Moments of the Heart, A Book of Poems and Short Prose, by Inge H. Borg
Moments of the Heart, A Book of Poems and Short Prose, by Inge H. Borg
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords
Description: Do you remember (or have you heard about) JFK’s famous visit to a divided Berlin? The poem Peace: War’s Abandoned Grave tells of that dark post-war era.
In a lighter tone, there are poems dedicated to intrepid sailors, chimney sweeps, mountaineers and an old philatelist.
The short prose ranges from Switzerland’s icy Eiger to a wintry train-ride from Moscow to the Ukraine. Reading these 40 pages curled up in front of a roaring fire with a glass of wine, will warm your heart.
Excerpt
Offshore Sailing
White Wings on an Ocean
defying the moon’s pull.
The sailor laughs himself
off the harsh brown land.
His hold crammed for survival,
he tempts death.
White Wings on an Ocean,
straining, a billowing team.
The sailor braces against his contrary wheel
raping the rudder as lines wail taut.
The storm flogs with malice.
White Wings on an Ocean
screamed into shreds that bandage the mast.
A halyard flails. Lifelines gone.
The dinghy torn off.
The sailor weeps for soft green meadows.
* * *
Pacific Ode
Having been raised a nimble mountain goat,
I felt amiss around this small-hilledFinestCity.
With so much ocean ev’rywhere, I thought it was a pity,
not to be known by an experienced man who sailed a boat.
With great resolve, dressed to the nines,
I slipped into its oldest venerated Club-de-Yate
where I pretended to belong, and drank cafe-con-latte
before I click-clacked down those loose-planked chines.
“Hey, Sailorman,” I said with my considerable charm.
“You have a spiffy little ship. And I can see you care.
With these thick ropes strung ev’rywhere
you have to be quite good, or you could do yourself some harm.”
“I am the Skipper,” said the gray-locked gent.
“And this here is mybristolvessel.
The ‘ropes’ you’re standing on are lines around my cleats
which, once aboard, turn into sheets.”
“What are you saying, Sailorman?
I can assure you that I speak ‘se’ English good.
But thrash me with your sailor-lingo,
it goes beyond my ken.” My assertiveness by now unglued.
“Come on aboard, my pretty lady,” the handsome hunk invited.
His sun-burned hands extended down; he pulled me up to roam.
He briefly stopped to smile, however,
when my stiletto heel bit into closed-cell foam.
He swallowed hard but remained calm, still not averse,
and pointed out clew, tack, leech, vang, and boom;
then handled me quite pleasantly down his steep stairs
where I plopped into a seemingly all-purpose room.
He proudly showed me his salon and gimbaled galley,
then squeezed me forward through a narrow alley.
“And now, my dear, the time as come to show you my forepeak.”
Whence I suppressed a panicked female shriek.
“Why, Sailorman, I am a stocking’d lass,
and it is much too soon for you to show your – peak to me.”
Kissing me soundly on the lips, he laughed with glee:
“Soon, you’ll sail her like a champ through the tightest pass.”
Once ready to assist in docking the well-waxed double-ender,
I stood a-port, right elbow hooked around a shroud for sole support,
the bowline at the ready in my nerve-iced left
when, for whatever reason, I unwound my right-hand bender.
Despite blue-blazered grace, the inevitable then took place,
which much confounded hot-shot Sailorman of IOR dimensions.
Yes, indeed, as you have by now surmised,
this mountain goat turned mermaid, San-Diego-Bay-baptized.
Of course, I quit my job and gave my scrawny cat away
to move aboard with a brand-new French pressure-cooker pot.
Equipped with Dramamine, assorted spices, and the lot,
I was prepared to stay.
Boot-stripe immersed, we journeyed through Nirvana,
not even loathe to share the odious cleaning of the head.
We kissed and laughed, and baked fresh pressure-cooker bread
chock-full of ripe banana.
Until, one raging night, quite unexpected,
I was struck down byNeptune’s vengeful ax.
While I lay felled by this debilitating mal-de-mer,
head-splitting Wagner chants supposedly helped him relax.
I could have died, I felt so bad.
Insanely hating those black squalls,
I vowed to stay alive if only with the last of my remaining strength
to cut off Flying Dutchman’s valiant – toes.
The thought of this kept me a-gag; secretly, I planned the lot:
Without the called-for proper juice,
I’d throw them into my French pot
where, within pressure-cooker time, to powder they’d reduce.
The morn’ arose with brilliant hues.
Dawn brought with it a tranquil sea.
I instantly forgot my inner-ear unbalanced blues
when Dutchman had hot java and a toothy grin for me.
I was so grateful then that in the throws of my malaise
I had not done the ugly deed
and, quickly, I assured myself that ever-dancing Skip’
still sported pink appendages which he and I would need.
I kissed those rosy toes, excitedly a-mutter
with great enthusiasm, new resolve, and ease.
As Dutch’s Senta I would follow him along the path of stormy seas
through whateverNeptunehad in store for his well-found cutter.
Alas, one day, my Sailorman, he sailed amok
with a young steel-bunned looker.
Which left me standing at the dock
with useless lingo, and an empty pressure cooker.
* * *
Journey to Kiev (Excerpt)
Their pleasant banter was shattered by hissing steam. The black caterpillar started to lumber fromMoscow’s Byelorussia Station into the snow-drifts of an unusually cold 1963 winter night.
Anja Feodorovna kissed her younger sister Nina again but avoided to look at broad-shouldered Kostja, the silence awkward between them until the ever-energetic Kostja lifted his sister-in-law onto the jolting railway car. His hands, now the smooth hands of a Muscovite, reassuring himself, and her, that her broad hips were still as firm as they had been so long ago. Anja sighed and turned away to push the heavy door open. Inside the coach, almost every compartment was occupied. At last, Anja found an empty one. Still chilly, it smelled of stale iron.
She had begun to settle in for the long journey when the door slammed open. A swish of even cold air entered with the man. Anja, one boot off the other still on one foot, ignored the newcomer.
“Might as well get comfortable,” he nodded. “It’ll take fifteen hours at least to get toKievin this snow. I guess we’ll have a white beginning of ‘64 after all.”
He took his fur cap off.
“I am Michail Vladimir Kornilov. My friends call me Misha. And you, Comrade?”
“Feodorovna,” she mumbled. “And you won’t need to know what my friends call me. They aren’t around.”
She disliked the easy familiarity and was loathe having to spend the night with a talkative intruder. Her new companion was stocky, broad face broken by a short nose, lively blue eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses, unruly mop of grey hair contrasting with youngish features. He caught her looking at him.
“You are going toKiev?” Anja was embarrassed.
“Indeed. But I had the impression that it wouldn’t interest you where I was going.”
“It doesn’t. Just trying to be friendly.”
“That sure helps on a long trip like this.”
They had nested into opposite corners when the man bent toward Anja with a smile, their knees almost touching.
“I’ll see if the conductor has the Samovar going. Can I bring you a glass of tea?”
Anja, who wanted to say no, nodded: “It would warm me up.”
While her new companion was gone, Anja untied the checkered kerchief lining her basket and spread a second over the adjacent seat. Plunging her hands back into her treasure trove, she pulled out a hunk of dark crusted bread, a slab of smoked lard and half a coffee-cake. If he paid for the tea, she might share her food with him. She rummaged for her knife and found it caught in a spare pair of socks. Wiping the blade clean she saw Misha approach through the sliding door’s glass-pane. Obviously, things were getting too hot for his big hands. Laughing at his pained expression, she slid the door back quickly and took one of the silver holders with its steaming glass of tea from him.
His short nose curled higher.
“What smells so good in here? Ah, you brought something to eat.”
“One has to. If you are as hungry as you look, I assume you didn’t. Please, help yourself.”
“I thought you didn’t like me. And now you offer to share your food with me. I tell you what: Why don’t we add a little life to this colored water.”
Deftly, Misha pulled a small bottle from an inner pocket.
“Good old Vodka,” he winked.
Anja never drank it pure but liked its warming flavor in her tea.
“My name is Anja.”
Misha nodded, smiling broadly. They passed the knife back and forth and ate in silence, the hearty lard calling for good some chewing, the tea’s double-warmth enjoyable.
The man studied the woman opposite him. Wheat-colored hair tied in a bun deep in her neck, breasts standing proud, round hips, waist still nicely indicated. And when she smiled, her wholesome features softened.
Hissing heat at last replaced the small compartment’s chill. Anja took her grey jumper off revealing a white Cossack-style blouse. Its multi-colored border ran round the high neck and back down over the left breast where a button had ceded to her bosom’s pressure. Anja fidgeted to close the revealing gap.
“Would you like a little more?” Misha tried to ease her discomfort.
“I have no tea left,” she said but held her glass toward him.
“Maybe a drop to make the cake go down easier.”
Misha steadied her hand with his own fingers. “That should do the trick.”
The warmth of his touch startled her.
Moments of the Heart, A Book of Poems and Short Prose, by Inge H. Borg
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords
