Weißbirke & two other new poems by Henry Bladon


Ich wurde in Deutschland geboren.
Mönchengladbach was where I was born,
so why wouldn’t I have an affinity to the place?

I rode my bike round to Lilienthal Strasse
because there was a girl who lived there
who I thought was beautiful,

so I waited outside her house
just in case she came out.

Lilienthal was a famous pilot.
They called him ‘the flying man.’

This girl’s house was opposite
the silver birch tree (Weißbirke)
that I had tried to climb one time
and from the branches of which
I tumbled to the ground,
causing me to bite my tongue,
spitting blood all the way home.

I can’t recall the girl’s name,
but I do remember that she
told me her mum thought I was weird.

I have forgiven the tree. I love a silver birch.


  • ache
  • rub
  • gel
  • cry
  • drill
  • pull
  • bleed
  • gap
  • relief


I long for sleep, but I’ve seen three o’clock in the morning more times than I care to recall.
It’s that valley of the night where lost people gather and follow their spirits, trying to find a route away from the darkness.

Henry Bladon.  is based in Somerset in the UK. He is a writer of short fiction and poetry and teaches creative writing for therapeutic purposes. He has degrees in psychology and mental health policy, and a PhD in literature and creative writing. His work can be seen in O:JA&L, Forth Magazine, Tuck Magazine, Mercurial Stories, The Ekphrastic Review, and Spillwords Press, among other places.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.