The Collected Poems (19 page)

—dedicate a treatise
to Louis Quatorze
he won't read it anyway

—temper
the rational fury
it will topple thrones
and blacken the stars

—think of
a woman
who will give you a child

—you see Baruch
we speak of Great Things

—I want to be loved
by the unlearned and fierce
for they are the only ones
who truly hunger after me

now the veil falls
Spinoza is alone

he sees no golden cloud
nor a light in the heights

he sees darkness

he hears a stair creak
footsteps going down

 

If it is true
that image precedes thought
one might imagine
that Heym's ideas
arose while he was skating

—the ease of moving
across an icy surface

he went here and there
circling a mobile center
he wasn't a planet
or a bell
or a farmer bound to a plow

—the relativity of motion
mirrored systems merging

the nearer left bank
(the red roofs of Gatow)
lurched backward
like a yanked tablecloth

the right bank however
(apparently) stood still

—the toppling of determinism
a wondrous coexistence of possibilities

—my greatness—
Heym said to himself
(pushing out with
his raised left leg)
lies in the discovery
that the modern world
knows no direct results
no tyranny of consequences
no dictatorship of causation

all thoughts
actions
objects
phenomena
lie beside each other
like a skater's tracks
on a white surface

an important claim
for theoretical physics
an ominous claim
for a theory of poetry

those standing on the right bank
did not notice Heym vanishing

a gymnasium student passing by
saw everything in reverse order

the white sweater
trousers fastened at the knee
with two ivory buttons
calves in orange socks
the skates misfortune's cause

two policemen
made their way through a crowd
gaping at the opening in the ice
(it looked as if it led to a dungeon
or like the cold mouth of a mask)

licking their pencils
they tried to report on the event
to introduce order into it
in accordance with the outdated
logic of Aristotle
with the dull-witted indifference
characteristic of power
toward the discoverer
and his thoughts
now drifting helplessly
under the ice

 

Miss Amelia of Darmstadt
asks for help
finding her great-great-grandfather
Ludwig I

he perished
like so many others
in the tumult of war

he was last seen
on a family estate
near Jelenia Góra

Mr Cogito
remembers well
the hard winter of 1944
filled with fires

at that time
this great-great-grandfather
gross herzog
by profession
lived in a frame

he stood
in a uniform
in white trousers
in front of a summer house
on his right
a broken column
in the background
a dark stormy sky
with a bright mark on the horizon

Mr Cogito
thinks
of his great-great-grandfather's death
without a shade of irony

did he lose
his sangfroid
when flames
mounted the window-sill

did he cry out
when he was dragged across the courtyard

did he fall
to his knees pleading
when they aimed
at the great star on his chest

Mr Cogito's
imagination
is small

like an orderly
lost in the fog

he doesn't see
the face
the uniform
the white trousers

he sees only
the dark stormy sky
with the bright mark on the horizon

 

He should not send his son

too many have seen
His son's pierced hands
his everyday skin

it was written
to atone for us
by the worst atonement

too many nostrils
inhaled with relish
the smell of his fear

one must not descend
low
fraternize with blood

He should not send his son
it was better to reign
in a baroque palace of marble clouds
on the throne of terror
with a scepter of death

 

So many books dictionaries
bloated encyclopedias
but no one to give advice

they studied the sun
the moon the stars
they lost me

my soul
refuses the solace
of knowledge

Rabbi Nachman
might give me advice
but how do I find him
among so many ashes

 

Mr Cogito's
favorite entertainment
is the Kropotkin game

it has many virtues
the Kropotkin game

it frees the historical imagination
and the sense of solidarity
it's played in the open air
abounds in thrilling episodes
its rules are noble
despotism always loses

on the great board of the imagination
Mr Cogito marshals the pieces

the king represents
Piotr Kropotkin in the Peter and Paul Fortress
the bishops three soldiers and a sentry
the castle the getaway carriage

Mr Cogito has many parts
from which he may choose

he can play
gorgeous Zofia Nikolaevna
she smuggles the escape plan
inside a watch case

he can also be the fiddler
in the little gray house
rented for the purpose
across from the prison
who plays
Abduction from the Seraglio
which means the coast is clear

but most of all
Mr Cogito likes
the role of Doctor Orestes Weimar

he engages the soldier at the gates
in conversation at a crucial moment

—ever seen a microbe Vanya
—never did
—but the sucker's all over you
—don't say that your honor
—all over and it's got a tail
—a long one?
—it'll be two or three furlongs

now the fur cap falls
over the sheep's eyes

and already
the Kropotkin game
is going full throttle

the prisoner-king moves with great bounds
grapples briefly with a flannel dressing gown
the fiddler in the little gray house
plays
Abduction from the Seraglio
you hear voices cry get him
Doctor Orestes raps on about microbes

a heartbeat
hobnailed boots on cobblestones
and finally the getaway carriage
the bishops are frozen on the spot

Mr Cogito
is happy as a child
again he has won the Kropotkin game

so many years
so many years now
Mr Cogito has been playing

but never has he
been tempted
by the role of the fugitive hero

not because of any dislike
for the blue blood
of the prince of anarchists
nor distaste for the theory
of mutual aid

it isn't due to cowardice either
Zofia Nikolaevna
the fiddler in the little gray house
Doctor Orestes
all put their heads on the line

but with them
Mr Cogito
identifies almost completely

if the need arose
he would even be a horse
for the fugitive's carriage

Mr Cogito
would like to be freedom's intermediary

hold the escape rope
smuggle the message
give the sign

trust the heart
the pure impulse of sympathy

but he doesn't want to answer for what
is written in the monthly
Freedom
by bearded men
of feeble imagination

he accepts a supporting role
he will not dwell in history

 

The lowest circle of hell. Contrary to popular opinion it is not populated by despots, matricides, or those who lust after the flesh of others. It is a retreat for artists, full of mirrors, instruments, and paintings. At first glance it is the most comfortable infernal department, free of tar, fire, and physical torture.

All year round competitions, festivals, and concerts are held. There is no peak season. The peak is permanent and virtually absolute. Every two or three months new movements are formed and nothing, it seems, will halt the triumphant march of the avant-garde.

Beelzebub is a lover of the arts. He boasts that his choirs, poets, and painters almost outdo those in heaven. Where there's better art, there's better government—that much is clear. Shortly they will be able to measure their strength at the Festival of Two Worlds. And then we'll see what remains of Dante, Fra Angelico, and Bach.

Beelzebub supports the arts. He guarantees his artists tranquillity, a healthy diet, and complete isolation from infernal life.

 

In Utica
the citizens
don't want to put up a defense

in the city an epidemic broke out
of an instinct of self-preservation

the temple of freedom
has been turned into a flea market

the senate deliberates on how
not to be a senate

the citizens
don't want to put up a defense
they enroll in accelerated courses
in falling to their knees

passively they wait for the enemy
write servile speeches
bury their gold

they sew new flags
innocent and white
teach children to lie

they've opened the gates
through which a column
of sand is now passing

apart from that as usual
commerce and copulation

Mr Cogito
would like to rise
to the occasion

that is
look fate
straight in the eye

like Cato the Younger
see Plutarch's
Lives

he does not have a sword
however
or an opportunity
to send his family overseas

so he waits with the others
pacing an insomniac room

despite the Stoics' advice
he'd like to have a body
of diamond and wings

he watches from the window
as the sun of the Republic
sinks toward the West

not much is left to him
really only
the choice of the attitude
in which he wishes to die
the choice of a gesture
the choice of a last word

so he does not go to bed
to avoid
being throttled in his sleep

he would like to rise
to the occasion fully

fate looks him in the eye
in a place where he once
had a head

 

Go where the others went before to the dark boundary
for the golden fleece of nothingness your last reward

go upright among those who are down on their knees
those with their backs turned those toppled in the dust

you have survived not so that you might live
you have little time you must give testimony

be courageous when reason fails you be courageous
in the final reckoning it is the only thing that counts

and your helpless Anger—may it be like the sea
whenever you hear the voice of the insulted and beaten

may you never be abandoned by your sister Scorn
for informers executioners cowards—they will win
go to your funeral with relief throw a lump of earth
a woodworm will write you a smooth-shaven life

and do not forgive in truth it is not in your power
to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn

beware however of overweening pride
examine your fool's face in the mirror
repeat: I was called—was there no one better than I

beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring
the bird with an unknown name the winter oak
the light on a wall the splendor of the sky
they do not need your warm breath
they are there to say: no one will console you

Keep watch—when a light on a hill gives a sign—rise and go
as long as the blood is still turning the dark star in your breast
repeat humanity's old incantations fairy tales and legends
for that is how you will attain the good you will not attain
repeat great words repeat them stubbornly
like those who crossed a desert and perished in the sand

for this they will reward you with what they have at hand
with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap

go for only thus will you be admitted to the company of cold skulls
to the company of your forefathers: Gilgamesh Hector Roland
the defenders of the kingdom without bounds and the city of ashes

Be faithful Go

FOR KASIA

 

I saw prophets tearing their false beards
I saw frauds joining sects of flagellants
executioners in sheep's clothing
who fled the people's wrath
playing shepherd's pipes

I saw it I saw it

is this the final act
of a play by Anonymous
spread out flat as a shroud
filled with muffled sobs
and the giggles of those
who heaving a sigh of relief
that they pulled it off again
after dead props are cleared
slowly
lift