Black Forest Mural on a house wall © satisshroff 2009

Robins in my garden ©Art by satisshroff 2009

Schwarzwaldlyrik (Black Forest Poems):


AUTUMN LEAVES IN KAPPEL (Satis Shroff)

Autumn leaves dancing in the sky,
Gleaming as the sunlight
Caresses them.

Out in the distance,
The blue Schwarzwald,
With its melange
Of conifer and deciduous trees,
Bursting out in autumnal rhapsody.

Guarded by the tall pine trees,
Like sentinels,
Overlooking an amphitheatre.

Its spurs and hidden valleys,

Inhabited by Allemanic denizens,
So long as time can tell.

To the south
The four languidly moving white blades
Of modern windmills,
With their blinking lights
Overlooking Rosskopf.

And far to the East,
The fairy-tale towns
Of Buchenbach and St. Peter.

Is this not Heaven on Earth?
The lush green grass in the meadows,
Has long been cut,
The hay already stacked in the barn.
I gather Löwenzahn for our rabbits,
Tasty salad for humans,
A delight for hares and rabbits.

Frau Frutiker greets me warmly,
Offers Schwarzwälder specialities.
She plays the flute,
Her husband Clemens
The trumpet
At the Buchenbacher Musikverein.

Autumn in Kappel,
A personification
Of serenity and tranquillity.

* * *

The Symphony of the Morning (Satis Shroff)

I discern the recurring chirps
And whistles
Of the birds in the vast foliage
Of an oak tree,
A German Eiche.

Whistles, chirps, hoots
And melodious symphony,
Like the incessant waves
Slashing on the shores of the Atlantic.

A single bird gives the tact,
A strong monotonous chirp.
The others follow suit,
Not in unison
But still in harmony.

You notice so many melodies
When you eavesdrop,
In the quiet comfort of your bed.
The natural symphony of the morning:
Adagio, crescendo,
It’s all there
For your fine ears.

* * *
Glossary:
Eiche: oak

* * *

CHIRPS IN MY GARDEN (Satis Shroff)

Ach,
To lie in bed
And listen to the birds sing.

I peer at the pine trees above,
Heavily laden with fluffy snow,
Like sentinels of the Black Forest.

I espy something moving:
Three deer with moist noses,
Sniffing the Kappler air,
Strut among the low bushes
In all their elegance,
Only to vanish silently,
Into the recesses of the Foret Noir.

I hear the robin,
Rotkehlchen,
With its clear, loud, pearly tone,
As it greets the day.
Just before sunrise the black bird,
Amsel,
Which flies high on the tree tops,
Delivers its aries early.
The great titmouse stretches its wings
And starts to sing.

The brown sparrows turn up
With their repertoire,
Rap in the garden,
Twitter and chirp aloud.
All this noise makes the bullfinch alert,
For it also wants to be heard.
It starts its high pitched melody
With gusto in the early hours.

The starling clears its throat.
What comes is whistles,
Mingled with smacking sounds.
The woodpecker,
Specht,
Isn’t an early bird,
Starts its day late.
Pecks with its beak,
At a hurried tempo.

If that doesn’t get you out of your bed,
I’m sure you’re on holiday,
Or thank God it’s Sunday.
Other feathered friends
Who frequent our Black Forest house,
Are the green finch, the jay,
Goldfinch which we call ‘ Stieglitz,’
Larks, thrush and the oriole,
The Bird of the Year,
On rare occasions.

Glossary:
English, German, Latin names
Robin (Rotkehlchen): Erithacus rubecula
Black bird (Amsel): Turdus merula
Titmouse (Kohlmeise): Parus major
Bullfinch (Rotfinke):
Greenfinch (jay): Chloris chloris
Starling: Sturnus vulgaris
Woodpecker (Specht):
Stieglitz: Carduelis carduelis
Oriole: Oriolus oriolus

* * *

THE WIND FROM THE VALE OF HELL (Satis Shroff)

On a hill in Kappel
You feel free and elated.
The stream that bubbles below,
Like an incessant lyric,
A monk’s chant in a monastery.

The cherry tree hangs
With bloom on its sagging boughs.
Ah, to look at trees in all their splendour,
In this Black Forest idyll.

The blue Schwarzwald range,
Makes poetry out of the dying sun
Around the house,
Like an arena in the Himalayas.
The tulips in bright colours are everywhere,
The lovely lilies are swaying,
So are the gladiolas.

As I walk along a mountain stream,
I smell hyacinths.
The marigolds are in full blossom,
And a wave of nostalgia sweeps over me,
For marigolds and Tagetes grow
When it’s Dasain and Tihar,
Festival time,
Far in the Himalayas.
From the Himalayas to the Black Forest,
Such a long journey.

The evening wind whispers gently
From the Vale of Hell,
Der Höllentäler,
As we fondly call it.
The birds are coming home to roost.

I discern the attentuated tone
Of my little daughter Elena
Playing on her violin.
My feet take me home
With tardy steps.
I feel at peace
With myself

* * *

FRIENDS (Satis Shroff)

I sit on my chaiselonge,
Serving Darjeeling to my friends,
Strengthened with masala,
And Sahne.
There’s Murat from Turkey,
Rosella from Italy,

Stefan and Barbara from Rheinfelden,
Frau Adolph from downtown Freiburg.

Rosella has brought North Italian flair
And cakes that I relish,
From Milano.
Pannetone with Mascapone,
Champagne and Tiramisu.

A kiss to the right,
A kiss to the left,
Settles down and says:
‘Isn’t life wonderful, Satish?’
Hubby Samuel has expanded
His aerospace factory.

My friend Murat,
The personification of Miteinander,
Hands me a new novel,
With his signature,
Written despite the protests
Of his family,
Keeping late hours,
To finish his Opus magnum,
A story about his Allevite folk.

A pleasure and honour,
But I’m afraid,
I can’t read it:
It’s Turkish to me.

Barbara and my poet friend Stefan
Have been to the Zermat
And have tales to tell,
Not only of Wilhelm
And his crossbow,
But about the beauty
Of Switzerland.

Frau Adolph, the pensioned lady,
Glows like the sun:
An infectious smile
Over her tanned face.
No botox, only dentures,
And tells of her adventures in Italy,
Latin-lover inbegriffen,
And of her Sudanese seduction.
An elderly lady,
A friend with style
And aesthetic intelligence.

Ain’t it wonderful
To have dear friends?
Home abroad,
Abroad home.
Shanti!
Shanti!
Peace which passeth understanding.

Glossary:
Chaiselonge: long French sofa
Inbegriffen: included
Miteinander: together, togetherness
Shanti: peace
Wechselrhythmus: changing rhythms
Bahn: train
Mumbai: Bombay
Bueb: small male child
Chen: Verniedlichung, like Babu-cha in Newari
Schwarzwald: The Black Forest of south-west Germany

*****

BEYOND CULTURAL CONFINES (Satis Shroff)

Music has left its cultural confines.
You hear the strings of a sitar
Mingling with big band sounds.
Percussions from Africa
Accompanying ragas from Nepal.

A never-ending performance of musicians
From all over the world.
Bollywood dancing workshops at Lörrach,
Slam poetry at Freiburg’s Atlantic inn.
A didgeridoo accompaning Japanese drums
At the Zeltmusik festival.

Tabla and tanpura
Involved in a musical dialogue,
With trumpet and saxaphone,
Argentinean tango and Caribbean salsa,
Fiery Flamenco dancers swirling proudly
With classical Bharta Natyam dancers,
Mani Rimdu masked-dancers accompanied
By a Tibetan monastery orchestra,
Mingling with shrill Swiss piccolo flute tunes
And masked drummers.

As I walk past the Café Bueb, the Metzgerei,
The St. Blasius church bells begin to chime.
I see Annette’s tiny garden
With red, yellow and white tulips,
‘Hallochen!’ she says
With a broad, blonde smile,
Her slender cat stretches itself,
Emits a miao and goes by.
I walk on and admire
Frau Bender’s cherry-blossom tree,
Her pensioned husband nods back at me.

And in the distance,
A view of the Black Forest,
With whispering wind-rotors,
And the trees in the vicinity,
Teeming and shaking
With chirping, whistling, jostling birds
Come home to roost.

* * *

WINTER BLUES (Satis Shroff)

Winter blues,
Go away!
Season of short daylight,
Coughs and rheuma,
Wet, cold days.
Misty towns,
Snowbound Schwarzwald,
Season of melancholy,
Winter blues.

This cold seasonal change
Influences your hormones.
The lack of sunlight,
Its warm and reassuring rays,
Reduces the endorphine
In your blood vessels.

Serotonin, which regulates
Our happy mental state,
Is sparingly there,
When we need it.
Daylight is the best cure,
For light seasonal depression.

You go for a walk,
Even when the weather
Is misty and wet.
You keep a balanced diet:
Fruits and vegetables,
To create good feelings,
And to avert colds.

But for those have
Endogenic depression?
Low appetite,
Weight loss,
Sleepless nights,
Increased melatonin,
Caused by a lack
Of sunshine.
Makes you tired:
Your activities are at a low.

If walks in the misty countryside
Or city parks don’t help,
You have antidepressiva
As a last resort.
Ach, winter blues

* * *

Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff)

The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.

Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer, studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.

Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.

Ach, the Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions

I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.

I’d danced
At the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.

I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Where ever my soul goes.

I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.

* * *

Dancing Eyes (Satis Shroff)

The dancing floor,
A heaven to those
Who know how to dance:
The salsa, samba, tango,
The fox and the waltz.

How many shoe soles have I danced,
How may souls have I conquered?
Here I am,
Longing for a dance,
A paraplegic dancer.

I dance now
With my eyes,
Even when I seem
To gaze in the distance.

I hear wonderful melodies
From the Spring of my life.
I dance now
In my mind.

* * *

Isolation (Satis Shroff)

She had a small soul
And little education.
She gave,
But sought
Something else in return.

She loved her husband,
Pampered him in society,
For all to see.
Did she love him,
Or his wallet?
And things money can buy.

She shielded him from his friends,
With whom he’d fought
In the trenches of Stalingrad,
Cornered together like rats,
And prayed when Stalin’s Orgel
Screamed murderously over them.

He needed love and care
After the trauma of war.
Woke up in sleep
With nightmares of the krieg.
He gave up his comrades,
For a wife who said she loved him.
They had sauerkraut and spätzle,
Watched tennis and thrillers on TV,
And had no time for others.
Lonesome pensioners,
In self-inflicted isolation.

What came was depression,
Failing sensory organs,
Sans eyes,
Sans friends.
Varicose veins,
Cerebral sclerosis,
Alzheimer and strokes.
The light went out.
Was someone out there?

* * *

The Feud (Satis Shroff)

The feud I fought
Was not whole heartedly.
I handed it to a lawyer,
Who made a hash of it,
And a judge who was subjective.

I had to pay a heavy loss.
Would it have been better,
Had I put my heart
Into the feud?

Can I forget it,
But not forgive?
Can you forgive,
But not forget?
Questions that still
Torment my soul.

* * *

Surya at Benaras (Satis Shroff)

My eyes and mind were fading
Under the rays of the scorching sun.
I was at Benaras,
Standing in the polluted
But holy river.

Half naked,
With a sacred thread,
Greeting Surya,
The child of dawn,
The great source of light
And warmth:
The Sun.

You are the nourisher,
The brilliant light-maker,
The eye of the world,
The witness of men’s deeds.
Oh, you king of the constellations,
You,
Who possesses a thousand rays.

I was mumbling a Sanskrit litany,
I’d learned from my dear Mom :
Hara, hara Gungay,
Saba paapa langay.

* * *

Wine (Satis Shroff)

He who drinks sings,
He who drinks sinks,
You say.

He who drinks
Drops and spills
His wine,
His self,
His Ich
His life.

And when it’s spilt,
Can you still drink?
Or is it the wine
That spilt your life?

* * *

Seduction (Satis Shroff)

Why do you run after me?
You are seduced by my voice,
My style
And verse.

Follow your own words,
Your own heart.
Till then,
We go different ways.

We follow different paths,
Though we hear the same rhythm.
And in doing so,
We meet again.
Aufwiedersehen,
Arrividerci.

* * *

The Whiteness in the Zone of Death (Satis Shroff)

The best view of the world
Is from the top
Of the highest mountain,
The Abode of the Gods.

‘The best way to climb a peak
Is not to give it
A single thought.
Think of a thousand other things,’
Said the climber from abroad,
To the sherpa.

Suddenly it became stormy,
The dreaded whiteout came
With howling, biting winds,
Tons of snow everywhere.

The sahib had only a single thought.
‘Hilf mir, O Gott!’
And cried like a new born baby,
Scared of the wilderness,
Trembling at the whiteness
That surrounded him,
Frightened by the icy wind
Which seemed to tear him apart.

He found the sherpa,
Who said:
‘Here, where you stand,
Is almost the summit, Sir.
Welcome to the Abode of the Gods.’

‘The abode of what?’
‘The Gods,’ said the sherpa.
The climber turned around:
Whiteness in the death zone,
As far as he could imagine.

A step to the right,
A step behind,
And a blood-curdling scream.
Swallowed
by a treacherous crevice.
A vast silence ensued.

The half-frozen sherpa mumbled,
‘Om mane peme hum,
Vajra guru peme siddhay hum!’
Till sunrise.

He opened his eyes,
Thanked the Gods of the Himalayas
For saving his life,
Felt sorry for the stubborn sahib,
And descended
With a heavy heart.

* * *

Manjushri and the Heart of the World (Satis Shroff)

The green fields in the Vale of Catmandu
Shuddered as the heavens parted,
Revealing the secrets of the Himalayas.

Manjushri appeared with his mighty sword,
At this very place where you now stand,
For here was once a lake,
With turquoise waters

The people hid behind their house-walls
And ornate windows.
They peered with awe
At what unfurled before them.

The Sanskrit and Nepalbhasa they spoke,
Left them wordless,
For Manjushri was there
To release their hearts,
To create a fertile land,
Below the barren hills.

The warrior from the East,
Raised his sword
And cut a gorge,
Where now the Chovar stands,
With its century old sediments.
Lo and behold!
The turquoise water became
A foamy, swirling, spiralling,
Circling mass with music
To a crescendo.
It left Catmandu Valley
With incessant roars.

What remained was a fertile valley,
Rich in alluvium.
From the centre bloomed a lotus
And became
The heart of the world.

* * *

A White Page (Satis Shroff)

On a white page,
I’m searching for you.
I cannot bear to lose you.
Where have you been,
My lovely?

I remember the day
You entered my life.
Your soft gaze
With deep blue eyes.

We drank white wine at the bar,
Went home laughing,
Tipsy and joyful.
I thought it would last forever
And a day.

We were intoxicated
With love,
I thought.
Skins that sweat
And whispered.
A never-ending longing
For you.
I heard the screeching of an owl,
Ach, where tenderness was uncovered,
When the clouds slithered past the moon.

I humoured you,
I reeled under the silence
Of the years.
I heard distant cries,
But I heard only you.
I had to bear with you.
You remained
A white page
In my life.
Adieu.

* * *

Souvenirs (Satis Shroff)

They come from lands afar
In search of impressions,
Kitsch or treasures,
For their designer cupboards,
Back home in western countries.

Busloads of them stream out,
Digital cameras, camcorders
Mobiles with cameras
And shoot the village people,
Dilapidated huts,
Ornate windows, tattered clothes.
Guerrillas with guns,
Children with running noses,
For Mom is down in the vale,
Chopping wood for the hearth.

They click and store the temples,
Shrines, pagodas, palaces,
Gigabytes of global images
For family albums,
Power-point presentations.
Slide-shows for all and sundry,
The intimate images,
Poverty, shame,
Hidden by coy smiles,
The have-nots
Of a foreign country.

Will the tourists tell,
When they reveal what they’ve stored,
Of how hard it is to survive,
In the foothills of the Himalayas?
Where the sun shines at day
And Himalayan winds howl at night.
Where the monsoon brings
Torrential rain and death
From June to September,
And where the earth is dry,
Barren in winter.
Where the waters of the lake Phewa
Mirror the snows of Annapurna
And the fish-tailed one.

* * *

Cocktail Klatsch (Satis Shroff)

A cocktail party is an intermittent dance,
With champagne glass in the hand,
And a blonde’s waist in the other.
Dodging and negotiating
Between sips and slips,
Small talk.
With zeitgeist music,
As a psycho-barrier,
When confronted by
Ladies and gents,
We don’t prefer
To exchange niceties,
Personal secrets
Or somatic secretes
With.

* * *

THE HIMALAYAN WIND (Satis Shroff)

It is night,
The sky,
This inverted bowl,
Is prussian blue.

The winds are blowing
Across the swaying mustard fields.
This prussian darkness weighs me down,
It licks and chews,
On my desires concealed.

I’m hungry for ambrosia,
My stomach groans.
My heart yearns.

I enter a cave near the lake,
Stalagtites
And stalagmites.
A cave of loss.

Phewa the lake nearby,
Frequented by the Himalayas,
To mirror themselves
At dawn and dusk.
A reward for pilgrims
From afar.

* * *
The Whisper of the Glaciers (Satis Shroff)

The mountains loom above
The deeds of humans,
Blind chopping of trees.

The ascent of sacred peaks,
Whether singular
Or with a team,
With sauerstoff,
Or without.

Have you heard the whisper of the glaciers
Or the crash of the moraines,
As their long tongues
Bring to light
Remains of climbers
And adventurers,
Crushed in icy graves?

The tongues of the moraines
Lick the frozen, distorted torsos
Of heroes, sons and husbands
In search of glory and fame,
Who haven’t lived to tell their tales,
At cocktail parties,
And power-point palavers
In Manhatten, Santiago, Osaka,
Potsam or Prague.

* *
On Poetry (Satis Shroff)

A long time ago,
An established bard motivated me,
A poet from the American mainstream.
Words of praise that soothed
And amused me.
He compared my lyrical fragments
With works of poets
Of whom I’d never heard.

A protest poem about a drunk landlady
Reminded of W. H. Auden.
A ballad about a Gurkha mother
He said: ‘the best of Auden
And E.E. Cummings in tone here.’

Namaste,
Auf wiedersehen.
Auf wiedersehen,
Namaste.
I greet the godliness in you.
We shall see again.

‘There is such a surprise and delight.
A triumphant moment (here).
A small miracle of revelation.”

* * *

Zeitgeistlyrik:
GROWTH AND STASIS (Satis Shroff)

LOL!
Oh My God,
Das ist Toll,
Dear Frau Moll.

It comes from textese,
An English computer dialect
That causes teachers and language lovers
To sigh in anguish and despair.

Great feelings and words
Are compromised
Per SMS today.

Circumlocution has gone away.
Why beat around the bush?
Keep it precise,
Don’t waste words.
LOL!

When someone sends you
A message with ‘I love you,’
Don’t get worked up.
It can be an admirer
Or a pesky virus-ridden spam,
That sends love-you-mails
To your near
And dear ones,
And to all and sundry.

I agree,
That’s neither lol
Nor loll.
Lie lazily,
Hang out your tongue,
As we say in German:
Es ist nicht toll.

That’s language in metamorphosis:
Phases of growth,
Succeeded by stasis,
Dear Madame Moll,
LOL.

* * *


About the author: Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwigs University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff), in addition to Sprachkunde Nepali I & II (Horlemann Verlag, Bad Honnef), article on Nepalese symbols, Gurkhas and Achttausender. His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.