Across the Land and the Water: Selected Poems, 1964-2001

For some time

we crossed a low plateau.

Our eyes took in

the distant landscape,

elegant touring cars

flew past

and a motor-cyclist

with a gun

over his shoulder

appeared again and again

in our mirror.

Soon our road curved down

swiftly into a basin and

Marienbad lay suddenly before us,

a petrified magical city.

Black spruces thronged

to the edge of the outer buildings,

Siberian chervil and eight-foot

giant hogweed in the gardens.

Behind the drab, yellow façades:

Old German furniture,

hat boxes, the strains of a pianola,

an inkling of poison and bile.

It was like driving

into an old-time theatre.

We had a fire made up in the hotel

although it was still mid-summer.

Later, wrapped in heavy

Scottish dressing-gowns we gazed

through the open windows

and gloomy rain outside

into a dusky otherworld.

Is not the world here still,

you asked; do banks of green

no longer follow the river

through bush and lea? Does

not the harvest ripen? Do

holy shades

no longer hang

upon the cliffs? Is this

drawing-in

the gray stain of night?

Next day we sat in the café

beneath a painting of water-lilies. Or

perhaps they were even flamingos.

Do you remember the waiter?

His closely cropped white hair,

his turn-of-the-century

frock-coat and taffeta bow?

The way he kept touching

his left temple with his fingers?

Remember the Cuban cigarettes

he brought me? The fine blue

smoke rose straight as a candle.

A good sign, no doubt.

And indeed, outside it had turned

brighter. Reduced aristocrats

swished past in dust-cloaks

bound for the refectory.

The Rabbi of Belz, plastic

beaker in hand, walked to the well.

A bride and groom were posing

for a photograph on the promenade.

Harquebused suffering

hearts lay about

on the shorn lawns.

Returning to the hotel

we saw Dr K, half-obscured

by a red flag, sitting

at his balcony table,

busy with a portion

of smoked pork much

too big for him

The match game

was meant to decide everything.

The gleaming parquet floor

stretched before us. All round us

were mirrors, guests, motionless—

and in the middle you

in your feather boa. Hadn’t

we met once before?

In a taxus maze?

On a stage? The perspectival

prospect, pruned hedges,

little round trees and balustrades,

the palace in the background?

You were supposed to say, I

am wholly yours, nothing

but these words;

and you did say them,

while strangely not

coming an inch

closer.

During the journey home

fantasies of a fatal accident.

Unspectacular woodlands

and hills flanking our route

through the countryside.

The motor-cyclist

turns up again in our rear.

Not a soul on the streets

of Eger. I see only

one woman shoveling coal

through a cellar hatch.

A deserted house,

the icy cold here,

the corridors and chambers,

the flight from the alcove,

the blind window-pane,

the flash of a lance,

the barely audible cry of horror.

And at the end of the act

they carry the pierced

corpse across the stage

in a piece of crimson tapestry.

The traveler

has finally arrived

at the border post

A customs official

has untied his laces

removed his shoes

His luggage rests

abandoned on the

planed floorboards

His pigskin suitcase

gapes, his poor

soul has flown

His body, last

of his personal effects

awaits meticulous scrutiny

Dr. Tulp will soon be here

in his black hat, prosectorial

instruments in hand

Or is the body already

hollow and weightless,

floating, barely

guided by fingertips,

across to the land

one may only enter barefoot?

23 Februari 1995

between Schiphol

& Frankfurt at ten

thousand feet

in the air

I read a

report in the

paper about

the so-called

carnavalsmoorden

van Venlo all

about the strange

quarter of Genooy

where in the van

Postelstraat

right among

the respectable

condos stands

a row of

whorehouses

where white & colored

women sit

behind the

windows & where

a few guys from

the koffieshop

branche: Frankie

Hacibey & Suleyman

drive out

one evening to an

execution on the banks

of the Maas. There is

talk of a

bludgeon & a

bread knife of

a jar containing

thirty-five

thousand guilder

& of the married

couple Sjeng &

Freda van Rijn who

as the carnival

surged through

the town center

were lying at home

twee oude mensen

met doorgesneden

keel op de grund

a dark tale which

so they say has much

to do with hashish

dealing turkse

gemeenschap &

duitse clientèle

with greed & ven

geance violence

een zwarte Merce

des een rode BMW

& twee kogels van

dichtbij in het hoofd.

of the Universe,

Patriotic Tales and

Memorabilia,

A Germanic

Hall of Fame,

The Neudamm

Forester’s Primer,

Register of

Germany’s

Protected Species,

Social Hygiene

in Hamburg

and The Mushrooms

of our Region—

all informative

work assembled

by chance

in the display

of a junk shop

near a railway

underpass in

Oldenburg I

think or Osnabrück

or in some

other town

30. ix.95

according to the Julian

calendar, on 22 June

according to our own,

Anton Pavlovich and

Olga Leonardovna reach

the spa at Badenweiler.

The tariff is sixteen marks

for board and lodging

at the Villa Friederike

but the spelt porridge

and creamy cocoa

bring no improvement.

Suffering from emphysema

he spends all day

in a reclining chair

in the garden marveling

again and again at how

oddly quiet it is indoors.

Later in the month the weather

is unusually hot, not

a breath of wind, the woods

on the hills utterly still,

the distant river valley

in a milky haze.

On the 28th Olga travels

to Freiburg specially

to buy a light flannel

suit. At the Angelus hour

of the following day

he has his first attack, the

second the following night.

The dying man, already

buried deep in his pillows,

mutters that German

women have such

abominable taste in dress.

As dawn breaks

the doctor, placing

ice on his heart,

prescribes morphine

and a glass of champagne.

He was thinking of returning

home with Austrian

Lloyd via Marseille

and Odessa. Instead

they will have him transferred

in a green, refrigerated

freight car marked

FOR OYSTERS

in big letters. Thus has

he fallen among dead

mollusks, like them packed

in a box, dumbly rolling

across the continent.

When the corpse arrives

at Nikolayevsky Station

in Moscow a band

is playing a Janissary

piece in front of

General Keller’s

coffin, also newly

arrived from Manchuria,

and the poet’s relatives

and friends, a small

circle of mourners,

which from a distance

resembles a black

velvet caterpillar,

move off, as many

recalled, to the strains

of a slow march

in the wrong direction.

on a Sunday after —

noon in the month

of November I drove

south from Freiburg

across the foothills

of the Black Forest.

All the way down

to the Belfort Gap

low motionless clouds

above a landscape

deep in shadow,

the hatched patterning

of vineyards on the slopes.

Badenweiler looks

depopulated after

some virulent summer

epidemic. Silent

hemorrhaging in every

house, I guess, and

now not a living

soul about, even

the parking lot

near the facilities empty.

Only in the arboretum

under giant

sequoias do I meet

a solitary lady

smelling of patchouli

and carrying a white

Pomeranian in her arms.

As the evening

draws in the sun

sinks in the West

between the clouds

and the skyline of

the Vosges hills

the last of the

fading light flooding

the Rhine plain

which shimmers and quivers

like the salty shore

of a dried-out lake.

I lie sleepless

in a stone-built

house. The last

revelers have

abandoned the streets

and, save for

the Regnitz rushing

over the weir

there is hush.

Whirlpools drag me

under the water

and I roll along

the bed of the river

with the stones

a gasping fish

I return to the

surface, my eyes

wide with fear.

The passage of dreams

is haunted by ghosts

the Little Hunchback

for example standing

by the sluice hut

on the Ludwig Canal. He

wears glasses

with uncannily

thick lenses and

a blue baseball

cap

with the logo

MARTINIQUE

back to front

on his head.

Empress Kunigunde

has been waiting

for ever

at the foot

of the Katzenberg

and on the bridge over

to the old Town Hall

of which an oleograph

always hung

in our sitting-room

the dog Berganza

crosses my path

for the third time.

A little way

further upstream

up at the Hain

Park Schorsch

and Rosa are taking

a stroll one August

afternoon in ’43

she in a light

dust-cloak he

with his traditional jacket

slung over his

shoulder. They

both seem happy

to me, carefree

at least and a good

deal younger than

I am now.

Thus, thinks

Kara Ben Nemsi

son of the German,

floweth time

a ruby red

cipher leaping

from digit to digit

trickling

in silence

from the dark

of night

to the gray

of dawn

just as sand

once ran

through

the hour

glass.

Mai 1996

Mai 1997

I can see him now

striding through the suite

of three south-westerly

facing rooms in his

cinnamon-colored

coat pondering

diverse matters

for example his long —

harbored plan

for a treatise on clouds

& yet somewhat

troubled too

& testy on account of

his passion for Ulrike

who is the reason

for his third visit

to this up-&-coming

resort. He looks

out at the little

rotund trees

evenly spaced around

the square in front of

the Kebelsberg Palais,

sees a gardener

pushing a barrow

uphill, a pair of blackbirds

on the lawn. He has slept

badly in the narrow

bed & felt like some

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

towards the East

the corn

blindingly white

like a firn-field

at home

on that

January morning

the towers

of Frankfurt

soared

into the ice-cold

air

behind Türkenfeld

a spruce nursery

a pond in the

moor on which

the March ice

is slowly melting

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.

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-logo

& 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

in their luggage not

one of them uttering

a spoken word. With

the witching hour

past they lie

stretched out under

blue blankets

asleep while outside

the fog gradually

shifts revealing

once again

through the darkness

the runways & lit

steps the enormous

bodies & tail

fins of the vessels

lying at anchor

at their quays. Not

a single movement

around me now

only the sparrows

who have survived

for years in this

part of the terminal

whirr back &

forth across the hall

& up & down

the arcade settling

in the green palms

& ficus trees

jerking their little

heads this way &

that looking out

between the artificial

leaves with their shiny

black eyes &

chattering raucously among

themselves as if something

were not quite right.

of the younger Brueghel

on a surface roughly

thirty by forty

centimeters in size

before which I stood

for a time at the Städel

Museum all manner

of beasts & birds

have come together

in peace an eagle

owl with horned

ears an ostrich

with button eyes &

a strangely flat

beak a billy

goat & a few sheep

two polecats or martens

a wolf a horse

a peacock a turkey

& in the foreground

at the bottom edge

two spectacled

monkeys one of which

is gingerly plucking

strawberries from a little

shrub while on the right

roses climb

an apple or pomegranate

tree & tulips

in full blossom

& spring stars &

lilies & hyacinths

& somewhat in the background

in a choice act

of man-manly

procreation our Lord

& Creator a tiny

& obscure figure

barely visible

to the naked eye

bends over

Adam sleeping

on a grassy bank

& cuts from his side

his bride to be.