Tag Archives: Claudia Schönfeld

kaleidoscope

by Mike Jewett
scotland/highland sheep by Claudia Schönfeld


scotland/highland sheep by Claudia Schönfeld

stained glass
eyes
seeing in
kaleidoscope:
8 or 6 sheep

roaming
the german
girl’s pigmented
scottish
highlands

wiry poles
transmit
phthalo blue
gaelic
by creamsicle hills

we hear
the storms,
bleats,
bushes snuggled
in cover

winding grey
road,
a winding
sheet,
vermilion violet

dusk settles
on the uphill
cwm,
grey
from ungulate hooves

night hums
for sheep
with
stained
glass eyes

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after 5// humid 38 outside, no way to follow the moskva

by Claudia Schönfeld


my colleague writes “i’ll leave at 30 C”

i can’t, instead
                         shift dates across the screen
     tiny sail boats
               in an aching sea,

cooking, clipped onto to do’s & i,
sweaty fist the pen– roW,

seminar reQuests, & X a million windOws,
fish-swim, open mouth –
leaving poP — P(l)ing bubbles on my desk,

dive up, shells & sand,
wrinkled skin, toes en-tangled (in) seaweed
as he stops by my desk– area management,
walks in — a lioness, rOAring,
toward day’s end, AC unplugged,

(one gulp), jump, swallow whole countries,
patches of East Europe, CZ, Russia,
Moscow on my tongue with golden roof caps
glistening lazy in the evening sunshine,
balalaika- tunes on smog-stuffed streets,
rollercoast looped veins into my brain,

&somewhere– in the distance

clap, clap earth-hands. dark eyed
petruschka in red-frilled blouse, daNcing,
bearded men cheer her up,
(i need a dress like this),
want music to free fall from saffron spindling,
bulbous spires, sunsets, vodka stains
where thighs meet— the moskva

“it’s the heat” i say, shut my mouth
with a light whiff– all sounds blend out,

“wanna talk about that 4MEuro project, right?”
“yeah, & translating the kyrillian parts for you”
“very good, let’s–“

“you look dreamy”, he says,
“oh, i’m always– close to one, you know–“,
pull out the schedule, &

we stick our heads together,
sketch, decide& there’s no spare space
on my pen, to chew, yet
sense– from the bottom

of my burning hips its slow-mo pull
(like in a ferris’ wheel
         perpetual rotating dream)

&through a distant haze,

                —laughter from gorky park


Originally published on Jaywalking the Moon