MEET MY LIFE: Satis Shroff

SATIS SHROFF: MEET MY LIFE

lecturer, poet, writer, chanteur.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg and is a poet, humanist, lecturer and artist. He writes poems, fiction, non-fiction, and also on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. The German media describes him as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and he sees his future as a writer, singer (MGV-Kappel) and poet.

He received the Pablo Neruda Award 2017 for Poetry in Crispiano (Italy, the Heimat Medaillie Baden-Württemberg for Literature and Heimatpflege 2018 and the DAAD-Prize.

HIMALAYA MICROPOEMS: Satis Shroff

Lights flicker in Mahabharat mountains
The air smells of rhododendrons
The splendour of the Himalayas.

* * *

I stay in my tent
Dream of cherry blossoms
And a blonde in kimono.

* * *

The fishtailed one appears
Gleaming in silvery moonshine
Mirrored on placid Phewa lake.

* * *

Winter is here
The magic of snowy landscape
Out with the snowboots.

* * *

Snowflakes falling from Heaven
Frau Holle is dusting blankets
Gott sei Dank my heater works

* * *

Clouds waltz in the sky
Men are out to conquer
The holy Himalayan peaks.

* * *

Sudden monsoon rain
Soaks the mountainside
A landslide causes screams of agony.

* * *

Baptism of monsoon
A landslide washed the road away
Groping and cursing uphill as a child.

The large ice chunks leap
Crash upon the fragile tents
The base camp’s a crevice.

* * *

Snow in my tent
Earthquake
Tremor in my heart

* * *

It’s April
The air is getting thinner
Avalanche growls.

* * *

The Alsatian’s muzzle
Sniffs and buries deep
A hand is uncovered.

* * *

The black cat prowls at night
A long day of napping
Lies ahead in Namchebazaar.

* * *

Beneath my tree’s canopy
I sit and sip
My cuppa Ilam tea.

• * * *

A DREAM LED TO ANOTHER: SATIS SHROFF

I was around twenty years old,
My head full of dreams.
I left the Himalayan foothills to win a dream:
A dream to go to Europe, visit places I’d read about.
The Bastille from Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities,
Where I spent time recalling the French Revolution.
My friend’s Parisienne sister shook her head and said:
‘Monsieur Satish, there are other ways of spending an afternoon in Paris.’
The smell of sea food at a French harbour,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built.
La Rochelle and the German bunkers in the Ile d’ Oleron.
I peered at sea fogs from the mighty Atlantic,
Watched the ‘last oozing, hours by hours,
From a cider-press’ in the Vosges, as John Keats aptly put it.

***

In Blenhelm’s little tavern I saw murals of its famous son:
Winston Leonhard Spencer Churchill.
I stood in front of Churchill’s grave;
Above his remains lay his mother.
The words of James Shirley came to my mind:
‘Death lays his icy hands on kings,
Sceptre and crown,
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made.
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.’
I listened to the English ‘Country Sound,’
I’d read in William Cowper’s verses.
An eighteenth century house, described by George Eliot.
A pub akin to the one in John Burn’s ‘Tam o’ Shanter’:
Even though ‘pleasures are like poppies spread.’
Took a swig of English ale in picturesque Burford,
A Cotswold town in Southern England.
Country scenarios depicted by John Milton in ‘The Poet’s Pleasure:’
‘And the milkmaid swingeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe.’
To walk over the Thames Bridge between Waterloo Bridge and Chelsea,
As in Stephen Gwynn’s ‘Decay of Sensibility:’
‘The half-light when the lamps are first lit’ in London.
Where the people are now confronted
With the uncertainties of Brexit,
And promises made by Trump to May.
Peered at the Gurkha and Scottish Guards
Doing their loyal duty near the Buckingham Palace.
One dream led to another;
I found myself in Stratford-upon-Avon,
To be reminded of the Bard’s words:
‘Turning again toward childish treble,
Pipes and whistles in his sound’
From The Seven Ages of Man.

***

‘In Denmark’ with Edmund Gosse,
When he wrote about:
‘All the little memories of this last afternoon,
How trifling they are,
How indelible!’
At the German butcher’s in Oberried with my friend,
Who died later of aneurisma of the aorta,
The Metzer’s daughter was what he called an ‘Augenweide.’
Having read Mary Shelly’s ‘Frankenstein,’
I found myself in the apothecary in Heidelberg castle,
And later in the Anatomy Museum in Basle,
Fascinated by the deformed specimens,
Preserved in formalin.
Back in the lovely Schwarzwald town of Freiburg im Breisgau
I dissecting an elderly German’s body,
Under glaring white neon light.
Did he fight the Russians in Stalingrad?
He couldn’t tell me his story.

***

The inner German border wall,
Long lines of inhuman barbed wire,
Meant to keep humans in,
Not out.
Hitler said: ‘The great masses of the people
…will more easily fall victim to a great lie
Than to a small one.’

***

Queen Aishwarya and Frau Marianne Weizsäcker in Bonn,

King Birendra in the foreground at La Redoute.

The British Gurkhas were also present on the occasion in civil.
King Birendra and Queen Aishwarya came
On a state visit to Bonn,
With familiar faces from Nepal’s media.
A reception at La Redoute and Graf Zeppelin,
And a salute from the Bundesgrenzschutz
In Echterdingen.
A few years later the Royal family was massacred,
By the crown prince so the tale goes.
‘Strange things happen in Nepal,’ said my Swabian physician.

***

As if in reply to the 20th year of the Berlin Wall.
A metal plate with these words of Konrad Adenauer
Was hung on 13.8.1981 in Bayern-Thüringen:
“The entire German folk
Behind the iron Curtain call us,
Not to forget them!
We will not stand still,
We will not rest,
Till Germany
Is united again
In peace and freedom.”
We’re fortunate to have lived to see the day.
An invitation from President Gauck
And Winfried Kretschmann
Flattered to me one day from Stuttgart.
A Spätzle lunch with the Landesvater
And dinner with the President.

***

My dreams lived in my head with fluid thoughts.
Went to Venice and imagined the speech
Of Portia to Shylock in The Merchant of Venice:
‘…in the course of justice,
None of us should see salvation.’
A dream within a dream,
Of a young man from the Himalayas,
Now grown old with a shuffling gait.
Goes to Crispano to be bestowed the Neruda Award 2017,
For his verses
And thereby hangs a tale.

* * *

© foto courtesy: stefanheinz, germany

MOON OVER THE ARABIAN SEA (Satis Shroff, Freiburg-Kappel)

Surrounded by the greyish clouds,
I see a full moon
Glowing in the Prussian blue sky.
I walk to the Gateway of India,
Look beyond,
Where the breakers
Thrash against Mumbai’s shore.

Waves from the Arabian Sea,
That have brought pirates,
Islamic invaders,
Warships of colonial powers
From foreign shores.
Goa, Pondicherry,
Calcutta,
Become household words,
In Portugal, France and Britain.

A warm reassuring breeze
Whispers by.
Gandhi’s dreams have come true,
The British have come true,
The British, French and Portugese
Have left the shores
Of Hindustan.
Tourists now spend their money
On sightseeing:
Corpses smouldering
At the ghats,
Candlelight dinners
In Rajput palaces,
Armies of beggars
Along the footpaths,
Slumdogs
Who won’t be millionaires.

The rich dream of more dollars,
At the cost of construction workers,
Underpaid and exploited.
The poor dalits cling
To their dreams at night,
For dreams are not forbidden
And are as free,
As the bad air you breathe.

In my thoughts,
A heavenly Apsara appears,
Dances and sings,
Her heavenly song.

My reverie is broken
By the hooting
Of a white ocean liner,
Streaking above
The ripples of the sea.

* * *

THE POETRY OF EXISTENCE (Satis Shroff, Freiburg-Kappel)

What a boon,
A peaceful day
Without human cries,
Pent up emotions,
Banging doors,
Crashing cutlery,
Loud stereo songs,
Intrusive MP3s
Belting out Sido,
Bushido, 50 Cent.

A tranquil day
Means a lot to humans.
To immerse oneself
In a book,
Is to take time
From the bustle
Of everyday life.
Even though it’s
Another person’s life
You read about.

Is the hero courageous,
Or is he cowardly?
Does he tell lies
Or is he loyal?
Does he carry a weapon
Like Ian Flemming’s hero?
Or are words his weapon?

Time flies:
A stack of dishes to clean,
There’s dust on the floor,
A meal to cook.
What did you say?
Time and tide,
Waits for no one.

* * *

THE JOY OF DANCING (Satis Shroff)

The first strokes of the music
And your brain tells you
What dance it belongs to.

You’re already underway,
With your beautiful partner,
Even before the others awake,
On the dance floor,
Gliding gently in tact.
That’s creativity for you.

The more you dance
The more you enjoy.
You know there are people around you,
In evening gowns and dinner jackets,
Sipping their champagne,
Sekt or red wine.

Nodding,
Doing minimal gyrations,
Smiling and feeling good,
Between morsels of caviar.

As the evening advances,
You feel ecstatic,
In your mind
You’re doing fine.

Ah, there’s epinephrine
Surging in your blood.
Your heart is beating faster,
Your legwork is not bad,
You smile at your partner,
Isn’t life delightful?

* * *

A Handkerchief (Satis Shroff)
What is a handkerchief,
But a piece of cloth,
Meant to wipe
A weeping widow’s tears,
Or the fluid from the nose,
When you’ve caught the cold.

A handkerchief can mean,
The loneliness of humans,
At the face of loss,
In cafes, Bahnhofs,
Airports and bus-stations,
Operas, theatres,
Cinemas and plays
Of this worldly stage.

A handkerchief
Brings people together,
Empathy emanates
Between strangers.
We show we are humans,
With emotions
And not zombies.

Sometimes,
Even in public
We tremble,
Tears roll down
Our cheeks,
As we try to keep
A stiff upper lip.

About the Author:
Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. He is the published author of three books on http://www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelgue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace”, poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer. Satis Shroff is a poet and writer based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) who also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

MEHR MEER

A translator and essayist
Born in 1946 in Slovakia,
Grew up in Switzerland,
Living in Zürich,
Won the Swiss Buch.09 award
And 50,000 Swiss Franks.

The jury was delighted
With her ‘Mehr Meer,’
Written with a pen
Dipped in beauty
That fills the world
With poetry.

With her More Seas,
She sailed past Peter Stamm
With his novel Seven Years,
Shortlisted contemporaries:
Eleonore Frey, Jürg Laederach,
Angelika Overath and Urs Widmer.

A tale about memories
Of a daughter,
Of Hungarian
And Slovenian descent,
With sojourns in Budapest,
Ljublijana, Triest, Zürich,
Leningrad and Paris.
The poetess of this passage
Of memories
Is Ilma Rakussa,
A sincere lady with a haircut,
Akin to Prince Valiant,
With a soft voice.

The atmosphere was sticky,
The visitors stiff,
Perspiring in their garments
At the Basler Erlenmatten Street.
What a pleasant surprise:
Buch.09 is going
Buch Basel again.

* * *

Broadway Songs und Deutsche Lieder aus dem Dreisamtal (Satis Shroff)

Ich hätte nie gedacht, dass ich alte Deutsche Lieder und Broadway-Songs mit den einheimischen Deutschen des Männergesangsverein (Männerchor) in Freiburg-Kappel singen würde.

In den vergangenen Jahren wurde ich öfters von Alois aus Zähringen gefragt, ob ich nicht auch singen möchte. Aber ich hatte gezögert, weil ich zu beschäftigt mit meinen Vorträgen und Kinder gewesen war. Inzwischen ist der alte Alois an einer Herz-Attacke gestorben und ich vermisse sein freundliches Gesicht, wie er mich jedes Mal, wenn ich ihn in Zähringen traf mit einem Lächeln begrüßte.

Hier in Kappel singe ich nun als zweiter Tenor und es ist wirklich spannend. 20 Euro für die Mitgliedschaft und weitere 100 Euro für den blauen Rock, und Sie sind Teil des Chores, bereit für das Singen bei eigenen Konzerten und als Gastchor bei Festen in den verschiedenen Teilen des Dreisamtals. Ich konnte es nicht glauben. Tatsächlich probten wir deutsche und englische Lieder in Hochdorf mit den Damen dort und sangen mit den anderen Chören aus dem Dreisamtal in Buchenbach mit 600 deutschen Zuhörern und Applaudierern.

Das Dreisamtal besteht aus Kirchzarten, Oberried, Buchenbach und Stegen. Man hat einen herrlichen Ausblick auf das Dreisamtal, wenn man aus Buchenbach in Richtung Höllental über Himmelreich geht. Die angrenzenden Täler sind sehr romantisch mit grünen Wiesen, rauschenden Bächen und malerischen Schwarzwald Bauernhöfen, eine Mühle, die noch in Betrieb ist und die Ruinen der Burg Wiesneck. Da ist dann noch der Hansmeyerhof, ein Bauernhof Museum in der Nähe von Wagensteig. Unweit entfernt liegt Stegen, auf der sonnigen Seite des Dreisamtal. Das Schloss von Weiler wurde im Jahre 1663 erbaut und ist einen Besuch wert, ebenso wie die Schlangen-Kapelle in Wittental. Die barocken Kirche von Eschbach ist einer der schönsten in der Freiburger Gegend. Es gibt viele Schwarzwälder Bauernhöfe, die darauf warten von Ihnen entdeckt zu werden. Vom Lindenberg haben Sie einen ausgezeichneten Blick auf das Dreisamtal.

Die Chor-Mitglieder trugen ihre traditionellen Kostüme. Was für ein wunderbares Gefühl. Man spührte wie das Adrenalin in den Blutkreislauf strömte als mit den Anderen gesungen wurde. “Ein Chor ist nichts für Individualisten. Man muss einen harmonischen Klang haben “, das war immer die Mahnung des jungen Dirigenten Felix Rosskopf, wenn wir probten.

Es war das erste Mal seit dem Zweiten Weltkrieg, dass alle Dreisamtal Chöre kamen und zusammen sangen. Während des Krieges waren die Deutschen angehalten, Kriegs- und Vaterlandslieder zu singen. Buchenbach scheint ein Problem zu haben, das mittlerweile in den meisten Männer-gesangsvereinen in Deutschland, Österreich und der Schweiz deutlich wird. Die ältere Generation bricht wegen des Alters und aus Mangel an Mobilität weg und die jüngere “Love-Parade” Generation kümmert sich nicht um die Pflege der alten Tradition des Vaterland.

Die Sänger von Buchenbach sangen: Sing mit mir, Oh Shenandoah, Mit Musik geht alles besser. Die Sängerinnen und Sänger von St. Peter aus den hohen Schwarzwald sangen: Freude am Leben, welches mehr gesprochen als gesungen war. O du schöner Rosengarten, das war eine Liebeserklärung und ein anderes lyrisches Lied, welches Rot sind die Rosen hiess. Liebe ist immer ein beliebtes Thema.

Die Sängerinnen und Sänger aus Ebnet traten als gemischter Chor auf. “weil viele Männer verstorben sind oder den Verein verlassen haben.”, so Klaus.

Die Ebneter Sänger sangen: Capri Fisher, Ich brech die Herzen der stolzesten Frauen, ein lady-killer song in deutscher Sprache und ein Walzer für dich und mich.

Der Männerchor aus Kirchzarten sang: Die Sonne erwacht, ein traditionelles deutsches Lied, Hymne, O Iris komponiert von Wolfgang Mozart.

Ich sah eine Menge von Sängern, die eine fliehende Stirn, leuchtend unter den Lichtern der Bühne, hatten. Die meisten von ihnen trugen eine Brille und alle waren für diesen Anlass gekleidet. Die Damen tragen lange, fließende Abendkleider oder kamen in den traditionellen Dirndeln des Schwarzwaldes, und die Männer in Trachten oder tadellosen Anzügen.

Kirchzarten liegt auf dem Weg zum Hirschsprung, Hinterzarten und Titisee, einem Gletschersee. In Kirchzarten können Nordic Walking machen, Golf spielen, entspannen im Kneipp-Zentrum mit Wassertherapie und man kann Französisch Boule spielen wie Peter Mayle (A Year in Provence).

Die Sängerinnen und Sänger aus Zarten sangen: Heimat, deine Sterne, Strangers in the Night, Are You Lonesome Tonight (deutsche Version).

Wir, von Kappel, sangen: “Ein Freund, ein guter Freund und La Le Lu ein Wiegenlied für Jung und Alt aus einem alten deutschen Film mit Heinz Rühmann in der Hauptrolle.

Die Sänger aus Oberried sangen am besten. Oberried ist für die höchsten Gipfel des Schwarzwaldes bekannt: Feldberg und Schauinsland. Es gibt ein Heimatmuseum genannt Schniederlihof, einen Steinbruch auf einem Hügel, das in ein Museum umgewandelt wurde, und natürlich die Unterhaltungpark Steinwasen. Die Vegetation in diesem Teil ist sub-alpine. Im Sommer kann man jede Menge Bergsteigen, Spaziergänge genießen und Picknicks auf den saftigen grünen Wiesen. Im Winter ist Oberriede ein Skiparadies. Hier ist ebenso Deutschlands erster Bergnatur Friedhof.

Zu einer anderen Gelegenheit wurden wir von den Hochdorfern als Gastsänger eingeladen. Das Thema war Filmmusik und wir sangen Lieder aus: Adiemus, Jungle Book, den Blauen Engel, Truxa, Gasparone, Lena’s song, Gabriella’s Song, Fünf Millionen suchen einen Erben, Frauen sind keine Engel (Frauen sind keine Engel), True Love, mein Heart Will auf (Titanic) Go, Nur nicht aus Liebe weinen, In mir klingt ein Lied, Für ein Nachtvoller Seligkeit (Kora Terry), Moon River (aus Breakfast at Tiffany’s), Midnight Blues und Conquest of Paradise. Ein großer Bildschirm in der Nähe der Bühne wurde benutzt, um Szenen aus den Filmen zu zeigen. Auch wir Sänger wurden digital aufgenommen. Das deutsche Publikum zeigte sich sehr empfänglich und Felix Rosskopf gab sein Bestes. Der Applaus in der Hochdorfer Halle war donnernden. Die Standing Ovations am Ende haben uns sehr gefreut. Das war ein tolles Gefühl, als wir alle Die Eroberung des Paradieses mit Begeisterung sangen. Der Text ist eigentlich albern und künstlich, aber die Wirkung auf das Publikum ist großartig. Man konnte fühlen, wie der Funke vom Dirigenten über die Sänger zum Publikum übersprang. Das Singen dieser Lieder war eine fantastisches Wellness-Erlebnis und extrem in seiner therapeutischen Wirkung. Das tut im Herzen gut. Nachdem das Singen beendet ist, ist es üblich zusammen zu sitzen und etwas deutsches Bier oder Wein vor Ort zu Trinken. Man spricht über das Konzert, reißt Witze oder diskutiert über private Angelegenheiten , wenn man Lust hat.

Wenn man sich so einem Verein verpflichtet hat, lernt man alles über sein Dorf und dessen Leute kennen.

Man sagt, wenn drei Deutsche zusammen kommen gründen sie einen Verein. Und so war es, als vor 75 Jahren ein Gesangverein versuchte die alten Lieder zu retten. In Buchenbach gründeten sie den Verein Edelweiss und ein Motto ist: “Wir amüsieren uns zu Tode.” Ein Gesangverein ist ein Ort, wo man unterhalten wird, in dem Sie über Ihre Probleme mit Ihrem Gesang Kameraden sprechen und sich gegenseitig helfen. So war es seit Generationen, und diese Tradition wurde fortgesetzt. Zum Beispiel, wenn mein Freund Klaus Sütterle einen Teil seines alten Haus renovieren will, fragt er nur jemand aus dem Verein in einem der sozialen Trinkgelage nach Hilfe und schon ist bereits alles im Gange, ganz ohne Bürokratie. Es ist eine Politik des Gebens und Nehmens, wie in den alten Tagen.

Viele suchen nach einem Grund im Leben. Durch die Texte der Lieder und der Prozess des zusammen Singens im Chor hilft in der Gemeinde und dieses Handeln wiederum führt zu Begegnungen und Austausch von Ideen und Spaß am Leben.

Die Texte tragen dazu bei, die Werte, die in dieser technischen Welt verloren gehen zu erhalten, wenn Arbeit entfällt, Plätze wegrationalisiert werden und die Angst vor dem Verlust des Arbeitsplatzes steigt. Das hängt über dem Kopf wie das Schwert des Damokles. In einem Gesangverein ist es üblich seine Sorgen und sein Glück zu teilen, mit einander zu reden und sich einzuladen. Es gibt sicherlich eine Menge Vorzüge und Vorteile Mitglied in einem Verein oder Club zu sein.

Ich persönlich denke, es gibt nichts Besseres für die Seele, als laut zu singen, ein Gedicht laut zu rezitieren, weil wir alle mit einer Stimme ausgestattet sind, mit der wir eine Melodie erzeugen können. Wenn du mit anderen zusammen singst beginnst du zu realisieren, wie gut man singt, so verbessern Sie dann Ihre Stimme, Atmung und sozialen Fähigkeiten. In einem Chor können Sie Alltagsstress loswerden, kreativ sein und sich einen positiven Stress machen, anstatt einer negativen Stressbelastung zu erliegen.

Man hat immer ein Gefühl der Hochstimmung, wenn der letzte Akkord erklingt. Ah, das Singen bereitet soviel Freude. Statt deprimierender, frustrierender Gedanken, haben Sie positive Bilder und Gefühle, und entwickeln die Kraft in Ihrer Stimme mit Elan und wachsen mit dem Lied. Sie machen Musik mit Ihren Stimmen. Man sieht nur lächelnde Gesichter und so lächelt man zurück. Dieses Gefühl ist ansteckend. Man knüpft Kontakte zu Anderen vor und hinter der Bühne. Wenn Sie allein und traurig sind, singen und jubeln Sie sich froh. Ihr Gesang erheitert auch andere und Sie sind sozial integriert, bevor Sie es realisieren. Plötzlich singen Sie bei Konzerten alte, deutsche und neue, englische Lieder die bei Jung und Alt bekannt sind.

Singen hilft Hemmungen und soziale Barrieren abzubauen und führt zu einer Gemeinsamkeit unter den Menschen. Es gibt ein Miteinander, statt Vorurteile und Egoismus. Sie tun etwas für die Anderen und erwarten deshalb nicht, dass jemand etwas für sie tut. Sie teilen ihre Freude. Durch die Lieder bringen wir unsere Gefühle des Glücks und der Freude, der Trauer und des Leids zum Ausdruck. Wir erfreuen uns und finden Trost in den Texten der Lieder und lassen uns mitreissen von der überragenden Wirkung sakraler Musik. Durch das Singen werden Hormone wie Endorphine und Epinephrine (Adrenalin) freigesetzt. Das ist gut für den Kreislauf und fördert die Gesundheit.

Unter den Sängern haben wir Sprichwort.

Wo man singt da lass Dich nieder, böse Menschen kennen keine Lieder.

Das ist genau das was ich gemacht habe. Ein wunderbarer Ort auf dieser Erde, dieser Schwarzwald.

Herzlich Willkommen im Schwarzwald! Welcome to the Black Forest!

CATMANDU, FREIBURG & OTHER POEMS (Satis Shroff)

FREIBURG, CATMANDU & OTHER POEMS (SATIS SHROFF)

FREIBURG AND CATMANDU (Satis Shroff)

Freiburg: the finest spire in Christendom,

Which bombs couldn’t destroy

In two Great Wars.

Old men pulled carts with their belongings,

Along the cobbled Kaiser-Joseph-Strasse.

Women were taken to dances,

By African American GIs.

Children received chocolates.

‘Hallo Fräulein!’ did the rounds,

In poverty-stricken, ramshackled Germany.

The GIs returned years later to admire

The splendour of cities they’d bombed.

The Fräuleins were elderly ladies now,

Who frequented posh cafes, operas and lectures.

Catmandu: the all-seeing-eyes

Of the primordeal Buddha,

Still welcomes visitors

From around the globe.

The hippies have long left

This cannabis paradise of yore.

Its hotels and trekking lodges offer

Western food galore,

And fast-climbs for dudes and nerds

To Everest.

The Gurkhas still die under foreign skies,

For the Queen of England.

The Sherpas and porters carry the sahib’s loads,

Suffer from acute-mountain-sickness,

Or still die as unsung heroes,

As Tigers of the Snow.

The children still beg in its strets

Or work in shady backrooms,

Of outsourced fashion firms.

Cat Stevens sings as Yusuf even today.

* * * *

THE DANCE OF THE BIRCH TREES (Satis Shroff)

The naked white birch trees

Stand close to each other,

Waiting for the music

Of the Dreisam Valey wind

To begin.

A gust comes,

Followed by another,

Making the trees sway,

Like a wise white woman’s long tresses,

The thin, supple twigs

That almost reach half the size of the trees,

Have a faster rhythm of their own.

The hurricane-like wind

Gathers its energy for the finale.

Ah, the upper branches

With capillary-like twigs,

As they anastomose,

Developing into a canopy,

Become intensive

In their movements to and fro.

In the background you see

The blue Black Forest hills,

With homesteads like dots

On the snow-covered hillsides,

That are lit now.

The blueish-grey clouds which were on the move,

Have taken a prussian blue hue.

A weak yellowish light,

Manages to break through,

Above the snowy-clad peaks.

A semblance of a sunset

In the Schwarzwald.

* * *

A TRAIN JOURNEY (Satis Shroff)

A screaming train,

Billowing smoke and sparks,

As it reaches Ghoom hill,

Descends to Darjeeling

Looping its way to lessen its speed.

What unfurls is a memorable Bergblick:

The majestic panorama of the snown peaks,

The Kanchenjunga in all its splendour.

The summits like a jeweled crown,

Bathed in golden, yellow and orange light.

A moment of revelation in life,

Shared on a particular evening,

As the sun goes down slowly,

The mountain range is glowing,

A Himalayan glow.

A feast for the eyes of the beholder,

The play of lights

Evoked by the dying sun,

Upon the massif.

* * *

MY MOM’S GARDEN (Satis Shroff)

THERE’S a microcosmos

In my Mom’s garden.

I hear her calling my name.

No, it isn’t the ‘sh’ of Sanskrit,

Nor the ‘sch’ of the Alemannic tongue.

It’s a Nepalese accent from the hills.

A French lass prounced it

With an Alsatian lash.

My Mom loved and grew roses.

In Summer the fragrant aroma

Of the pink and red roses,

Worked like aphrodiciacs.

She grew cabbages, salads and lentils,

Took delight in her abundance.

Sparrows flew around busily in summer,

Swallows flew low in winter.

Between June till September,

The torrential monsoon.

A parrot ith red eyes whirrs by,

Brings the day to an end.

The trees, shrubs and flowers are thankful

Towards Indra who has sent rain.

After Dad’s tragic demise,

She lives in an apartment in the capital.

No garden, just salbei and a few flowers

On the window sill,

As she prays to the Gods

In the Abode of the Snows.

* * *

WIN THE DAY (Satis Shroff)

WHEN you withhold yourself

You become weak,

For it is you yourself,

Who does this to yourself.

Give in,

Surrender to yourself

And you have won the day.

* * *

STORM IN THE NIGHT (Satis Shoff)

I walke up and peer from my cosy room.

The trembling waves shatter noisily,

With the ebb and the tide.

The frowning cumuli gather in the vast sky.

It’s raining and the waves become choppy,

Trawlers are tossed like logs

By the furious water.

The waves thrash on the cliffs,

Which stand to attention

Like sentinels as the war rages,

The krieg of the elements.

Oblivious of the storm in the night,

I take refuge under my warm blanket,

At the seaside hotel Mon Bijou

In the isle of Sylt.

* * *

MAN’S FOLLEY (Satis Shroff)

Bloody colonial migrations in the West,

Blood feuds between white settlers

Versus the Native Sons of America.

Greed-driven ranchers and gunslingers,

Fighting for land and water rights.

This was how the west was won.

Rights?

The rights of the native Americans?

Or the rights of the invading European grabbers?

The Spirit of the Wild West goes marching on.

America is yet struggling with itself.

The clash of haves and have-nots,

The greed for power of the white mainstream,

The conflict of skin and Social Darwinism

Still spills over in Ferguson,

Mother Earth watches over Man’s folley.

* * *

THE ADMONITION (Satis Shroff)

The motley mother moth

Warns the young butterfly:

‘Beware of the candle’s

Flickering flame.’

The frolicking butterfly replies:

‘It’s so warm and fascinating.’

Golder, flickering flame,

Spending warmth, light and music.

It enjoys the dance,

As the circling wings sway,

And the inaudible music

Reaches its crescendo.

Flying around the burning candle,

In a trance like a Dervish dancer.

In its merry ecstatic rounds

It forgets the words,

And is singed by the flame,

When a boy opens the window.

A frail frivolous butterfly

That didn’t heed,

The warning of an elderly moth.

Wasn’t the admonition

Of Daedalus the same?

* * *

THE UNKRAUT (Satis Shroff)

On the fields are the traces

Of harvested maize.

Where the tender flowers were,

There are now brown, russet leaves,

Scattered by the wind,

From the Vale of Hell.

The leaves that gave joy

In their autumnal gaiety,

Now strewn upon the earth,

To be thrashed by the rain,

Trodden by feet in trekking boots.

An elderly lady on high heels

Wobbles and breaks her dainty femur,

Over the treacherous unkraut.

The lady is picked up

By an ambulance from the Maltese Cross.

The leaves remain to rot.

No one bothers,

As cars speed to and from

The Black Forest.

* * *

MERRY TAVERNS (Satis Shroff)

There are taverns in the hamlet,

Where the wine and beer

Make men merry,

And women in deep decolltes,

Cast glances;

Moving their eyelashes.

I leave them to themselves,

As I flee and shun them.

My heart wants Ruhe,

I’m dying of pain,

Of longing for you.

* * *

YEARNING (Satis Shroff)

Women are like flowers:

Jasmine, tulips,

Rhododendrons and roses.

But need you pluck everyone?

How wonderful to admire them,

Take delight at watching them,

As they bloom and wilt.

I see the Schwarzwald stream,

With its refreshing cold water,

Therein I see my countenance,

A pale man with white sideburns.

Then I see you,

A peaceful mind overwhelms me.

My heart begins to glow

With yearning for you.

* * *

ENDURING PAIN (Satis Shroff)

Nights I wake up

With terrible pain;

Don’t know where to turn.

Despite the potions from the apothecary,

Capsules from novasulfon, tincture opii,

Pancreas powder with amylase,

Lipase, protease,

Oxalis mixture, hyoscyamus,

Valeriana cocktail,

Depotspritze,

Rounded up with Lormetazepam.

I’m in Schmerz.

I kept a stiff upper lip,

When the chirurg solemnly said:

‘Your tumor is like an iceberg,

We only see the top.

Below it’s growing wantonly.

I’m afraid I can’t operate.

If we begin we’ll never end.

Too many mines in this battlefield.’

I’d been brooding after the computer tomography.

I didn’t wince.

I was in shock.

The realisation of the diagnosis

Sank slowly in my mind.

I decided to make the best of it.

No use reeling under

The shattering words.

When will my anatomical ruin fall?

That wasn’t my problem.

Till then I had time to live,

Every day to the full,

With my senses,

With my thoughts and words.

To borrow a line from John Keats:

‘The poetry of earth is ceasing never.’

The beauty and delight of living

Far exceeds the pain from a tumor,

As big as a fist.

* * *

SNOW IN KAPPEL (Satis Shroff)

At 2 o’ clock in the morning,

I look out of my window:

It’s snowing in Kappel,

In the Schwarzwald.

I see the white snowflakes,

Falling ceaselessly, silently, stealthily,

Made visible by the dim yellowish treet lamp.

A car comes crunching down the curve,

Its red rear-lights glowing.

The rooftops and house railings are covered,

As with powder sugar.

The clouds are veiled,

And Heaven has become frosty.

Ah, I sleep and wake up again,

To find the lovely hamlet

Ringed with hills and meadows,

Covered with a thick mantle of snow.

Dazzling whiteness where you look.

On such a Sunday morning,

I take my snowspade,

To clear the winding stairs:

For common courtesy demands

That passersby shouldn’t slip and fall,

On the street before your house.

We all have to kehr,

Lest others despair.

The shepherd from the Molchhofsiedlung

Has left the once-green meadows,

His hundred sheep don’t bleat anymore,

Below Maier’s Hill.

With my snow-chores done,

Followed by a hearty Black Forest breakfast,

I take a brisk morning walk,

Over the snow-clad landscape,

Respire and enjoy the refreshing Bergluft. Posted on November 18, 2020 · Edit

machhapuchare: the fish-tailed one (satis shroff)

the fish-tailed one (satisshroff, freiburg)

your eyes never tire of watching

the different moods

of the fish-tailed one in pokhara.

at dawn, noon and dusk.

this majestic peak,

this sacred mountain of the gurung folk,

who live below it,

and revere this towering peak.

no foreign boots are allowed

to trample this path,

and climb to the peak.

climbers have respected this wish

of the gurung folk.

but the khumbu sherpas,

who are lured by dollars,

offer incense sticks and tormas,

to please, bribe and pacify the gods.

tourism dictates and the locals follow.

enabling global climbers to trudge

over sacred mountains.

no, these moneyed people

don’t worship the mountains,

they worship their egos.

climbing is a conversation piece:

look I climbed everest,

it’s on youtube and facebook.

i made it to the top of the world.

ICH-ICH-ICH.

I did it.

others who weren’t so lucky,

will turn up in a moraine,

years later as stiff corpses.

©satisshroff, freiburg, germany Posted on October 4, 2019 · Edit

SCHWARZWALD POEMS: SATIS SHROFF

ALPINE GRATITUDE (Satis Shroff)

The hamlets are scattered,
Tucked away in the side valleys and spurs
Of the Black Forest,
Which was once dark and foreboding.
A forest that once conjoured myths, legends
And fairy tales.
Under the hay and homesteads,
You find men and mice,
Good natured maids and children,
Healthy and happy cows, goats,
Sheep and swines.
The Schwarzwald farmers paid low taxes,
For Nature punished them enough.
They couldn’t get rich on the craggy soil,
The high elevation and the long, raw winter.
Yet the Black Forest forced the soil,
To yield millet in Summer,
Wheat and barley,
Buried beneath a thick mantle of snow.
Ah, it’s already past the month of October,
The young calves are in the stalls,
After a colourful, traditional walk
From the higher alpine meadows.
There’s corn in the chamber,
Feed for the animals in the barns.
Around Freiburg the apple trees,
Are laden heavily with apples.
Your nostrils smell apple mixed with cinnamon and sugar:
Applekompott, apple moos, apple pancakes and pies.
* * *

FEATHERED FRIENDS (Satis Shroff)

A pair of binocs and patience
Is all you need.
Watching our feathered friends
In the garden or the Black Forest.

Hush! A steglitz with red and white feathers,
Has just come by.
Some pigeons have left Freiburg
And roost on the pine trees,
In the urban outskirts.

The blaumeise is a frequent guest,
With its black streak across the eyes,
And the blue feathered cap it wears.

Yesterday was sunny
And a robin took a speedy bath,
On the stone pool,
Ever on guard,
Lest it be surprised,
By a curious jay or a prowling cat.

Now and then you hear the zaunkönig,
Europe’s smallest bird,
Trilling out loud,
Grabbing everyone’s attention.

But in the evening,
When the sun goes down,
It’s time for the loveliest melodies,
Sung by the blackbird,
From my neighbour’s rooftop.

©satisshroff

Glossary:
Steglitz: goldfinch
Blaumeise: blue tit
Zaunkönig: wren
Blackbird: Amsel

• * * *

CHIRPS IN MY GARDEN (Satis Shroff)

Ach,
To lie in bed
And listen to the birds sing.
I peer at the pine trees above,
Heavily laden with fluffy snow,
Like sentinels of the Black Forest.

I espy something moving:
Three deer with moist black noses,
Sniffing the Kappler air,
Strut among the low bushes
In all their elegance,
Only to vanish silently,
Into the recesses of the Foret Noir.

I hear the robin,
Rotkehlchen,
With its clear, loud, pearly tone,
As it greets the day.
Just before sunrise the black bird,
Amsel,
Which flies high on the tree tops,
Delivers its early arias.
The great titmouse stretches its wings
And starts to sing.

The brown sparrows turn up
With their repertoire,
Rap in the garden,
Twitter and chirp aloud.
All this noise makes the bullfinch alert,
For it also wants to be heard.
It starts its high pitched melody
With gusto in the early hours.

The starling clears its throat:
What comes is whistles,
Mingled with smacking sounds.
The woodpecker,
Specht,
Isn’t an early bird,
Starts its day late.
Pecks with its beak,
At a hurried tempo.

If that doesn’t get you out of your bed,
I’m sure you’re on holiday,
Or thank God it’s Sunday.
Other feathered friends
Who frequent our Black Forest house,
Are the green finch, the jay,
Goldfinch which we call ‘Stieglitz,’
Larks, thrush and the oriole,
The Bird of the Year,
On rare occasions.

Glossary:
English, German, Latin names
Robin (Rotkehlchen): Erithacus rubecula
Black bird (Amsel): Turdus merula
Titmouse (Kohlmeise): Parus major
Bullfinch (Rotfinke):
Greenfinch (jay): Chloris chloris
Starling: Sturnus vulgaris
Woodpecker (Specht):
Stieglitz: Carduelis carduelis
Oriole: Oriolus oriolus

* * *

SUMMER DELIGHTS IN THE SCHWARZWALD (Satis Shroff)

I sat in the garden
With Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure
On my lap,
And saw a small butterfly
With dark spots on its frail wings,
Violet patterns on its tail.
It was Aglais utricae
Flattering lightly
Between the marigolds
And chrysanthemums.

The Potentilla nepalensis
Was growing well
Under the shade of the rhododendrons.
The great pumpkin was spreading
Its leafy tentacles everywhere.
The tomatoes were fighting for light
Hiding beneath its gigantic green leaves.

I removed long, brown snails,
A hobby-gardener of Nepalese descent,
In a lovely white house
With character in Freiburg-Kappel,
An Allemanic stronghold.

Once the subject of dispute
Between Austria and France,
Now a sleepy residential area
Of Freiburg im Breisgau.

* * *

SATIS SHROFF Freiburg GERMANY

Satis Shroff is a writer and poet based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) who also writes on ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He writes regularly for https://satisshroff.medium.com, www.boloji.com/writers/1338/satis, and also www.spillwords.com/author/satisshroff. https:// sound.cloud.com/satis.shroff. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Science in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and Manchester.

He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize. He has worked as a lecturer in Basle (Switzerland) and Freiburg (Germany).

Writing experience: Satis Shroff has written two language books on the Nepalese language for DSE (Deutsche Stiftung für Entwicklungsdienst) & Horlemannverlag. He has written three feature articles in the Munich-based Nelles Verlag’s ‘Nepal’ on the Himalayan Kingdom’s Gurkhas, sacred mountains and Nepalese symbols and on Hinduism in ‘Nepal: Myths & Realities (Book Faith India) and his poem ‘Mental Molotovs’ was published in epd-Entwicklungsdienst (Frankfurt) . He has written many articles in The Rising Nepal, The Christian Science Monitor, the Independent, the Fryburger, Swatantra Biswa (USIS publication, Himal Asia, 3Journal Freiburg. Also read his poems, articles in www.yahoo & www.google search under: author satis shroff.

What others have said about the author:

Brilliant, I enjoyed your poems thoroughly. I can hear the underlying German and Nepali thoughts within your English language. The strictness of the German mixed with the vividness of your Nepalese mother tongue. An interesting mix.

Nepal is a jewel on Earth’s surface, her majesty and charm should be protected, and yet exposed with dignity through words. You do your country justice and I find your bicultural understanding so unique and a marvel to read.

(Review by Heidi Poudel on Writer’s Den)

‘Satis Shroff writes political poetry — about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. In writing ‘home, ‘ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing thus is also a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.’ (Sandra Sigel, poetess, Germany)

‘Die Schilderungen von Satis Shroff in ‘Through Nepalese Eyes’ sind faszinierend und geben uns die Möglichkeit, unsere Welt mit neuen Augen zu sehen.’ (Alice Grünfelder, Unionsverlag / Limmat Verlag, Zürich) .

‘Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace.’ (Bruce Dobler, Associate Professor in Creative Writing, MFA University of Iowa) .

BOOKS BY SATIS SHROFF:

A travelogue: https://www.kobo.com/ww/en/ebook/through-nepalese-eyes

An anthology of poems and prose: https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/satisle

Just google for: satis shroff in case you want to know more.