In the flames I distinguished many strange and ambiguous forms. But I remained among the voluminous archives. I had to write my memoirs in German—Ist Welt die Probe?—again and again. Elsewhere in the darkness, a messianic little devil was screaming The world is constraint as the words that I wrote were taken apart and put together again, this time as a study of John 2:1. This subconscious vision has shaken my view of the world as singular. So I silence myself in a book of the a. Kurt Waldheim is a formal negotiation. A collective music circles history.
In the ruined remains of the china, one can discern a figured individual in the background of a far field. I have seen him with his basket of soil, a private man, stocky, with a manner that makes conversation an effort. Bridges to the East. I was intrigued by a sentimental touch in the image. In the office I had ample opportunity to observe this piece, obsessed by the idea that it was a figure for life on our planet, which, having reached the abyss of immeasurable outer space, has now come to Earth.
Now I realize that, in the theatres of neutrality, the heart freezes. This is a difficult problem. Everybody watches the wheel as it turns. Apparently incapable of peace and well-being, and unable to draw political conclusions, in the late summer, on the outskirts of a small town to the south, I embraced a new work. It was engendered in my dream. It was built of desire. Experience taught me that, in the final analysis, nothing ends. The first steps must follow.
BOOK THREE
1
It was a forlorn eve,
my descent wintry.
In that foreign midnight,
I sounded
the chanceries of doubt
as day drove up
in an ordinary yellow cab.
To my astonishment,
I seemed to be blindfolded
but the clock
—talk talk—
continuing called me,
a voice ever stranger
in complaint.
With my staff I came
to the first step,
sanguine indeed,
and dressed in a well-cut Western suit
—quite the best I saw on anybody
during my whole stay
in that unstable regime.
There were people in plots
bowing to creation.
Please I protested,
I had not come to stay.
You will go in
said Nobody,
all will be quiet.
I looked down
and could see thousands
crowding into the grounds
—my my—
and climbed into the burial site.
Within the twisted
rows of graves,
the teeth of under,
some spoke of hatred
and some of hope.
Blind, they wept on command,
in wheelchairs,
on crutches,
waving stumps.
It was rather haunting—
the gate of shadows,
the path unlit,
and ahead,
also dark,
an abandoned fortress.
Carried along by the crowd,
our way lit by flashlights
through dim corridors,
I said Citizens,
no no.
Ahead, a door opened.
I recognized the old council
sitting round a table,
some in religious collars,
the atmosphere a court.
Chairing the proceeding,
a tall, bearded figure
uttered a few words in German
for my benefit.
He had lived for a time
and remarked
that I needed
to be dealt with.
Listening quietly,
I tried to avoid
any show of emotion.
This clearly displeased him.
He seemed to expect me
to present my own commentary.
I said in reply
the following,
shaken and uneasy,
the slim thread of truth but little help…
2
I was born into empire,
my crown in poor condition.
A world broke out,
a world drained of weather.
Mother made me
from whatever little was available,
a window,
a magnet—
my my,
I remembered my life—
my father nothing more
than footsteps in a clinic.
War broke out one day.
It sickened me to see such slaughter,
but I liked horses and rank
which led to the army.
To the Far Front
we were called,
and marched
into newsreel footage
without a word—
I continued in Latin,
although they made a point
of stopping me frequently,
under constant surveillance
in that plot we all shared.
We were surrounded—
a squadron of horse,
a squadron of bicycles,
another of motorized weather.
When the rains came,
the call came to fire.
It was desperate work,
a passport to heaven.
Wounded by a splinter,
a serious wound,
by happy chance
mein lieber Freund,
I was evacuated,
my regiment disbanded,
and in a little train
listening to the countryside
I prayed somehow
in a cattle wagon
perched on a crate of apples.
Along the line we stopped
at innumerable stations
whose names we could not read.
We never stopped crying “No.”
Later we reached my house,
the windows blown out,
winter hard by and the farm for sale.
3
In that dream
born of the wretchedness
etched in identity,
I broke down
and was called
into the office of a minister.
He had held the job
since the election of man,
a clandestine Christian
with a gift for friendship.
He said Waldheim,
I believe I believe,
therefore I believe.
That venerable form,
subtle in art,
with cold ruined hand
had written a book
which caused uproar in Eden.
Lower,
look lower.
You speak of reality
under illusions
in an earthy little world turning.
John 1:4
However perhaps
accompanied by me
the Minister went on,
through worlds beyond reason
an adventure in the unreal
might be of interest?
Given the circumstances,
I whispered
There must be some mistake,
I am not expecting any call.
By now the Minister
was going through my portfolio,
and, moved by goodwill,
he commented that the caviar tin
on the table
had been handed
to Saint Bruno
after their work in Italy.
I became red
—not in connection with the heat,
just touched by this gesture—
and told him I could not imagine a better job.
4
Drawing to a close,
he was quiet—
so I said my name
from time to time
&nb
sp; and wondered
whether I sounded
like myself.
The Minister
pointed out a little book.
Looking at the strange pictures—
a black sun,
the Earth seen from inside,
and war in a box—
My my,
such pictures!
A little gallery of being
I thought,
but soon found
unending regions
of consequence
under every image
—fields endless
but visible
behind every field.
So I and the Minister
left for a quest
under this world,
thus seeking
to return home
in new country,
our little joke being
We don't believe
we're making believe—
star fields
prevailing in the East
over the kingdom
as a man considered a pile of bones.
There he was,
blunt Under,
resigned to his post—
a loyal servant
of the world above.
Under had been serving
for some time
and had served perfectly well,
but now
he had perhaps
drunk a glass too many,
as he was known to do on occasion,
for somewhere in the mountains
his wife was looking into her hands
to see once more where Under lived.
In a soft voice he explained
he could no longer return
to his wife and daughter,
because Under now served
in nations of continual shadow.
This beguiling man
said Death is another home,
smiling at my problems
with the world in general,
and particularly personality
—that foreign little whole—
which he advised me to bury completely.
5
Lost in the middle of life
we continued.
It seemed essential
to build a house.
Clouds were gathering.
They perturbed the Minister.
He complained
that I did not believe
in his extraordinary world.
I saw him quiet
those who refused him—
their heads in a privy,
saying Waldheim,
we believe we do not believe…
I could not accept
that they were so many,
and was overcome
on the banks of the canal.
The dead do not cease in the grave
I wrote on a stone
as the Minister,
his voice running out,
said Either go back
or move forward by other means…
Colleagues, I had done some thinking
about Genesis 1:2
and was becoming emotional
so yes, I followed him
with reddish eyes,
a man of words.
Finally the road stopped—
the untoward road,
the road made of blood—
and in the light of the fire
continuing forward
I approached a closed door in the field.
Not of this world,
it nevertheless remained
substantially in place—
stationed in the ruins
of a great stage
under nations.
Opening that door,
I now looked on a dim room
with one empty chair.
In the opposing chair,
broken King If said
Sit down with me.
In his office
under the world,
he expressed concern
at my desire for illusions.
Help me I said.
There was a book
in the office
that I wished to view—
new within
but old without—
In the Middle East of life
it more or less went,
unthinkable to the end.
6
My my
Archbishop A
with his deteriorating wing
regarded the world.
I visited the spirit
there in his august palace.
He complained about the heat
and asked if I would mind
if he took his mitre off.
I agreed and took off my coat.
Whether he really believed
is difficult to say…
Certainly life
burned inside him.
He had composed a few lines
in Greek,
insisting it was only a draft.
My shaky work he called it,
but I had to admire the line
There there.
In Greek I repeated it.
He would look
into the blue overhead
from this private chamber
and praise his own words
with no intention
whatsoever to stop.
Very little could be done,
so I took it upon myself
as cautiously as possible
to cross that phantom out thus
Archbishop A
and took the chair
there there
in disrepair.
There was an eerie silence
at the table.
I tried making
stone men to continue
the discussion.
As evening progressed,
the men unbent—
Good
edging closer
good good…
We spent hours discussing forms.
One had a map of the real
that we later published
in the Times in Latin.
One opened a little clock
and said freedom.
Together
we opened my will
over August wine
poured into new bottles
as one asked
Why don't you smile?
I smiled, and set my spade by.
7
Given early baptism
in a grave
as the Minister described
creation and the fall,
I found fences
all laid down in blood.
How
I cannot say—
they were broken in unity,
deteriorated unity.
Thus continuing,
we looked with little reason
for peace
in utterly black country.
Time had affected the stability
of the western steps.
step step
B004I1KX1S EBOK Page 2