About Nina...
The book, in three parts and covering approximately 500 pages, is about Nina. Born in Latvia at the beginning of the twentieth century, Nina lives through both World Wars and the Russian Revolution, being forced to flee her homeland on three separate occasions. Although her life may be coloured by much tragedy and loss, it is also filled with love and a strange kind of optimism in the face of such repetitive disasters. Her experiences are woven tightly together with the experiences and lives of other family members – a band that spans the entire timeline of the book – and may indicate that it is only through our relationships with others that we have any chance of transcending and possibly transforming the negativity of external events that are beyond our control.
For updates regarding the progress of the book, check this column.
Published poetry books:
"On the Circle"
"Glänsande vitt på blått" |
Poetry, like painting, presents emotions, images and ideas, for which the number of interpretations are equal only to the number of readers. Each image, whether it be described with paint or by words, can never be more than a door opening into a multitude of individual worlds.
Dreams
Falling from one reality
Through darkness
Into another
Through tunnels
Twisting and turning
Spewed out in a world
Where black and white
Are all colours
And I am no longer
Only me
But both you and them
And time is irrelevant.
© Diane 2010
In Memoriam
Standing uncertainly in
small black groups
remembering
a present that could only
ever be a past
contemplating the void
that might have been
a future.
© Diane 2007
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The House Beyond the Trees
I walked out of the house, closing the door behind me. The noise echoed backwards in time, through empty rooms with timber floors and high ceilings. In one of the top rooms, a white curtain moved in the breeze, in front of a window not properly closed. The bushes along the stone path – their long branches covered with shiny green leaves – brushed against my bare arms. Somewhere, a tree, growing too close to the house, scraped against the wall with a sharp, long drawn–out sound.
At the gate, I lifted the heavy, iron clasp and opened it. My heart was beating with the anticipation of escape and the terror of being discovered this close to freedom. The sun had disappeared behind clouds, and there was a smell of rain in the air. I looked up and down the country road; there was no one to be seen.
Should I leave the gate open or should I close it? For a brief moment, I wondered, while cold sweat ran down my neck. I could see some trees further down the road and, beyond, smoke sketching a hazy pattern against darkening clouds.
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