Sandy Volmer-Malisheva Interview, dark poems between everyday life and the abyss | Interview

We met Sandy through social media. Her writing is dark, vivid, and direct. And then there is the contrast that makes it even more striking: she works as a local delivery truck driver. That mix of everyday routine on the road and intense poetry caught our attention immediately. We reached out to Sandy, she answered openly, and this interview is the result, including a small selection of her poems.

Content note: This interview includes references to abuse and violence.

Niflheim Records: Sandy, thanks for your time. Could you introduce yourself briefly?

S: I should be the one thanking YOU for your interest and your feedback.

A quick note about me:

I am 48 years young, with the emphasis on “young”. At heart I got stuck somewhere in my 20s to 30s. I was born in Thuringia, but I have lived in North Rhine-Westphalia for 15 years, and I have been driving a truck in local delivery work for 5 years (my employer made this dream come true). I like literature and natural sciences.

Visually speaking, I see myself like a book. The cover is colorful, friendly, helpful, and walks through the world laughing. The pages are dark and melancholic, and the cover both protects them on one side and imprisons them on the other.

My poems mainly fall into three areas:

• My past (shaped by childhood abuse and a marriage marked by violence)

• My dark side, which I would like to live out, but cannot

• Thoughts and stories that shake me up

POEM (Original German)

Der Frühling steigt, die Knospen sprießen

Das Blütenkleid ist noch so schlicht

Genieß der Sonne zarte Wärme

Bemerk des Gärtners Kommen nicht.

Tritt zu mir her, bleibt steh'n ganz nahe

Greift seine Kanne, macht mich nass

Wo Liebe war für Licht und Sonne

Pflanzt er nun Samen voller Hass.

Er wirkt erlöst, die Augen glasig

er lächelt kalt, ist sehr beglückt

Ich war ein Kind, jetzt fall'n schon Blätter

Bleib gebrochen hier zurück.

Die Wurzel konnt er nicht zerstören

Ich richt mich auf, streb hin zum Licht

Das Blütenkleid trägt dunkle Farben

Die Seele tot, der Körper nicht.

Der Gärtner kam noch viele Male

Nahm aller Farben stillen Glanz

Brach Blätter mir, zerstört die Wurzel

Tod meiner Kindheit voll und ganz.

English (prose translation, focused on imagery, not rhyme)

Spring rises, buds begin to bloom.

The flower dress is still plain.

I enjoy the sun’s gentle warmth

and do not notice the gardener approaching.

He comes close, stays near,

grabs his watering can and drenches me.

Where there used to be love for light and sun,

he now plants seeds filled with hate.

He looks redeemed, his eyes glassy.

He smiles coldly, pleased.

I was a child, and now the leaves already fall.

I remain here, broken.

He could not destroy the root.

I straighten up, reaching toward the light.

The flower dress now carries dark colors,

the soul is dead, the body is not.

The gardener came many times,

taking away the quiet shine of all colors.

He broke my leaves, destroyed the root,

the death of my childhood completely and entirely.

NR: You spend a lot of time on the road as a truck driver. What does that life do to you, mentally and emotionally?

S: Driving a truck is my absolute dream job.

I enjoy the freedom and independence, and also the fact that I can be alone. I can hardly stand having walls around me. I can listen to my favorite music all day (especially Rammstein and Till Lindemann). That helps me keep my thoughts under control most of the time. But in the truck, a lot of ideas for my poems also come up.

NR: Do you write differently when you are on the road compared to when you are at home? What changes?

S: I write my poems exclusively at home. When I’m driving, I don’t have the time for it. But my inner world while driving is different from being at home. When I am alone, I go much deeper into my emotional world. I’m a very emotional person and I ride a daily rollercoaster of feelings. I try to carry that into my poems.

NR: Take us into the moment when a poem begins for you. Where are you, what is happening, what triggers it?

S: For me, it only takes a single thought to start a poem. I hold on to that thought until I have the chance to write it down. Then the lines flow on their own. A certain structure forms in my head. Rhymes take shape without me thinking about it much. The only important thing is to write it down before the chaos in my head explodes.

NR: When you work on your texts, what matters most to you, imagery, rhythm, harshness, atmosphere, story, or something else?

S: I think it’s a mix of everything. Imagery, atmosphere, and story are especially important to me. I try to convey the pictures in my head, to let others see what I see and feel what I feel. I consciously do not write love poems. My world is different, in my mind and also in my heart. That’s why my poems have a certain harshness. I write rhythmically mainly for clarity and intensity.

POEM (Original German)

Verloren sie im Leben steht

Der Hass ihr stets entgegen weht

Vertraut sie weder Mensch noch Tier

Verschlossen ist die Seelentür

Der Teufel kommt mit sanfter Miene

Und lockt sie auf die falsche Schiene

Mit falscher Stimme er verkündet,

Das sie bei ihm Erlösung findet.

Nach einem Trank, den er gemacht.

Im Düsterwald sie nackt erwacht

Der volle Mond am Himmel strahlt

Und sie mit seinem Licht bemalt.

Die Angst aus ihren Augen springt

Ein Kreis aus Hexen tanzt und singt

Beschwörungsformeln und noch mehr

Der Satans Lenden beben schwer.

Festgeschnallt auf kaltem Stein

Der Teufel viele, sie allein

Als Opfer wird sie dar gebracht

Ihr Schrei verklingt in dunkler Nacht.

English (prose translation, focused on imagery, not rhyme)

Lost in life, she stands there.

Hate blows against her again and again.

She trusts neither human nor animal.

The door of her soul is locked.

The devil comes with a gentle expression

and lures her onto the wrong track.

With a false voice he claims

she will find salvation with him.

After a drink he has made,

she wakes up naked in a dark forest.

The full moon shines in the sky

and paints her in its light.

Fear leaps from her eyes.

A circle of witches dances and sings,

chanting spells and more,

while Satan’s loins tremble heavy.

Strapped to cold stone,

the devil has many, she is alone.

She is brought as an offering,

her scream fades into the dark night.

NR: How much of “you” is in your poems, and how much is a figure or a mask?

S: My poems are 100 percent “me”. It’s my way of dealing with my past, my dark inner self, and my emotional world. Since I don’t have anyone I can talk to openly about everything, I write. That way I can at least let go of part of my thoughts.

NR: Are there topics or images where you stop because it gets too close, too harsh, too personal?

S: In the beginning there were limits. Either because it hit too close, then I sometimes cried heavily while writing and or became angry and aggressive toward myself, or because I didn’t dare to write that openly. But after I took that first step further, it became much easier. Now there are hardly any limits.

NR: What should people take away after reading a poem of yours, a punch in the gut, an image in their mind, a pull, an echo, or something else?

S: I have to be honest, the idea of making my poems accessible to others only came up recently. I let my son (16) read a few lighter ones. So far only very few people know my style of writing, and everyone encourages me to publish. Some poems may shock, create terrible images in the mind, or feel like a punch. But that is my world, my innermost self, my thoughts, my “me”.

Of course I also hope they linger and make people think. There are so many topics that are kept quiet and yet are daily reality. I myself feel trapped by expectations and restrictions. Like a bird in a cage that cannot fully unfold.

POEM (Original German)

Vorne flach wie auf dem Rücken

Bei weitem noch nicht reif zum Pflücken

Der Körper taub, ein Herz das brach

Als der Dorn des Teufels stach

Das Leben nun von Schmerz umringt

Kleine Seele schwebt zum Wind.

Gequälte Puppen, schmerzend Hände

Mit Blut verschmiert des Kerkers Wände

Weiter wachsen, Narben heilen

Und wieder wird es mich ereilen.

Noch nicht erwachsen, nicht mehr Kind

Zum Sturme wird der tragend Wind.

Die Sehnsucht, die aus Leid geboren

Erdrückt mich völlig ungeschoren

Lädt mich zu neuem Unglück ein

Lässt mich gemeinsam einsam sein.

Des Teufels Dorn das Fleisch erpresst

Herz und Seele sterben lässt.

English (prose translation, focused on imagery, not rhyme)

Flat in front, like on the back,

far from ripe enough to be picked.

The body numb, a heart that broke

when the devil’s thorn struck.

Life now surrounded by pain,

a small soul drifting into the wind.

Tortured dolls, aching hands,

the dungeon walls smeared with blood.

Keep growing, scars heal,

and yet it will catch up with me again.

Not yet an adult, no longer a child,

the carrying wind turns into a storm.

Longing born from suffering

crushes me completely,

invites me into new misfortune,

and leaves me together, yet alone.

The devil’s thorn squeezes the flesh,

lets heart and soul die.

NR: Where can people follow you?

S: Instagram and TikTok are both under my full name.

Thank you, Sandy

Sandy didn’t only share poems with us, she also spoke openly about what is behind her writing. If her words hit you or stay with you, that is exactly the point: not to look away, but to look straight at what many prefer to keep silent.