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Ankita Gupta Feb 17
Open the door
Enter the time that lapsed
Draw out the curtains
There is light from the past
Breathe the air
Dance to the tunes slow and fast
Ride the carriages
Travel to the time of chance
Peter B Sep 2018
He passed away in 1791,
aged thirty five.
He never saw a car,
never heard a noise of a machine.
His lungs
never breathed a smog.

He didn't wait
for the industrial revolution,
wild capitalism
and their awful consequences.

He left much earlier,
saving his senses
from the ugliness of the world,

from the unpleasant times,
which were soon to come.

He didn't die,
he only withdrew
from the end of the world.
İlayda Korkmaz Aug 2018
Take me to Vienna where the music walks.
Where the buildings invite you to sit,
And accompany them for a cup of melange.
Where the many palace gardens have jovial pique-niques,
With their bikes resting by the trees.

Take me to Vienna where life ebbs out
Where the past lives on,
And composers wave out the windows.

Take me to Klimt's golden city,
The city where even the grey Donau is welcoming.
Take me to Vienna and don't take me back.
Peter B May 2018
It's Drei Uhr in Wien,
Leute are sleeping tight,
when Wolfgang is playing
on the Klassiknacht.
*Drei Uhr - 3 o'clock, 3 am
*Wien - Vienna
*Leute -  people
*Klassiknacht - classic music show on Austrian radio Ö1
Peter B Mar 2018
I'm sure that you too,
at some point in your life,
had to give up on something
against your will,
and become the part of something
you never wanted to be.
I bet you too
were too beautiful, too fragile
to win and not to bend your knees
under the weight of coersion.

I'm pretty certain,
that wherever and whoever you are,
you too happened to be
a victim of smaller or bigger Anschluss,
when your life suddenly ended,
you woke up in the country,
which wasn't longer yours,
in the stranger's skin,
and when everything what was beautiful and frail in you
was killed.

But don't be sad,
for when the moment of the truth comes,
it won't be you
hurriedly swallowing
a cyanide pill.
The poem written for the anniversary of Anschluss. Eighty years ago, on the 12th of March 1938 Germany annected Austria. Anschluss - germ. annection.
Penelope Winter Jul 2017
A gentle chorus wafts through the air as abandoned castles sigh, like a cat resting in a sun patch, and ancient cathedrals unitedly chant the song of religious history.
U nveil the glistening treasures deep within the mines of the mountain side; feel the butterflies in your stomach as you dive down the shafts.
S ing the song of the Alps as they enchant you with innocent snow and seductive diamonds, with charming forests and guilty avalanches.
T aste the morning brew on your tongue, basking in the warmth on the cafe patio, listening to the street musicians purify the tourist's ears.
R ed rooftops, orange balconies, yellow sunsets, blue skies, purple chocolate bars. But nothing is green here; for this land envies none.
I return through the skies like the prodigal son, having gone for so long, missing the life I was born to live; but everything is different now and the streets I once called home have become foreign.
A ustria, my mother, I remain an orphan.

- p. winter
I was born in Austria but live in another country now. I haven't been back in years but, this summer, I went "home". The memories are flooding back and I almost don't want to leave. But it's been so long... Austria isn't quite home anymore.
Michelle Garcia Nov 2016
on the night train to Vienna I dreamt
as the soft tangerine light bled into the windows,
tumbling down infinities of Italian countryside
absorbing into my retinas in summer shades
of dusk-colored haze


entranced I was--
a nervous girl of sixteen years,
uncharted valleys sprawling ceaselessly
at the beds of my fingers,
love languages my tongue could not yet
stretch its fibers around
freedom forming its hunched silhouette
just outside of thin glass windows
cooled by the night’s apprehensive breeze


endless, it seemed
the rumbling blur of possibilities--
my hands sedated for the first time in years.
quietly existing in the jolt of a moving cab,
the subtle ricochet through the faint lamppost glow
of fragile Austrian dreams.


home-- four thousand and forever miles away
and yet here was fine, just fine
a girl with stringy hair and a steaming cup
of midnight European tea
as her mother sighed to herself in the
peak of her American afternoon,
wondering whether her baby had found sleep
in someone else’s morning.
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