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A poem
On the first day in September after our long summer holidays, we were always curious to see if a new student would join our class. This year we were in grade five. Henry came. From the countryside. To Berlin! Dark, curly hair, white shining shirt with creases, and a little bit too fat.
There were only the best marks in his reports. Except for sports. Always accurate. Never any dirt under the finger nails, never messy hair, never a naughty word. And he wrote poems about blades of grass, blossoms, sand on the heath and waves on the sea. I wanted to become a poet.
At the beginning, all the teachers were fascinated. But we students had not yet made up our minds about him. He seemed to us like a being from another planet.
When he was called to come to the blackboard in maths for the first time, his face became red and he started to stutter. The class screamed with laughter. Henry continued stuttering. He had been stuttering since early childhood, after he fell down a well, but this we only learned later.
From that time on, Henry failed all tasks.
He could not attend high school because of his bad marks.
Once for my birthday, he gave me a green potted plant, and a poem that he had written:
No roses, no tulips,
no flowers that fade,
but a small poem to say:
Do not forget me.The plant I forgot to water, because of laziness. I did not like it, because it had not any flowers.
Henry became a poet after a long, difficult, roundabout way. Today, after 30 years of never hearing about him I accidentally found a book of poetry by him on the internet.
I wrote to him immediately. Perhaps he will not answer.
..................................................
From time to timeThe bell rang. Lammert looked through the peephole. Then he opened the door.
“Hello, Kramer, you are here again…
What have you seen this time?
“… This woman….Rempel is her name. Look Sir, such poems she writes.
“That women and poems? – What do you understand about poems, Kramer?
From time to time
Red sprinkled
The evening sun
On ways,
Meadows,
CheeksFrom time to time
For a few
Minutes
Months
Years“Yes, and...? A sunset. Nothing else."
„Nothing else? But look exactly, Sir! RED SPRINKLED!! Sprinkled!! Sprinkled with what?
Red is red. I see a protest in it! Communism is red. And it should sink like the sun?
“Oh, Kramer, you are delirious!“From time to time. From time to time revolting? We will see! Chief, don't you recognize the danger in these verses?”
“No, Kramer. But calm down. Continue watching her. We never know. Everything starts with sunsets.”
Kramer carefully tries to remember when he made his evidences at the court against Lammert.
..................................................
The rhymeOn the first day in September after long summer holidays, we were always curious, if new student would join our class. This year we were in grade five. Henry came. From the countryside. To Berlin! Dark curly hair, white shining shirt with creases and a little bit too fat.
Only the best marks in his reports. Except on sports. Always picobello. Never dark spots under the finger nails, never messy hair, never a naughty word. And he wrote poems about blades of grass, blossoms, sand on the heath and waves at the see. I wanted to become a poet.At the beginning, all teachers were fascinated. But we were still waiting with our opinion about him. He seemed to be for us like from another planet.
When he was called to come to the blackboard in maths for the first time, his face became red and he started to stutter. The class yelled. Henry continued stuttering. He has been stuttering already since his early childhood, because he felt down to a well – but this we learned later.
From this time on, he failed all tasks.
He could not attend high school because of his bad marks.For my birthday, he gave me once a green pot plant and a poem that he had written:
No roses, no tulips,
no flowers that fade,
but a small poem to say:
Do not forget me.The plant I forgot to water, because of laziness. I did not like it, because it had not any flowers.
Henry became a poet – after a difficult long roundabout way.
Today after 30 years never hearing about him I accidentally found a poetry book of him in the internet.
I wrote to him immediately, perhaps he would never answer.
..................................................
Welcome!The new W-LAN connection works fantastically. But no mail arrives.
Anke has been sitting at her computer for hours already, staring at the inbox.
Now! Slowly two mails appear. But none from him. She deletes the spam and moves the other mail to a folder called WAITING ROOM. Why does she do that? Why does she not answer the mail of her best girl friend? She has time enough.
He promised to write her from his business trip. Solemnly promised! That was 42 days ago.
She remembers how her relationship with Andreas started six months ago. She wrote a comment in his guest book on his home page. He answered her immediately:
Dear Anke,
Thank you very much for your lovely comment in my guest book.
Do you have a homepage with photos too? I would like to visit it!
Yes, it was very interesting in Greece but I was there alone.
If you would like to see more photos from me, I will send them to you by mail.
Warm greetings from Dresden
AndreasSoon they found more and more common interests and preferences. A daily exchange of thoughts started and became intimate.
No movement in the inbox.
She surfs around and ends up on his home page. In his guest book there are only names of girls – she never noticed that before. Suddenly she has a crazy idea. She types rapidly: Hello, Andreas, you have a nice home page. Most of all I like your photos from Greece. She adds an email address that she normally only uses to log in to chat rooms lisa.2004@freenet.de
After ten minutes, she looks in her inbox again:
Dear Lisa,
Thank you very much for your lovely comment in my guest book.
Do you have a homepage with photos too? I would like to visit it!
Yes, it was very interesting in Greece but I was there alone (without a partner?)
If you would like to see more photos from me, I will send them to you by mail.
Warm greetings from Dresden
Andreas