Poetry Part II
City Gate
Ancient, immobile,
aslant, and half-open,
deep in the ground,
with drawings on it,
withered letters,
notches and scratches,
with dust,
and faded colors
sunk in the wood.
I stood there,
crossed its threshold,
stepped out again,
walked up and down in front of it,
reading its inscriptions,
studying its drawings,
touching its marks,
I stayed
like an old pilgrim.
An old woman appeared
and said: “Come!”
I was glad to enter the city.
There were some camels in a remote courtyard,
and I saw a house and a wall
of palm leaves and clay.
I stepped into an ancient time,
immersing myself,
bewitched by it.
The shrill tooting of a horn,
the cars, the crowds,
and the noise,
the tinny din,
the aggressive pounding convoys
rolling past,
the rattling cafés,
the screaming radio,
a voice
dropping bad luck, bit by bit,
frightening me;
far off, a man prayed all alone,
nearby, a woman called into the void,
and the whole place started to shake.
I was roused by a child’s eyes
in the middle of the crowd,
a child dragging
a sullen old man.
The child laughed, cheerfully hurrying ahead,
the shadow in its tow,
the old man trudging along.
The child reached the old gate,
looked at it and stared in surprise
at the drawings, the scratches,
the notches, the letters.
The child stepped up to the gate,
leaned against it,
and the door bent.
I was far away,
lost in thought,
plodding on
like an old pilgrim,
and I bent too.
In a Narrow Lane
This narrow lane makes you
push through the crowd,
first from the left, then from the right.
Makes you
greet the people passing by,
bumping into some.
You quarrel,
and you apologize.
It makes you
jostle against little children with your knees,
children playing there.
The narrow lane makes you
slow down,
avoid a passing beast of burden.
Makes you
change sides
to escape the heat.
Makes you
accelerate your thinking
and reduce your speed
on your way home.
And finally, it makes you
follow the café owner's invitations,
and you sit down at a table.
You watch the life in the lane,
you order tea and a water pipe,
and you smile about the hardships of the way.
Vienna, Café Raimund, 17 January 1997
On Hats, Naked Heads, and Bodies
It will come down clear
upon the untouched ground,
where it will mingle
with rising prayers,
with rising souls,
and laments.
It will come down clear,
wetting hats,
touching naked heads and bodies.
Then it will rise,
carrying with it
people’s stories
about hats, naked heads, and bodies.
It will rise
from the pores of the skin,
it will rise
and be colored.
After, when it returns,
it will not be clear
when it comes down again.
Midway
I met him midway,
in midwinter.
We conversed about
the south,
and our breaths froze.
We were here,
talking about there.
I imagined him
cutting wood in the heat
half-naked in the forest.
And I did not think of what I longed for.
Our breaths spread and froze.
We laughed
about the way,
about winter,
the south,
our breaths,
about the forest we had had forgotten,
and about what we longed for.
Poemless
For Christian Loidl
Tonight, white overcomes
my pencil’s steps,
overtakes them,
fetters them.
Slumped,
black crouches in a corner
till dawn
…
perhaps.
Stages of Craziness
Transcending the usual,
treading the seven steps of craziness
in search of a paradise,
of a map,
of keys and
olive trees.
The first madness:
the moment of admitting.
The next madness:
memories,
then chains,
letters,
prophecies of an eye,
then dissipated feelings.
The last madness:
to keep the key of craziness.
Masks
I see them …
They enter the dark room
as if crossing the border
without a passport.
There they take off
their masks,
as if removing skin.
They whisper,
speak in hoarse voices,
they cough.
Then they seem to agree.
The whole thing is becoming suspicious
Their faces slip
further and further
slide down to the ground
and trickle away …
They stamp on them,
unable to recognise them.
.
.
I watch them …
before they go out,
hurrying
to stick the masks
to what remains of their faces.
They seem bountiful and gentle.
Their smiles give off a perfume.
They are stuck in their stiff clothing
and seem directed by remote control.
.
.
I am one of these corpses
who stupidly watch,
remain lifelessly silent,
captivated
by a flood of distracting images.
In my head
my mind returns
to thinking about the interval
when they’d taken off
those masks.
Another Pillow
Before I go to sleep,
I always shake
my pillow.
The remnants of the dream
I dreamt last night
remain still fresh.
I do not shake them
from my pillow.
But turn them carefully round.
Perhaps the dream will come
once more tonight,
be just the same
as it appeared
last night,
.
.
or else
it will be old.