and they made me Honorary President of the Vienna Horticulturist Association
and there was nothing I could do about that
and I went to the Opera ball
and I went to the Heurigen with our National Socialist President
I had performances for refugee children from the Philippines
and for Catholic charities
and I also did special performances
for the Socialist Save The Children Organization
and I bought a mansion in the most fashionable suburb of Vienna
and there was nothing I could do about that either
and finally I even let them make me an honorary member
of the Vienna Burgtheater
and there was nothing I could do about that
and I hired the daughter of the president of the Association of Industrialists
and there was nothing I could do about it
and the Viennese critics had only raves for me
and there was nothing I could do about that Beil
and except for our President who came riding in on his horse in full Wehrmacht uniform
no one came to my funeral
only the critics in gravedigger costumes were there
and our President astride his Macedonian horse in full Wehrmacht uniform
but the papers reported
all of Vienna was at my grave
(suddenly with agitation in his voice, from a vehement urge for an espresso)
Directing means losing one’s way
A German directing in Austria
means having completely lost one’s way
(heads quickly down toward Grinzing valley leaving BEIL behind
running he screams with even more agitation in his voice)
I am telling you
directing is losing one’s way
and the theater is the height of insanity
don’t you think so Beil
(shouts down into the Grinzing valley)
If I didn’t have you
and The Tempest
(after a pause, with a sigh)
The Tempest alone isn’t enough
Richard and The Tempest aren’t enough
it’s all wrong all deadly
Shakespeare forgery Shakespeare forgery
it has to be all of Shakespeare Beil
the complete works of Shakespeare in one evening
the sonnets too Beil
Sonnet dramaturgy Beil sonnet dramaturgy
the sonnets as the center the core
all of it all of it all of it
Do you think I am capable of doing that Beil
Beil Beil
BEIL (after he has discovered a cafe where they can have their espresso)
Naturally
PEYMANN (exhausted, thoughtfully)
Naturally
(they enter the cafe and drink their espressos, then they go directly to the Burgtheater where Hamlet is playing the way it has been done for decades, by itself, rather than all of Shakespeare all at once)
(Curtain.)
***
AFTERWORD
BIOGRAPHY AND “SELFBIOGRAPHY”
Paul Van Ostaijen’s hometown of Antwerpen is the subject of Occupied City, the book of poems from which “Hollow Haven” is drawn. None of Occupied City has appeared in English before. Published in 1921 in an edition of 540 copies (with drawings and woodcuts by his friend Oscar Jespers), Occupied City shows Van Ostaijen exploiting techniques he learned from Mallarmé, Apollinaire and his Dadaist contemporaries in order to dissect the terrifying contest of commercial, national and military powers he witnessed while Antwerpen was occupied by the Germans during World War I. But Van Ostaijen was no mere mimic: his work traversed poetic styles with a speed and intensity available only to those whose relationship to language is both desperate and passionate. Over a period of twelve years he transformed from expressionist to nihilist to aestheticist—each alteration, not incidentally, marking an equally radical shift in politics. Van Ostaijen’s so-called nihilist stage began, predictably, after the war when he moved to a wracked Berlin to avoid jail time for audaciously supporting the Flemings (Dutch-speaking Belgians) at a time when the Walloons (French-speaking Belgians) were ascendant. Ironically, it was in Berlin that he first used his “rhythmic-typographic” technique in writing Occupied City, a book which should certainly be considered one of the most stunning and comprehensive critiques of modern “progress”—in all of its guises—among the work of the avant-garde at the time.
What follows is Van Ostaijen’s caricature of literary autobiography; it is much more revealing of his personality than it is of his actual biography. What his “Selfbiography” does not reveal, for instance, is that Van Ostaijen was, at various times, a dropout, an art critic, a dandy, an exile, a writer of grotesques, a clerk, a cocaine user, an activist, a sportswriter, a draftee and a bookseller—among other things. As “Hollow Haven” amply demonstrates, Van Ostaijen’s cosmopolitan experiences also make themselves known through an array of linguistic appropriations, “Selfbiography” follows suit: the phrase “struggle for life,” which is repeated twice, for example, did not need to be translated—it was taken straight from English. Several German words are also consciously used to further help set the reader adrift in Van Ostaijen’s imagination: Alpdruck= nightmare; Unfähigkeit=incompetence; Wonne=Bliss. In 1928, Van Ostaijen died from tuberculosis at the age of thirty-two.
SELFBIOGRAPHY
I was born. This needs to be accepted, though absolute-objective proof is unavailable. Axiom in the domain of subjective experience. Objectively it’s only conjecture. Therefore: are we born? To see. To touch. Just laugh at this hardly convincing evidence. I ask: who is actually born?
Nevertheless: I have been born. Despite well-founded doubt, I must also doubt this doubt. The human function appears to have been determined by the doubting of doubt from the beginning.
At two years of age: train wreck. Terror without knowledge left behind, no bad consequences. In the serious struggle for life, meditated on this with bitterness. My life began with derailment. So understandable that I always view life from this angle: how do I derail in the most advantageous manner. For that a person exists in order to derail, I, derailed early, cannot doubt. Did this train wreck actually happen? Is it possibly only a localization of a prematurely ripened desire for derailment? Or else: unclear memory of a very early “Alpdruck”?
My family dreamt: musical prodigy. No talent, however.—But circumstances most favorable. Only played soccer once. Enough to retain a 10x2 centimeter scar. I don’t play soccer anymore. Gentlemen, I am a victim of the sport.
After carefree living, struggled to survive in Berlin, Potsdam and Spandau. Not romantic. Fantasy has it that I made it from lift boy to owner of a night-club. Am much too primitive to occupy a prominent position in society. Despite longing very much to reach the level of the Flemish decadents, I realize my “Unfähigkeit.” At the point of being named teacher of rhythmic-typographic poetry, I had to decline because not in possession of a frock-coat. If only I had a frock-coat. In the crux of the struggle f.l. cigarette peddler, errand boy (Schlepper) in the service of a night-club with nude dancing. Finally a decent position by recommendation of a prominent art critic: salesman in a shoe store, women’s department. By which heavily influenced. See: “Bowlegs,” “Sidereal Swagger” = influence shoe store department W.
Very happy with this good situation, although gazing Westward with melancholy. Le bonheur est fait d’un je-ne-sais-quoi mélancolique. Brussels. O to see this luxurious city once more. What wealth to die with a Brussels’ bar in view. O Wonne.
Published three books: Music-Hall, The Signal, Occupied City. Maybe this too is only mass-hypnosis. Who can prove that he has read these books? Let alone: understood. God beware: understood. I haven’t understood them myself.
Anna Akhmatova, 1910s
Poems and Fragments 1909-1964
Anna Akhmatova
—Translated from Russian by
Roberta Reeder with Volodymyr Dibiova,
with an afterword by Roberta Reeder
UNTITLED POEM
I.
Heaven’s coat of arms is curved and ancient.
You barely can make out what’s on it.
I told the little girl sitting by the inn
To please wait for me today.
And she gazed at the vernal meadow,
Peeling an orange with her fingers.
She smiled: “Is it true you’re not from here?!”
And left, after granting me a single glance.
Neither roads are visible, nor lanes.
I will stop the carriage here.
Never in my life have I loved blondes,
And now I will never love them.
Past midnight we played a game of dice.
I was devilishly lucky that day …
And while the guests were still saying goodbye
Outside the window a shadow grew thin.
Humming “Rendezvous in May,” I walked
Down an uneven, rickety staircase.
The innkeeper lit my way, repeating:
“Not a sound! In the house are many fine ladies!”
II.
On the floor moon rays splashed.
My heart at once began to sink, to catch fire,
And blissfully my fingers sank
Into waves of hair fair as flaxen.
Lightning flashed, like a match,
And in the dim sky it died.
In a white dress a sweet little bird
Was sleeping on my very own bed.
She shuddered and folded her arms,
After whispering: “O God, where are You?”
The captivating sounds of her voice
I remember, remember, how pure they were.
—Before 1909
FROM THE UNFINISHED AND “FORGOTTEN”
FROM THE WILL AND TESTAMENT OF A CORNFLOWER
And my princess, wherever she wants to live
Let her have her wish.
And I’m not going to follow this from the grave.
From the grave in the middle of the bare field.
I bequeath her all my silver.
……………………………………………………
—1909(?)
_____
A shadow lay on the two-horned moon …
……………………………………….fear.
And there down the curved roads they trotted
Big old men on small donkeys.
—1942
_____
FROM A POEMA THAT PERISHED
1.
The Hague dove hovered over the universe
And in its beak carried an olive branch.
And grandpas then with peace did play
Like grandsons now—not with peace …
2.
The beauties of that time to me seem
Monstrous …
………………………………………
O, this sea of cut-off flounces
And hats, like ducks … or roosters.
It seemed like the lady was about to quack or crow
Cock-a-doodle-doo …
3.
… Excerpts of dusty operas
And angelic voices from death:
Caruso, Tito Ruffo and Chaliapin.
4.
And the woman with the mirror eyes
Of an adolescent beggar-girl—sovereign of the stage
And the queen of the Russian Moderne.
………………………………………
5.
That century which no longer believes in itself …
And in horror snatches at a third,
Where everything is so clear, simple and dignified:
War, divorces, long novels—
Virgin Soil, Resurrection, Rudin, and Nana.
6.
At that time we cherished such emotions.
But the future in the next room
Still hung around like a crowd of extras,
Whispering among themselves and yawning
And knowing everything … ahead of time.
—1940s, Tashkent-Leningrad
FROM GLORY TO PEACE!
I. THE GREAT PATRIOTIC WAR
We have truly something to be proud of and to cherish—
A charter of rights, and the speech of our motherland,
And the peace which we guard with great care.
And the valor of the people, and the valor of the one
Who is also closer and dearer to us than anyone,
Who—is our triumphant banner!
_____
To greet the banners, to greet the troops
Of our returning army
Let a song of victory fly toward the skies,
Let glasses clink with joy.
And an awesome pledge we now give
And to the children we bequeath it,
That heavenly peace obtained by fire
Become our only paradise.
—1944-1945
THE FALL OF BERLIN
For two hours I lived through
The four long years again. Holding my breath,
I saw,
O my Native Land,
How your freedom was saved
By the hand of your most courageous sons
And by the invincible wisdom of the leader …
How the best of cherished dreams came true.
… And our tanks sped along, like fate,
Crossing alien plains,
And like a Russian song the swanlike voice
Floated in music.
Everything, everything that appeared like a mirage in the fog
That we heard on the loudspeaker in the night
Everything was illuminated by new rays—
Everything came alive before us on the screen:
The days saturated with history
Are stifling,
no longer days, but dates—
In the smoke of Berlin—soldiers on their way to the assault.
The last assault—
and fires broke out.
And with the echo of the last explosions
Blissful silence has finally come.
Peace—to the world …
—Excerpt, October 1949, Moscow
II. GLORY TO PEACE
21 DECEMBER 1949
Let the world be reminded of this day forever,
Let this hour be cherished for eternity.
Legend speaks about the wise man,
Who saved each of us from a terrible death.
All the land rejoices in the rays of amber dawn,
And there are no limits to pure joy—
Ancient Samarkand, and polar Murmansk,
And Leningrad twice saved by Stalin.
On the day of the birthday of our teacher and friend
A song of shining gratitude is sung—
Let the blizzard rage
Or the mountain violets blossom.
And a refrain is sung to the cities of the Soviet Union
By the cities of all friendly republics
And by those toilers choked by bonds,
But whose speech is free and whose soul is proud.
And their thoughts fly freely to the capital of glory,
To the Kremlin on high—to the champion of eternal light,
From where a magnificent hymn is carried at midnight
And rings out to the whole world like welcome and support.
_____
Where the desert slumbers, now there are gardens,
Fields and a lake’s smooth surface.
Once and for all we will erase the traces
Of war in order to create life.
If we wish, the Pamirs will be moved
Every river will change its course,
But for happiness and prosperity we need peace,
And the ages will be pro
ud of us.
And we will not fear the foreign lie—
We are strong in our truth.
It has already been created—the great plan
Of the future of our land.
_____
And in our great fatherland
Before our very eyes a man became
A true sovereign of life,
Lord of mountains and rivers.
And on his lips a wise word,
A radiant word—peace,
Which rings out like the ringing of new bells
Flying over simple people,
Which shines like a guiding star
Amidst the darkness of foreign lands
And encounters the response of all nations:
“Peace is what we seek and thirst for!”
—1950
MOSCOW
How you get better and better day by day
But remain always unchanged.
Preserving your inviolable virtue,
Ardent heart of the universe!
Smooth is your speech, pale blue your dawn,
The arrival of your spring seasons!
A sunny holiday for us—is our meeting with you,
A rejuvenation of our thoughts and feelings.
In the factories the whistle of factory sirens is heard
Echoes of Muscovite glory …
Gorky taught young people the truth here,
Mayakovsky glorified life.
Everywhere, where still on the planet Earth
Nations suffer in shackles and chains,
The crimson stars on the Kremlin towers
Appear in dreams to all thirsting for peace.
—1950
POEMS FROM HER LATER YEARS
Glass air above the bonfire
Flows and trembles.
And through it I see a house
Radical Shadows Page 23