It is during a period of doubt and hard times that these poems were written. Some of them have appeared in various publications worldwide. The acknowledgement stands at the beginning of the collection after the content page.
*****
Walter Ruhlmann is a poet who writes with wit and intelligence. His poetry is vivid and accessible full of sharp bright images that invite you into his world and then takes you down roads that trick, amuse and surprise. He sits a little outside of mainstream in so far as his poetry is not trite or obvious, he is someone I enjoy reading and one of those names I look for when a magazine drops through the door.
Jim BENNETT, poet, editor of The Poetry Kit
Walter Ruhlmann is a poet of intersecting universes, a connoisseur and composer of watchful nights, a procreator and juggler of sensual and philosophical discoveries. The gravitational field of his poetry unfolds like the appeal of an ocean echoing the voices of never ceasing questions and restless doubts. His multi-faceted, simultaneously classical and avant-garde oeuvre is a constant impelling force to dedicate our lives to perfecting our perceptive and transcendental worlds while incorporating the tangible, bodily realms as well in order to become the carnal apotheosis of millenary poetical quests.
Károly Sándor PALLAI poet, former editor of Vents alizés
*****
Disgust
Disgust took us last Saturday
its vivid veil falling on us
and covering our lives,
the breaths we were given,
voluntarily or not.
Disgust is like the fog
invading the greenish moors around us
rocks and ghost trees, grey gloomy ghouls
guarding those implacable marshes.
The smell of it is like petrol
invading the nostrils of
this nine-year-old child
at the back of the car
sucking on the temples of
those sun glasses made of plastic.
The filling of the tank
exploding in his nose.
It can also be like the acrid odour
of puke
when six or seven years later
he entered the dark corridor
of lust.
Disgust is shaped like some misshaped
mass in motion.
Monitoring our senses
and our existences.
*****
The Loss
Why would I choose to loose when all I have to do is love?
Loosing can take the shape of flies
circling above your head
in the mid-summer moist air
in a kitchen filled with buzzing black beasts
falling down into the sink
getting stuck onto the glued strip.
The dark room where these straw hats hung,
the toilets of the chessboard queen,
these afternoons with beer or sparkling water
mixed with lemon juice, and chocolate chips.
The loss was there already in the air,
the spirit of it lingered in moist corners,
on the tombstones we would clean,
on the paths to the church they would drag me to,
on the roofs made of wood, made of straw, made of infinite nightmares.
I chose to accept loosing bits of me,
parts of my health, limbs and neurons,
organic cells, just to make sure I would keep you
forever
the space I've made was not enough
and though I held your hand in your last breath
the loss has taken all the room that's left.
*****
Philosophical Fellatio
I want to brush my sex against your cheek.
Do you feel the warmth and the tease?
The voluptuous elation of some undefined concept
from which the casual ways you learned to love erect?
Somehow the touch left me unharmed,
it made me close my eyes and whisper in your ear
some deafening words and secrets
the grapes and the barrel used to keep for themselves.
The fallacies the loons and the jesters share
are as many dead-ends for the pestering hare
the one with those large ears running, chasing,
the philosopher's stone.
I saw it waiting in this room only minutes ago
while all my jizz erupted in your eyes
and your wide-gaping mouth
encircled my penis lingering on your cheek.
*****
10€ - £12 - $15
from the printer's website
from the author, payment via Paypal:
wruhlmann [at] laposte [dot] net
No comments:
Post a Comment