love poems
1984-1995
Texts: François Maher Presley
Sculptures: Iris Rousseau, Homepage
Oil paintings: Petr Wiesner
Editor: David-A. Eschrich
1st edition October 2010
Paperback, 88 pages, 21 x 26 cm,
4 colors, approx. 40 images
Price: 6.80 EUR | Order
from the content
your kisses tasted very sweet
when our lips touched
my wish was certain
that we belonged to each other
I then thought
what is it nice not to be alone
I then believed
that we loved each other we both loved
a ray of sun fell on my face
and the mirror showed me
that i was an old toy
07/18/1985
Opinions
Poems written by a seventeen to twenty year old - romantic dreams? No! One observes his environment and writes the experiences and experiences from his soul; with a world in which love and understanding are absent and where violence, war and consumption prevail. Melancholy complaints about the person who bypasses his life. A young person's reflections on the victory of sexuality and the fleeting experience of real human relationships and encounters.
Christoph Stillemunkes, cultural policy advisor
In the meantime I have had the opportunity to look through your new volume of poetry. The love poemsare a very appealing volume in which texts, paintings and sculptures are harmoniously combined. Peter Wiesner's paintings appear realistic and unreal at the same time; he is, you could say, a master of fine nuances.
Every reader will soon have his or her preferences among your texts; I would have to name several, let's say "Lanzarote in the gray of the morning": "... when the dark still swallowed the light with its last strength | swallowed the light" ... Very visual and tangible! Or the poem "awaken" (already known to me from the work diary), whereby it should be emphasized that what is ordinary for us, which is not worth mentioning in our reflection on our everyday life, because it is so omnipresent and can be repeated every day at every step, In explicit words, only flat reality or abstraction can be: rows of houses, lights, street canyons that fly past in reflective retrospect like a taxi ride where only the goal counts, which, when it is reached, becomes nothing because a new destination is approaching takes his place. Only the dream or the memory, in any case: distance from everyday life, can enable the inhabitant of the "big city" to express his environmental experience with color and feeling in such a way that he goes beyond the obvious consumption of his present - he is raised to consume from an early age - can make plastic, tangible points of memory articulate. And you write - according to the creation date, after all in the German city: "... and the hour is running out | I'm not a parking meter ..." Yes, that's the way it is, city life, everything is somehow always measured, counted, appraised , consumed, something is constantly happening, little has a liberating effect, stepping out hardly seems possible - see the "dead ends" - one can evade this urge to regulate, which the dense coexistence forces, on a vacation; for too short a while. Or make yourself comfortable in it, love lets houses and streets that you haven't seen before shine again ... for a while at least ...
Your poems are often a bit melancholy. Well, something. Dr. Matthias H. Rauert, publisher, Hungary
