Read 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
r />
  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