,

Thinks the fox and vanishes

In the undergrowth.


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NICOSIA (Satis Shroff)



Isle of the Gods

The air laden

With soft, soothing rain

Fills the soul with compassion.

Rainbow colours,

Joyously playful,

Caught in a dream,

Turned into a nightmare.


With the passage of time,

He understood his Greek friend better.

The olive and orange trees have wilted,

Since the invasion.


She works at a language school

In Nokosia,

Is married to a seventy year old Cypriot.

The entire Greek-Turkish problem

Stresses him.

His countenance is full of deep furrows,

Like the fathomless rift

Between the two nations.


Cinnamon and coriander,

Two spices that don’t go together.

The powerful Turks came with tanks,

Invaded the island,

A la Tibet.

It was suddenly

Four Turks to one Cypriot,

In the Isle of Cyprus.


His student fried Despina,

Who’s parents ran a guest-home,

Came to his memory.

How were they doing?


Now they’ve discovered off-shore oil

The Turkish warships guard

The looming oil-towers.

The helpless, hapless Cypriots

Look on in silence.

On the blue hill in the distance,

The Turks have put up

A gigantic, defiant, crescent moon.


* * *


GOING EAST (Satis Shroff)


Suitcase in his hand,

He scrutinises the time table,

Although his destination is in his head.

He sees palm trees,

Sandy beaches and beauties

Donning bikinies in the sun.


His thoughts transcend.

Accidental is their meeting.

Two heads collide,

And both let out: ‘Excuse me!’

What follows are smiles,

On each other’s faces.

Smiles that linger.


He takes her hand,

Her eyes gaze at his eyes.

Both are searching

For the other’s heart.


* * *


ZERMATT (Satis Shroff)


Holidays in the Swiss Alps

Seven days

Seven nights

A week.


Muscle ache on the legs,

After the adventurous descent

From glacial Görnergrat

To touristy Zermatt.

Fernweh in my mind,

Homesickness in my luggage.


* * *


VENICE (Satis Shroff)


Venice, my love,

You fascinating maiden,

Where the gondolas glide

Along the old canals,

Silently like ravens at night.


A labyrinth of a hundred

Narrow lanes.

Bridges that whisk you to the past.

Modern boutiques that haul you

To the present,

People on a buying spree.


An elderly lady feeds

Hungry cats that show their gratitude,

Wit meows and body rubs

On the lady’s slender legs.


You go past the Bridge of Sighs,

Discover wild gardens,

Tucked behind walls.

White flapping sea-gulls

Across the azure sky.

More cats prowling in the alleys,

Boats and vaporettos,

Slicing the canal’s Prussian blue waters.


Masked figures underneath pillars,

Of the Doge’s palace.

Some wear the Death-masks,

Some don Barock costumes,

As the visitors digitalise Venice.

The Venetians have fled to the open spaces.


Life and death in Venice,

Go hand in hand.

Raven-like gondolas,

Glide stealthily over the water.


A woman wearing a black velvet cloak

Hiding her face behind a white mask,

Approaches and takes me

By the hand,

Bidding me to dance,

A furious Vienna waltz

At the Piazza San Marco.

I dance with her in a trance,

On a long life journey.


* * *


ATLANTIC (Satis Shroff)


When I approach the Atlantic Ocean,

I begin to be silent.

Ruhe overcomes me,

As I lose my thoughts,

At the sight of the waves,

Behind the grassy dunes.


The roaring breakers make themselves felt,

As they dash against the stony cliffs.

The water’s still cold,

Under your naked feet.


As the Prussian hued breakers hit me,

Reminding me of my childhood,

Of the winter months in sunny Bombay,

Where I lived with my uncles and aunts.

How beautiful it was,

To walk along the Marine Drive,

Or just gaze at the breakers

Thrashing against the man-made barriers

Of concrete.

I’d see the Arabian Sea,

Beyond the gateway of India,

Before me,

And a sea of humanity

Behind me.


* * *


SUMMER CLOUDS (Satis Shroff)


Summer clouds in the vast azure sky,

Above the hills and lakes of the Black Forest,

As though wearing white linen,

With the wind behind them.


No questions are asked,

Carefree they float across the blue Himmel,


Summer clouds on their journey,

Without baggage,

No monsoon-like ominous, torrential clouds,

Heavily laden with waterdrops,

Groaning and carrying them

Wearily from the Indian Ocean,

Pushed by the south-east wind.


O, to be for a while

Somewhere else.

The heart lays its dreams

For the time being aside.

The sky has become a gigantic cobalt canvas,

Where the sea-gulls flap their wings.


The wind is the artist,

Paints a cloudy landscape,

Between the ocean and the sky.

A lovely masterpiece,

Like a relevation.


You hear the heavenly music,

And the cloudy picture moves

Like an unfurling movie.


* * *


LONGING I (Satis Shroff)


You’re full of longing,

Not bothering to settle down.

Your heart doesn’t hang

On anything,

Not even the home-country.


You’re free

And hold onto nothing,

For you have relinquished everything,

Like Siddhartha,

Like Hermann Hesse,

You’ve become Heimatlos,

Because you love her.

Still do,

With all that’s inside you.

She has become your haven,

Your Heimat.


You peer at the blue-brown-green

Of the distant hillsides,

Of the DreisamValley.

Overwhelmed by the loveliness,

The numinous significance

Of this Heimat,

Away from your former home,

An earthiness that embraces you.


* * *


HEIMAT II (Satis Shroff)


O Heimat,

Surrounded by parents,

Enveloped by brothers and sisters.

Blue mountains,

Home of the eternal snows,

Abode of the Gods,

Of the Hindu and Buddhist pantheons.



Of a place deep within me,

Where I live.

That’s my Heimat.

I carry my homeland

Within me,

Where ever I go.



Is home where your father died,

In a tragic car-mishap in the foothills of the Himalayas?

Heimat isn’t there,

Where your mother lives,

In another country,

To get away from the terror of the Maoists,

No longer distressed by poverty.

Is your Mom’s choice,

What you also desire?


Nein, home is where the heart is.

Your heart is with the lady you love,

Your children,

The product of your genes,

That you love dearly.

Friends with whom you studied,

And matured in your Bildungsroman.

Your verein where you sing and share,

Mundane thoughts and philosophy,

Discuss about: sein oder niicht sein.

You have chosen to sing new songs,

Not only the folklore of the Himalayas.


The chasm between the Black Forest

And the Himalayas,

Has been bridged,

From the microcosm of a Nepalese hamlet,

To the macrocosm of the world.

You’ve embraced so many cultures,

Have become all the more richer

In experience,

On your long journey.

No one belongs to you.

You belong to everyone.


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