Who was I?
Who was I?

Who was I before I forgot your face?
Who was I before I forgot your name?
Who was I before?
My mother’s face, my father’s face, my brother’s face.
Mother Earth, Father Sky, Brother Wind.
Uya – Uya – Uya – Uhhhh
Mother Earth, Father Sky, Brother Wind return to me,
Uya – Uya – Uya-
Pure sound come back to me,
So I can be,
who I was,
before I forgot your name

The O – the M – the A – the YA –
The OM MAYA

2011

– –

Poems chosen from an anthology of poems called ‘For Crying Out Loud – Voice of an Exile’, published early 2016.

Bettina

Bettina John von Freyend-Peterseil was born at the end of the 2nd World War in Germany. She exiled herself early on, travelling the world, never able to settle anywhere for long. She now lives in the West of Ireland, where she and her husband built their home, raised their children and tended the land. She has been teaching, writing and in the past 15 years creating her collage work.

The poetry compilation ‘For Crying Out Loud- voice of an exile’ comes at a time when globally people are forced to move on a large scale. Bettina offers a personal account of the mindset of a self imposed exile. She reveals her disconnection and her longing to belong mirroring a world also steeped in separation.

Ouevre

How do you make green?

Poetry by Bettina

In school they threw her out of painting class. She was useless at colours, she says. Her face is wrinkled now. Her frame has shrunk to the size of a...
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Lakishma 2

Poetry by Bettina

I have grown old and tired. My hair turned white over years of longing and reaching for Lakishma. I have looked for Lakishma around every corner and beneath every stone....
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I’ve tried to run

Poetry by Bettina

I’ve tried to run from suburb to city, to mountains and sea, from father and mother to husband, son and daughter. I hold memories of passing moments like clouds, dissolving,...
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Anthology

Ink

Poetry by Simran

Speak, sing, write, act Till your voice can no more And your face can’t twitch a muscle And your hand cramps and becomes sore With blisters and splotches of ink...
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Genuine praise

Poetry by Maura Horkan

What is my way to praise? To turn towards my one who hates This part of me that gives up and lies down and accepts death so easily I say...
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