Across the Land and the Water: Selected Poems, 1964-2001
Page 6
beetle or other strange
creature till outside
dawn spread
its wings & he could
rise & continue
his work. True, he’d
give anything now to
rest again but any
minute now they would
call him to table.
Perhaps they’ll serve
a pike, then escalope
& to finish a compote
of wild berries.
Bohemians know a thing
or two about cooking:
the sweet dumplings with
his morning coffee were a joy
& his dearest beloved seemed
so gentle again, of such
delicate humor &
fondness for himself he
all but died of
loving hope & felt his
heart throb in his throat.
Thus the days pass.
He gazes into
her eyes & twists
his finely embroidered
napkin wallet
once to the left
once to the right.
When his request for
her daughter’s hand
is met with reluctance
by her mother & after
the last cruelly sweet
kiss he departs
in a sombre mood
through the mountains &
still in his coach composes
the famous elegy
of twenty-three stanzas
which in the manner
of his own telling
is said to have leapt from
a tempest of feeling
the ripest creation
of his old age.
As for me however
I have never really
liked this gorgeous
braid of interwoven desires
which the poet upon
arriving home
had transcribed in his
most elegant hand
& personally bound
in a cover of red
morocco tied
around with a ribbon
of silk. I saw its
facsimile in the Marienbad
Museum this morning
along with several other
objects which meant
much more to me
& among which was
a wick trimmer
& a set of sealing
waxes, a little
papier-mâché tray
& an ink drawing
on pasteboard by Ulrike
showing in somewhat uncertain
perspective the North-
Bohemian village of
Trebívlice where she lived
as a spinster until her
death. Further
a China-yellow
tulip-poplar leaf
from her herbarium
inscribed in black ink
across its thin veins
then the sad remains
of black lace to which
Czech gives the lovely
name krajky, a kind of
choker or cravat &
two wristlets not
unlike muffetees &
so narrow that her wrist
cannot have been
much stronger than
a small child’s. Then
there is a steel engraving
showing Fräulein
Levetzow in her declining
years. By now her
former suitor has
long lain under the soil
& here she stands
in a gray taffeta
dress next to a book
table, with an abominable
bonnet-ful of
corkscrew curls &
a ghostly-white face.
Marienbad, 14. viii. 99
At the edge
of its vision
the dog still sees
everything as it was
in the beginning
And always
towards the East
the corn
blindingly white
like a firn-field
at home
How silvery
on that
January morning
the towers
of Frankfurt
soared
into the ice-cold
air
Somewhere
behind Türkenfeld
a spruce nursery
a pond in the
moor on which
the March ice
is slowly melting
In the sleepless
small hours
of Sunday 16th
January last
year in the hideously
rustic Hotel
Columbus in Bremer
haven I was set
upon with whoops
& squawks by the four
Town Musicians. The
terror still in my
limbs I sat on
the dot of eight
alone but for my
morning coffee &
jaundiced by the light
coming in through
the bull’s-eye panes
of the guest house.
Past the window
on the wet cobbles
outside filed the
shadows of emigrants
with their bundles & packages
people from Kaunas
& Bromberg from the
Hunsrück & Upper
Palatinate. Over the
loudspeaker came the soft
strains of that same
old accordion the
same old singer’s
voice quavering
with emotion forgotten
poesy of our people
the home star &
the sailor’s heart. Later
from the train the Powder
Tower from Nibelung
days the coffee
silos block-hoards of
brown gold on the
horizon a satellite
town before it a colony
of allotments once
maybe known as Roseneck
Samoa or Boer’s
Land. And over
the North German
plains motionless for
weeks now these
low blue-black
clouds the Weser
flooding its banks
& somewhere around
Osnabrück or Oldenburg
on a patch of grass
in front of a farm
a lone goose
slowly twisting its
neck to follow
the Intercity
careering past.
Room 645
Hotel Schweizer
hof, in Hinüber
Straße Hannover
a table-top
composed like a jig-
saw of various
exotic & home-
grown timbers
finished with a cover
of marbled faux
leather. On the walls
greenish dotted
textured paper &
a picture composition
by Karsten Krebs with
Sogni di Venezia
beneath it in silver
script. The carpet
is spotted with midnight
blue the velvet
curtain is claret the
sofa ultra
marine the bedspread
calyx motif
turquoise with a
dizzying arabesque
in lilac & violet
on the bedside rugs.
Through the gray
net curtain the
view of an ugly
tower block the
TV-tower
the coal-black
Sparkasse-building
its top story
with the S-lo
go
& saver’s penny.
Nothing happens
all day until
towards evening
stretched across
the entire re
inforced glass
window a ragged
flight of crows
makes wing
to its roost.
My ICE Rail-Planner
Herrenhausen is offering
a cruise to Denmark two
visits to the seawater wave-
bath thrown in someone
will be waiting at the station
& will say how nice
to meet you & how
about a Fitness-Week
in Eckernförde. Outside
the light is thinning the
ribbon of a road glistening
in the drizzle black
patches of forest & off
white farmsteads
pass, in a lime
works over the hills
stone is being ground to
dust. We are wired
I read to the vital nerves
of our national economy
radio, transmission &
defense systems
office communications
railways & building components
ready & waiting for you.
Simply phone or fax
us this coupon. At some
point during the hour
between Fulda & Frankfurt
it had started to get dark
& where a moment before
there had been blue
landscape I saw in their
rows beside me the
reflections of the heads
of my tired fellow
travelers gliding
on through the night. Thus
spake the angel of
the Lord: Fear not
for our house is kept to
the highest standards
& has a pleasant
ambience. Gall-bladder
liver stomach
intestines metabolic
disorders overweight
aging impairments
rheumatism please
write for our prospectus
& ask your chemist for
the energy-vitamin for
executives especially
those over forty.
One Sunday in Autumn 94
I am in the unmanned
station in Wolfenbüttel
waiting for the railcar
from Göttingen to
Brunswick. Fleecy
clouds fleck the sky
sporadic leaves spin
from the trees an old-
timer in brown breeches
rides a lady’s bike
across the tracks. Hearing
the bells ring I recall
the cathedral at Naumburg
the minsters of Ulm &
Freiburg the Church of Our
Dear Lady in Munich
long-forgotten Hogmanays
& other catastrophes.
The Herzog August Video
Rental a one-window-fits-
all semolina-colored
establishment is closed but
the kiosk between the donershop
& the Wellaform
hair-salon is open
to anyone in a hurry
to purchase the Bild-
Zeitung or a porn mag.
In the yard in front
by a lattice fence
overgrown with
pink roses stands
a small gathering of
all-weather drinkers
in beards & baseball-
caps like gold diggers
from the Australian outback.
Their bottle of Chantré
does the rounds while
from an election poster
on an advertising column
the Father of the German
Nation gazes anxiously
on his reunified country.
Calm November weather
in Germany persistently
foggy & dull. Bottom temperatures
from zero to three degrees
with low cloud cover
over Brandenburg & Berlin.
A cold sea breeze from
the north sweeps across
the square where once
the Lustgarten lay with
its symmetry of Prussian
precision a fountain
to left & right, white
diagonal gravel paths
an equestrian monument
at the exact center & lawns
that are out of bounds.
That says my guide
is the cathedral
sixteen Hohenzollerns
lie under the sand
in fact this ground
is steeped in history
they find corpses
every time they dig.
The ravens on yonder
grass patch know what
they are after. The S-Bahn
winds out of the chasm
between the Pergamon
& Bode Museums
a bright streak high
on the bridge another
below in the dark
waters of the Spree.
At the train station
which is wrapped in
plastic sheeting we
say goodbye. She returns
to Brüderstraße while
I set off to Wannsee
there to stay
the night at the literary
villa & for the very
first time ever
witness a living
Greenlandic
poet in the flesh.
Called Jessie
Kleemann she stands
in a blaze of
floodlights in
her red velvet suit
her pale oriental-
looking face in
front of the penumbral
figures of the audience
her lips whispering
into the microphone
forming sounds
that consist it
seems to me of
nothing but double
vowels & double
vees sliding up &
down the scale the
sounds of her feathery
language taavvi
jjuaq she says the
great darkness &
lifting her arm
qaavmaaq the
shimmering light.
Unchanged for years
now these inter-
regional catering
clichés the full
buffet breakfast
the sliced cheese
the boiled ham
the scrambled eggs
the nutty nougat
crème the stew of
the day the hearty
goulash the Nuremberg
Bratwurst the potato
salad the burger
with bread-roll
grandma’s beef
olives your favorite
choc-bar the salted
peanut De Beukelaer’s
chocolate-filled
cookies the Nordhäuser
Doppelkorn the oldest
Asbach the finesses of
Gau Köngernheimer
Vogelsang &
the Rotkäppchen
dry.
In the Summer of 1836
said the guide
Friedrich Chopin
stayed here at the White
Swan Inn. It had
taken him nine
days from Paris by coach
to reach his beloved
Marie Wodzinka. He
gave frequent recitals
on the piano to a small
circle who gathered in
the evenings. The peaks
of the blue Bohemian
mountains grow
ever darker through
the window. The cold
damp weather weighs
on his chest the doctor
mumbles something about
incipient tuberculosis. At
the beginning of November
their engagement is shattered
her father in Dresden has
put his foot down.
Thirteen years later
a packet of faded
letters is found in the
deceased pianist’s
residence. Tied with
ribbon it carries the
inscription: Moja
Bieda—My sorrow.
In Alfermée
late in November
the rain sweeps
down from the Jura
throughout the night
Threading sleep
letter by letter
comes a language
you do not understand
The exhausted eyes
of the writer the fingers
of one hand on the
keys of her machine
Darkness lifts
from the earth in the morning
leaving no difference
between lake & air
Along the shore
is a row of poplars
behind them a lone boat
at a buoy
Beyond the gray
water invisible
through swaths of mist
the village of Sutz
a few lights
going out &
a column of snow-
white smoke
On the Eve of
All Hallows
nineteen hundred
and ninety-seven at
Schiphol Airport
among globetrotters
from Seoul & Saõ Paulo
Singapore & Seattle.
There they sit
with neon-blue
faces slumped
down on the benches
rummaging now
and then distractedly