Monday, September 24, 2012

Empty Time

by Ingrid Prohaska

Another week
Old and New Year
Cover-Table Calendar for 1905
 Konstantin Somov
ran through my fingers

With strong wind
Shoulds and Musts
rolled over the weakened

Busy weeks let me feel
I haven’t lived my life
Servants count
my days, my hours
try to persuade me
you use your time

Too many impressions
no chance yet to assimilate
Too many impressions
ups and downs walk hand in hand
Too many impressions
neutralize each other

Nothing's left
except the feeling of emptiness

the emptiness of time

Copyright © 2012 Ingrid Prohaska


Friday, September 7, 2012

At the Station

by Ingrid Prohaska
The Station at Sevres, Alfred Sisley

For decades I spent my time

with waiting for this particular train.
Years passed with waiting
but my train didn’t arrive.

They had closed the railway line - years ago
not a single train rolled on the abandoned tracks.

Weeds, even young trees conquered back their land
grew over the slim but strong rails
broke through the asphalt of the platform.

Amidst this scene I sat on that wooden bench
on sunny and on rainy days
Braved bitter cold and scorching heat
Longed for a life

A wrapped gift beside me,
something I would have loved to show him
wrapped in a way of which I assumed
the packet would please him.

From time to time the rusted sign
“Welcome to Parenthood”
squeaked lonely with the wind.

I fed myself with sweet bites of hope
too less to live, too much to die.

But on that one day
those bites of hope tasted rancid
A bitter aftertaste let me know
that they had turned to illusion.

It was a sunny afternoon that May 17th,
when I realized that my train wouldn’t arrive anymore.
He wouldn’t come to pick me up,
to protect me and to bring me on my track of my life.
He wouldn’t come to give me love and security, not even support.
I would never hear - I’m proud of you.
Yes, I was sure
He wouldn’t come anymore.

I unwrapped the packet beside me,
and found a kind soul in it
like an abandoned child I held it close to my chest.

I stood up
and dropped the shrunken bag of self-deception
into the rusty trash beside the bench.

A sudden wind gust brought some voices close to me.
There is life outside the station.

I’m sorry that we couldn’t find each other.
I said
and left

Copyright © 2012 Ingrid Prohaska