maandag 23 augustus 2010

No more full moons (transl. Annmarie Sauer)

No more full moons

but a dimming light

of warm words,

a strident sonata

my hands ready to strike

with tingling anticipation

no street is always the same

when I happen to return,

but a foreigner

who stands pissing in the rain

on my map of the world --

thousand needles make holes

in this skull

a falcon I am, with luminous eyes,

gliding over turning forests

of time

music of chaos in naked crowns

always the same keys get stuck

in my orderly life. I'll slay this

with chords I caress.

once// on a stormy night// on the last day of the year// no more writing of full moons// and no longer being able to see them// descrying a dulling light// in the old lane one recognizes// the endless beech lined lane// only needing themselves// tonight, a year ago, thirty two and three years ago// on each last day of a new old year// endless years// full of rustling whispers// lived there// in a lane where you meet no one no more// at the end of a chapter of long-windedness// hearing the days shrivel into mis understanding// the annals guard their silence// they sing with words longing for silence// singing in the thunderstorm coming closer// lightening// the light already an issue// all sounds of revelry muted// no old and new// no revelry// no more full moons// only an endless row of beech trees ////////////////////// and the klingclanging of rusting old bells// there somewhere among the lightning// a poet must be speechless//

dash away, blinding snow on stylish braided depressions. disappear, jolting rhythms left behind in the ruts of carts and horses with golden hoofs

verses are a dangerous pack of thieves, treacherously hard, like biting silences gone on too long

verses, bald like just a day you don't want to speak about.

a day, repetitive and persistent, a broken up road of boredom with potholes of amazement.

a poet must be...

... speechless.

between seconds which keep coming

and the pretty stillness of an old clock

inhumanity hides its finest tricks,

curls of past as a child's drawing

on the wall of an abandoned school

and feigns Death the owner of the brain

who's left a long time ago. a game, and yet.

I mutter my resentment at the passing of time,

like an old women her prayers. A chill

falls. I welcome it

as in a cathedral, it glides

with the caress of a silk shawl around my neck.

eternity just needs a shove

to fatally miss the curve.

that glass breaks, bridges collapse

I have to feign while I sing,

it's my job as a poet.

feigning while reason succumbs

without formulating a last wish.

singing that I need words

because of the lack of notes

singing that a handful of verses is enough.

as a poet I have to feign,

with a cast and plumb, compass

and ruler neatly within reach.

there is less to understand

than I can say in the shortest verse

a silence chases us down

a white

overlapping with murdering whinnying

a webbed


keeping silent

and discovering what language is for

keeping agenda's closed, without appointments

listening to life

like to a telephone which doesn't ring anymore

at incoming private numbers

giving loneliness a space,

feeling from another century, unread book

on the shelf with precious editions.

gone the outmoded flask.

letting time dissolve

into eternity.

as a poet I must feign, it is my job,

that time brings wisdom, and that wisdom

is a mask of Death.