How Will I Ever Get Out Of This Labyrinth?
Poetry is, first and foremost, a form of protest. Poetry protests against humanity’s monstrous indifference to itself. Poetry protests as the light of love fades with the rising sun. Poetry protests for memories that ought not be forgot, yet were scarcely ever known to the world.
Wherever there is confusion, contradiction, uncertainty – there poetry is born. It springs, uncontained, from cold bedsheets, from heavy tombstones lined up in hundreds and thousands, from the cracks that tear the skies and ground of ramshackle camps. It is found on the tongue, on papers, on screens, in minds, written on hearts.
Poetry, when exposed to the world, becomes a call for resistance. No longer can it tolerate the bounds of quiet displeasure. No more will it sit down and talk – now, perching defiant on a line, it shouts and is heard.
What follows is a year of contradictions, of uncertainties, of poetic protest, of questions:
How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?
The Wayfarer’s Prayers
We live in a period of time in which, more than ever before, people have been wayfarers with restless souls, travelling to the places beyond the horizons of their hometowns in search of excitement, adventure, relaxation, better weather, and any number of other appeals.
The Wayfarer’s Prayers is a collection of poems from one such traveller, a rootless cosmopolitan who paces the earth, searching for the perfect verse.
Talking to the Walls
I had never talked to the walls before that day. But one cold morning in Berlin, I stood in front of an ordinary wall with a mural painted on it, and spoke to it. It told me a myriad of stories that it had heard from many visitors, seen for itself, been told by the walls nearby and had heard from the skies above. I listened intently, and I vowed to tell these incredible tales to the world. Over the following months, I endeavoured to retell them as best I could, from what I could remember and how I heard them told. It took hours hunched over a notepad with pen in hand, dozens of ink cartridges, hundreds of cups of coffee, and endless frustration and work, but eventually I told as much as I could. And so I present them to you, dear reader, so that you may feel them as I did standing on German streets, talking to the walls.