KRANKENGARTEN
Der Nebel brach zusammen wie eine Brücke zwischen Himmelszelt und Erde,
du bliebst an dem Geländer stehen – die Menschen stehen so vermutlich auf Wache.
Das Leben ging vorbei und hielt, als die Wolken leise anhielten
und die blauen Bäume schmolzen, und ihre rote Rinde.
Und der Fall betäubte dich, der Schmerz ließ dann nach
und dir kam es vor - du bleibst als einzig ehern.
Und krank warst du. . . Du gingst durch jene bitteren Alleen deiner Angst
und spürtest kaum wie der Puls kurz schallt.
STILLEBEN
Eine Viola auf dem Bett -
wie ein Körper - erwartend und nackt.
(Vor dem Klavier, billig gekauft,
warst du, mit Bogen in der Hand, die Jungfrau mit dem Jünger
und zwischen den Kerzen, über den Tasten atmend,
dachtest du, daß die Nachbarn nun böse werden,
ich stand immer noch verwünscht, noch nicht gefaßt,
seit einer Stunde rauschten draußen die Dezemberbusse,
und das traurige "la" schlich sich zwischen uns
und schmiegte sich an das Bild von Rachmaninov heran,
der Schrank stöhnte auf, die Wände ächzten
eine Infraschallmesse für alle Geretteten,
der Morgen drang nachbarschaftlich durch das Rollo,
ich hatte den Pullover immer noch nicht an,
vielleicht rauchte ich und dachte an die Musik und so weiter,
schlapp hörte ich und glotzte auf deine Beine,
die Kaffeemaschine, die Uhr und die qualmenden Tassen,
eine Musikerin im Nachthemd verabschiedete sich von mir.)
ABWESENHEIT
Auf der Treppe, dann der Schlüssel. Und zum Schluß
schleichst du dich in dein Zimmer - alt und arm - hinein.
Die stummen Möbel, von dem Staub leicht bedeckt,
gewöhnten sich schon lange ohne dich.
Das Bett vergaß den Körper,
das Schloß vergaß vor langem deine Hand.
Die Schritte rücken frech
die nicht erlebten Monate beiseite,
und wenn die Freude bei Beginn abklingt
beginnst du reuig.
Dich zu unterwerfen.
DREHUNG DER WELTEN
Sie geht jetzt bis zum Schluß des Spiegels,
dort spiegelt sie sich wider und verschwindet.
Er mag oft in dem Zimmer umhergeirrt sein
und nutzlos aufgeräumt haben,
sein Schallplattenspieler drehte sich leer,
die Welt spielte sich wie eine altbekannte Melodie ab,
der Hausherr kam manchmal auf den Balkon,
er schaute aus dem zwölften Stock hinunter,
der Wecker tickte, und der Kaffee kochte,
bis der Wind die aufgeschlagenen Seiten aufwühlte,
der Himmel wechselte die Farben, und er wechselte die Hemden,
dann spielte er mit seinem Kater, in seinem Traum schreckte er auf,
An diesem Abend mag er lange Zeit, in seinem Sessel sitzend,
geraucht und Radio gehört haben,
er mag gesehen haben, wie der Nebel von Witoscha herabsinkt,
es mag sein, daß ihm der Wein beim Nippen schmeckte...
Das ist das Zimmer, das Bett ist schon bedeckt. Hinter der Wand
schweigt die Stadt, das Endlose schweigt auch.
Schweigen, das der letzte Mieter in der Eile da vergaß.
DIE SCHANDE
DER GOTTESNARR: Boris, Boris!... Die Kinder kränken Nikolka...
Laß sie umbringen, wie du den kleinen Zarewitsch umgebracht hast.
BOJAREN: Pack dich, Narr! Greift den Narren!
DER ZAR: Laßt ihn! Bette für mich, armer Nikolka.
DER GOTTESNARR: Nein, nein! Man darf nicht betten für den
Zaren Herodes; die Mutter Gottes hat es verboten.
Puschkin, "Boris Godunow"
Platz vor dem Dom in Moskau
Man hatte ihn bestohlen,
ihn,
den Gottesnarr,
bestohlen!
Die Kinder haben ihn bestohlen -
und er weinte wie ein kleines Kind.
Ich hörte wie seine gerechten Ketten auf den Steinplatten klirrten
und unter seinen Fäustchen begann sein Eisenhut zu schellen.
Warum erzitterten die Vögel blutig in der Luft,
warum zerschellen ihre Brüste an den Mauern schreiend?
Man sagt, daß
auf dem Gesicht von Mutter Gottes schwarze Tränen flossen,
und Blutschweiß rann dreimal herunter, auf das Gesicht von Christus.
Warum versammelt sich das Volk oft-oft und ohne Grund,
warum stillschweigen sie,
flüstern,
treiben heimlich Handel,
warum werden die Brandstätten so mehr,
fluchen die Leute,
schwemmt der Fluß oft Leichen aus, begehen die Soldaten Untaten,
weht der Wind verdichtet und sehr schwer herunter, man sagt,
er hätte schon ein Kind verweht,
man betrinkt sich,
man treibt Unzucht mit den Jungen in Bordellen.
Regen, sagt der Blinde,
Regen aus Blut und Asche wird sich über uns ergießen,
tut Buße,
die unbarmherzige Trompete von Jericho wird plötzlich schallen.
Dem kleinen Leben gibt es vieles zu verzeihen,
wenn nicht auf dieser Welt -
dann jenseits.
Der Großen Taten jagen uns Angst ein,
die großen Taten sind nicht zu verzeihen.
Wir verstehen sie nicht,
sie sind nicht deutlich,
obwohl wir sie eingehend diskutieren.
Ja, wir überleben, ins Dasein hingeschmissen,
wir begegnen, was kommt –
ob Gut, oder Böse.
Unsere Gemeinheiten sind klein, und die guten Taten - auch,
auch wenn wir Sünde tun -
dann tun wir es aus Not und Dummheit.
Aber der Mächtige darf keinen Fehler tun,
er darf es nicht,
wenn wir ihm unser Schicksal überlassen haben.
So ist es.
Kann der Gottesnarr sein Herz ausweinen und vor wem?
Auch wenn man ihm begegnet,
wer wird dem König glauben,
daß er weint?
Wir haben alles ihnen überlassen – das ist unser Trost.
Das Unsere vergeht,
zwischen die Tropfen werden wir durchkommen,
aber das Ihre
bleibt.
Ich war einer dieser Jungen, der die Münze vom Gottesnarr
damals
nahm.
Übersetzung von Ludmilla Eimer
BALLAD OF THINGS TO BE
Immersed in the ripe darkness of the railway station
I spied an unknown girl standing beneath the lamp;
the place was deserted and so was the hour. The dirty-faced
dock had stopped as if to hide us and hide everything from us.
It was a rugged, dusky little town; its voices grew darker
and finally they disappeared under the vaulted hills.
I did not know how long I had walked, dragged by her,
before we reached a drunken, rickety house.
We sank into it like two sharp blades, as if her father
was waiting for her with a strap in his hand;
everything seemed to have shrunk - I was in the auricle
of a strange small life and did not know how to run away.
"Come in," she said, "My poor heart needs very little to be happy.
If nobody comes I quietly huddle together with it in the dust."
Then she heated up some water, washed me and smoothed my hair,
and we slipped down to the floor amid soap-suds and steam.
With body and breath I was hacking life - both hers and mine,
and I sent it with a cry deep inside her wishing it would stay there;
later on our shadows jostled against each other on the wall
illuminated by the two resistors of an electric heater.
In front of the eyes of darkness and its fiery irises
I drank a mug of sour wine hoping it would help me revive;
but night swolle up and pressed upon my chest,
and time wriggled and twisted like a lizard in the hot sun.
I lived, although I died so many times that night
trampled upon by wild dreams and suffocated by marsh-gas.
It was too late to remember - I stood by the thick wall
not knowing how to wade through the slimy night.
I was afraid,
I was afraid I'd be intimidated and pursued,
imposed upon, abducted, hurt and destroyed.
It was too late to die if everything that happened was real,
and it was terrible to forget, facing everything which was to be.
CHANGE OF THE NIGHT GUARD
In one of the dark corners of the room
hangs the portrait of a man
with a dagger in his hand.
He is unknown and is rarely noticed
by the visitors milling around.
The rooms grow slowly dark.
They clean the gallery and close it.
The man
jumps nimbly out of the picture -
he's twenty seven, his clothes are dark
a chain of gold flashes around his sinewy neck;
he goes to the window and pulls the curtain
slightly apart;
he stands there all through the night
waiting motionless and open-eyed
till the first signals of approaching light.
CEREMONY
They'll be here soon, they've already been called.
They'll be here soon - we're waiting.
Orange flowers interweave above our heads,
hissing like Chinese dragons.
And we're sitting as we always do around a circular table
sharing a moment of headache.
Born to pass on our life and blood,
we play our inherited roles.
You who are on your way, why aren't you here yet?
The clocks' hands pass through eternity, pierced our souls
which flowed out hastily, thick and uncertain,
and time rushes deafeningly by.
And all our lives we've stood up and sat down,
stood up and sat down, endlessly, with dignity, with our birthright,
receiving and receiving again, chatting vacantly...
They've already been called, they'll be here soon.
And look, they're entering the room,
and look:
They're taking away the duchess, half-draped in an orange blanket.
Stand up - make way for them,
stand up
so they can lead the madwoman out.
REVERSAL OF WORLDS
It continues to the edge of the mirror
and there reflects and vanishes.
He might often have walked around the room,
tidied in vain.
His turntable might have spun empty -
and the world, like a worn-out tune.
The tenant might have gone out sometimes on the balcony,
peered down from the twelfth floor,
the clock might have ticked, the coffee boiled,
and the wind might have foraged through the open pages,
the sky might have changed its paint - and he, his shirt;
he might have played with his tomcat, started in his sleep,
and this evening he probably would have had a long smoke,
listened, seated in his armchair, to the radio
watching the fog come down from Mt. Vitosha,
and the wine he slowly sipped would have tasted good to him...
This is the room, the bed is made. Beyond the wall
the city is silent. As is infinity.
A silence which was left behind, in his haste,
by the departing tenant.
STILL LIFE
A cello on the bed -
like a body expectant, naked.
(In front of the piano,
bought for a song,
you, bow in hand, were the madonna and child
between the candles, breathing over the keyboard,
and you thought the neighbors would get angry again,
I was still there, bewitched and unrecovered;
outside, the December buses had been rumbling for an hour,
and the mournful `A' crawled between us
huddled against the picture of Rachmaninoff,
the wardrobe creaked, the walls began to moan,
a subsonic mass for all saved souls,
the morning poked through the blinds like a neighbor,
I hadn't yet put on my sweater,
I was probably smoking and thinking of music and so on,
relaxed, I listened to and watched your legs,
the coffee pot, the clock and the steaming cups,
a nightgowned musician was seeing me off.)
ATTRACTION
Prostrate from the heat the earth withdrew,
the sea congealed, we went far out into it,
the fog, with red tentacles, rocked
the beautiful fish and furtive medusas,
the sky lifted before us, colorless and full,
we cut the motor,
we cut the motor and the silence encircled us,
the morning grew, interlaced with our muscles,
its claws stabbing our backs,
it roared in our ears, gripped our chests,
and we dried off, happy and alone...
Then my friend stretched out on the floorboards,
shielded his eyes with his palms, turned fantastic,
I passed a cigarette, we lay there, still damp,
lay there, creatures of dry land, sunburned, skinny,
we smoked and steamed in the haze, in the shabby boat,
we spat into the sea which bloated around us,
in the heat between us flickered vaguely
a half-sensed peril.
A SWAMP
This swamp was so beautiful, when
You turned off the road with the commonplace landscapes.
The afternoon grew pale in the desolate summer
And it seemed as if nobody had passed this way before.
It was beautiful too, when it dragged you
Down - and you realized that was forever,
That your way back was cut off forever,
But it was so beautiful...
It is beautiful now too, when you have
One more chance to breathe in its ponderous humidity and look at it.
In your disappeared steps another man
has stopped on the road and - without knowing -
Maybe he will follow you.
The swamp will be beautiful too when you will have sunk -
You will not warn of a danger.
You will simply lie on your back at the bottom,
Having entered into the third haven of beauty.
BEWILDERMENT
We were many in the room
like a drunken cartman's whip,
a woman's laughter slashed
against the halted silence.
Her moist nostrils trembled
and on our smooth backs
spilled the pain from the whip and a sharp
shudder from future hours.
She cursed us, and slashed again:
Giddy ap!! -
Dear God we should have galloped, but
we stood frozen like Akhmatova's first adolescents -
timid, ardent and, for no reason,
a little remorseful.
For the lost,
for the first
time -
as though chiseled, almost perfect,
hobbled,
ready to die if necessary.
A different blood was making the rounds of our veins,
for the lost and the first time.
And on our other faces the colors were changing
and with tentative gestures we changed our faces.
Were we really fading, too tired
to be men?
So we stood - docile, silent,
hooves wedged into the unbridled earth.
We'll be this way tonight.
For the last and the first time.
OCHRIDA
The summer was fading away with lingering violet bells -
Sound after sound from invisible churches -
And we were walking across the long town sweaty, dizzy,
Neither dead, nor alive.
We were hungry, along the dusty street resounded dreadfully
The early evening air, struck by you,
And we stopped at the bridge, and a funeral
Appeared straight towards us.
They came dawdling along with empty faces, shivering
in the broiling hot,
They passed, then they silently vanished in the curve
And we stood and breathed drily and firmly,
Strangers again.
And the sky squandered accurate cast-iron blows
Over us, over our cheap heresies,
And we stood there confused, tired by the miracle,
Incredulous in it and in us ourselves.
TANNHAUSER
Do not touch me - though I've been touched already -
do not touch me.
I remember that scattered evening
when amidst the dimly glimmering gilding
of her cave
the weeping Venus kissed me goodbye;
she kissed me
and I
went away.
I remember
that dead day
when, in an explosive moment
which is often said
to be "blissful",
I became aware of the danger.
In the timelessness
that followed that moment
I heard
the weeping
of my many souls.
"Take us back," they said,
" Please take us back. We do not want
to abandon you."
And then I followed their voices - their voices
followed me
through wild bewildering forests
where snapped off springs
bleed and moan;
new voices joined in
and then all voices ceased.
And then all voices
crashed down on me.
Do not touch me, I kept shouting,
do not touch me,
I no longer am
untouchable.
Where am I? How
did we get here? Where
are you going?
Our destiny is so inconstant,
and our pain is so confused;
don't,
leave me alone,
don't leave me, don't leave me.
I did not know
that love
could also kill.
I remember
the hours of death
I have been through
in my hours of life,
I know
how my amorous days died
and how I died
with them.
I've got used to the silence
of gushing blood
and to the whine
of pent-up blood;
all right,
now I've heard you too -
I have learned
whatever there is to learn.
When I recover
I shall return
together with a single voice;
you have forgotten about it,
you think it is asleep -
it is in me
and I shall rescue it,
I shall take it over wilds and gorges -
to the cave -
I shall take it through regions
enveloped in emerald fog
as in a dream
where, I know,
even sleep can kill.
When the whisper and I return
I'II kick out the wretch
who lies snoring by the goddess
I'll cut his throat.
I shall be on my knees
receiving
for my infidelity
FORGIVENESS -
then you may return
and tempt me,
and speak
or shout
but now
do not touch me.
Do not touch me.
THE VAST LAND
1.
It was a vast land
That we hardly got to.
As we stepped there, the horizon disappeared.
Here it is, then we said to each other, here it is - and we stopped,
And covered up our traces, before we entered it.
We were more,
We remain fewer and fewer.
Now and then somebody vanishes, but that was the reason we'd started.
First with some short rests and then until we dropped
There we walked through this empty vast land of stillness.
Everyone vanishes in his own secret alone
And we don't ask where he's gone.
Everyone dies in himself alone, how many times does he die?
We are still wandering there -
Still human but without shadows,
Still strayers, but not leaving a track.
Thus we walked
Through this empty land of mirages
And one by one we chose a place and a mission.
We've even forgotten where we come from
And it is dangerous to think what we were before.
We remain fewer and fewer,
But we didn't expect it to be otherwise.
Otherwise we become more and more,
And so we expected it to be.
We are double, triple, fourfold, fivefold -
How the spirit does move us,
In this empty, vast, stilly land,
Where we remain.
2.
This is the place,
The stilly place chosen by me.
Here the entire sky sinks silently to the soil,
The clouds stretch silently on Earth
And the darkness of the grass fills all the space.
The space withdraws
And - abandoned in its secret -
One by one I leave myself,
One by one I come back to myself another one.
Through the empty land,
Inside the silence
The others passed and still are passing,
Deep into what they keep in silence,
Deep into the vast land.
Here I realize
All the mute rituals of the oblivion,
To which I did devote myself,
To which I have been sworn.
Here,
Invoked by silence,
I myself invoke the silence,
I swear it
And I heed its silent echo.
Thus the world lies low and by this world I am attracted,
By low lain languages,
By silent signs,
By gestures with wiped out meaning,
Beside the dry sun, dry branches, rusty stones.
I swear everyone, set off hither, to lose himself.
THRACIAN PASTORAL
Orpheus,
Bacchantes don't need your tender songs, Orpheus.
Their breasts are not created for child's lips,
Their breasts are heavy for the hands of men,
You, seeker of the fleshless,
For your hands,
You, overweening shepherd.
What a warm grain
This mild soil yields,
What a warm sap
Flows under their warm armour?
What an enchantment tingle the vines,
Their flushy shadows
And long yellow fires?
What kind of bodies make love
Until the wine is sleeping in the night?
You craved everything to find
In a grey shadow,
In a dusty chord,
That is still creeping at noon over stone lichens,
That is crawling after you,
You, selfish man.
Who would bear such suffering,
The hoarse voice, the jangly lyre
Who would bear?
Bacchantes will scream in horror,
The horror of your silence -
Beware.
I know your terrifying cavern,
Where drops rest
Before their dangerous trip,
Where the coiled up dreams
Loose their rings
And I pursue the echo
Of the split,
Wavering tongues.
I know the shadows, that see me off
Nearly to the exit,
To them I bid a long farewell there,
To them I bid a long farewell,
To them I bid farewell,
That I might lose memory
In my ordinary room -
Lamp, ash-tray, bed, tape-recorder -
With an earthquake in my hands.
Like a valediction of love and flesh.
Who would bear all that suffering?
Why didn't you go back to your flocks -
To lull and to awake them with your lyre?
Sheep don't tear anybody,
And what drudge
In the whips of the neglected!
Who would bear all that?
No, Bacchantes don't grieve with alien grief,
They drink deer's blood
And it is streaming down their chins;
No, Bacchantes don't grieve with alien grief,
They look at their reflections in the lakes
And the wind washes their images away;
No, Bacchantes don't grieve with alien grief,
They go round the olive-trees
And their screams are only screams,
And their eyes are only eyes,
And their Gods are only Gods -
Who would bear,
Who would bear -
No, Bacchantes don't grieve with alien grief,
And their death is only death.
