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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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2001.
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Offerings And Offsprings
She talked about my latest offerings
as if they had with eager little feet
rushed over to her Lazyboy Recliner
to climb up on her lap and talk so sweet
into allegedly well-educated ears
from where the spirits of my words
would travel by telepathy into her mind
there to be chopped and sorted into finer
and more accessible poetic nerds
but in the very end there would be fears
and trepidation of another kind,
while all this time she would surely forget
that all my little babies can be called offsprings
who might be happy if they saw and met
a proper critic who would come and tell me things.
Herbert Nehrlich
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2002.
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Oh, Munich!
It was a gray day in November that I sat
at my Salvation Army desk, so deep in thought,
about the art of reminiscing about life.
An element of selfishness was,
clearly and painfully, present
and the question of disclosure,
to my happy self, returned from,
what can only be described as
some sort of earthly paradise,
was staring quite relentlessly,
its finger raised in mock concern.
There is a rash desire now within
the need to boast to all and now,
there cannot be the very silence
that would surely be required,
lest lifting of the veil would bring about
untold vulgarities into a bed of truth.
Filled to the beating heart with joy
as well as sadness I regress
into the dream that came to haunt
and squeeze its mighty hand
around me in a gesture from those days,
when summer raised its warming rays
and filled young men with lustful thoughts.
It was James Bond, about the life of spies,
surrounded by a thousand Hessian souls,
whose sole routine was first to rest,
and soak into their skins the burning sun,
then to extinguish the excesses in the waves
of Frankfurt's biggest and well situated pools,
where waters did receive their frequent dose
of what was meant to be discharged in smaller stalls,
but folks would swim and dive and often spit
as to discharge the waste of fuels like fat-bound boats.
James had now lured into his bed the Russian spy,
its very ease conferred encouragement to me,
and for a moment there was hope and sheer despair
when eyes were locked across the barriers of the day.
The sun was setting now, the crowd began to stir
she packed her towel and the yellow Piz-Buin,
soon she was gone, I noted tram Krauthausen-4.
There was some doubt inside the mind of the old Dean,
you look quite healthy, must have gone through his big skull,
I was the first to cross the gate the coming day,
and claimed the spot, a fraction closer and in hope.
The sun had blinked it seemed when angels came to town,
she wore a flowered and exquisite Swedish top,
legs flattered and revealed by short bermuda whites,
sunglasses aimed up into God's benevolence.
And then she sat within ten feet, inside my shade.
I spoke, amazed and stunned and well prepared.
Would quick defeat and even ridicule be seen
by all the tight, gross looking trunks of healthy males
who had assembled here to steal my rising star?
There would not be another day, she said to me,
a voice like harpsichord accompanied by flute,
the trip to Spain would be tomorrow, near to dawn,
four weeks, parental chaperones, perhaps a card.
We spent the time to the last tram in Le Chateau,
greased fingers feeding chicken legs and tales
into the eagerness of innocent young mouths,
wheat beer with just a touch of rhubarb juice
and no one dared to spoil the ambience of the night.
Some fifteen years have come and gone, and I return,
a tiny gremlin leads my hand deep to the page
where like a shooting star her name looks up to burn
and give me courage and the nerves of long gone times.
She stays composed though I can tell it is a sham,
'this cannot be', she keeps repeating, 'not for real',
'I kept your letters', says the voice, (Manuka lips) ,
'you could, if time permits come by, say Hi (? ? ?) ,
perhaps a cab, you are not far, not far at all.'
The lift, a modern and Teutonic apparatus is too fast,
I'm not prepared, perhaps the wind messed up my hair,
two jet-lagged eyes and a small paunch, the price of age,
what would she say, would there be ridicule, defeat?
And all was well, words really are so strange,
so full of nothing though we used the words of old,
went back to Le Chateau, she was prepared,
and I could swear, the roasted legs were just the same,
baked in her grill, while we drank Chateau-Neuf-Du-Pape,
and in the end we talked of trams, and number four,
the world at large, it didn't matter anymore.
This was written in 1981.
No further details available.
Herbert Nehrlich
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2003.
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Oil Of Wintergreen
The best sandwich, says Diogenes,
is one made with saliva,
secreted just for you,
I'll be the lettuce in between,
if you will nibble with your teeth
and, do you swallow little drops of wintergreen?
Herbert Nehrlich
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2004.
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Olanzapine
Olanzapine please don't be mean,
you are my friend, do understand
that without you I would feel blue
and that my choices and those voices
would much affect my intellect,
and all my mood, right now I'm nude,
I dance around, fall to the ground
make funny faces and wear my laces
over my ears, but have no fears
I am not crazy, nor truly lazy
it's just that devils, on many levels
live in my head, and I am led
round and around, it may astound
you, who is sane that I'm in pain
and pretty sure there is no cure.
The docs are strange, they just arrange
some tranquillising, it is surprising
that the stigma is nothing more than an enigma
which keeps me out, and rather stout,
because the pills, which cure no ills
put on the weight, it is my fate
though do not fret, I'm glad we met
without your love I'd get a shove
into the place where, case by case,
they strap you down, you are the clown,
crank up the amps, which dims the lamps
a rigorosum of c. callosum
or insulin, those shots are sin
go in a coma, wake to aroma
of your own shit, and that is it.
There's no solution but execution
which may be why some say good-bye.
In various ways, like in a daze
in my next life I'll be a wife
who marries you, as people do
I'll take good care and will be fair
and I will give, long may you live
you every day, may come what may
olanzopine and lycopene
give you some health and them their wealth.
I did betray and went astray
that little gnome adrenochrome
was said to be my misery,
that nutrients would make amends.
It worked for years but novel fears
were shoved my way, they made me sway.
My pharmacist said that the gist
was to comply and say good-bye
to vitamins and fill the bins.
Though I do think, wink, wink, wink, wink,
that modern docs are just like crocs,
they need the needy, being greedy
but, make them sour, they have the power
to cut your pension, so my intention
is be good boy, and jump for joy.
Olanzapine, where have you been
I will be true and stick with you.
Herbert Nehrlich
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