Dark Ages cast their shadows on our dwelling,
beyond the shadows we can see no light,
and through the gloom hoarse voices are foretelling:
With such a past your future won't be bright!
Beloved Brothers of the Knowing Heart,
we have gathered on this summit,
not at a certain time, not in a particular place,
but in all parts of the Earth
and every era mankind has seen and will see,
to tell the world who we are!
We're a handful of new creations,
a whim of Nature, so to speak,
an experiment; and as Nature dismisses everything
that is not able to survive,
we'll have to fight, or we will be exterminated!
We have no leader apart from our spirit,
we have no followers apart from our mind,
and we are guided by determined will and intransigent love!
Whereas we strive for freedom, we're aware
that freedom is brought forth by life:
a dead man can't be free, no matter what they say -
therefore we value life at any stage,
opposed to the majority who doesn't,
who takes the life of others for whichever reason,
for from our own experience we know:
anybody could become one of us!
We will take an eye for an eye, and not two;
we will take a tooth for a tooth, not a jaw.
If our neighbour tries to steal our corn, we'll steal his;
if our neighbour tries to kill us, we'll kill him.
We have to protect life from those who take it,
but yet the only ones who have the right to take theirs
are their victims. Remember always:
anybody could become one of us!
We will pick up a gun and rise against oppressors -
not for a country or a nation,
not for the government or bourgeoisie,
but for ourselves and the ones we love!
We take the right to destroy any oppressor
with all his executives
to gain and defend our freedom!
We are frugal with our thunderbolts! Why should we strike
somebody down who in a few decades will be forgotten,
if with this very thunderbolt we could disrupt
a whole millennium of decadence?
How could he feel the earth beneath his feet
who doesn't know the Gospel according to Philotes,
who never worshipped himself in the Temple of Beauty,
who never saved a life and felt sorry for it,
who never went home when it wasn't there?
We've seen the gods, all dressed in women's clothes,
we've quaffed the cup of humankind,
we've grasped the spirit of the world in naked flesh,
and we've deflowered every claim for truth!
We feel no hatred for the servile masses,
those carnivores in flesh and herbivores in mind,
just as the lone wolf feels no hatred for the pack;
we only know our place is somewhere else,
and so we look upon them with love and pity
and sometimes jealousy. But still we know:
anybody could become one of us!
Afraid of thoughts they could not handle,
as they'd destroy the pillars of their assembly hall,
they close their doors to Life;
instead of flying on the wings of passion,
they lift their clubs against each other and enrol in
Satan's it-hued teatime force.
They call themselves human, but still there is
too much armpit-scratching and banana-throwing
to distinguish them from their fathers.
We know the advantages of their frowzy homeliness and common enmities.
It's easier to follow than to question.
It's easier to lead than to answer.
One day we'll take over, or we'll be gone,
an evolved species or a deserted freak.
We're only a handful, maybe not fit for survival -
what are the lion's chances against a pack of hyenas?
Yet we will stay in our place and not yield,
nobly succeeding or nobly perishing,
with forbearing pride, for we are still aware:
anybody could become one of them!
You rule the country in our name,
you give our money to the rich,
and you tell us that we're to blame
if we stay poor and others rich
- do you ever dream?
You're owner of our company
and like to watch us while we work,
we pile your profits patiently
till we're too old and weak to work
- do you ever dream?
You are executive of the state,
and you believe you got the right
to follow orders very straight
against those fighting for their right
- do you ever dream?
So you are victim of this game,
and there won't ever be a change,
for you shut up and bear the shame:
you pay for them, they keep the change
- do you ever dream?
The dome of rain still hangs around you,
the western winds still tear the sky,
just like the day that I once found you,
just like the day I once will die,
you saddest town of all.
Your careless beauty makes me shiver:
there's cans and daisies on your lawns,
and from a bench beside the river
through iron bars I see your swans,
you saddest town of all.
The clouded dark blue mantle covers
your opaque waters in the night,
for poets, suicides and lovers
the moon sends down her mystic light,
you saddest town of all.
The walls of silence still surround you,
and still the world is passing by,
just like the day that I once found you,
just like the day I once will die,
you saddest town of all.
The Tara Moon stood full and bright
amidst a clouded sky:
that blue I've never seen a night,
no holy place that high.
Here is it where in olden days
the gods and kings did dwell;
now sheep are grazing in the place
where Erin rose and fell.
But midnight came, and then once more
the graves gave birth, and all
those bodies buried long before
went to the Banquet Hall.
And once again a cheerful crowd
would dance and laugh and sing
and each ten minutes cry out loud:
Long live the Tara King!
And once again his fellowmen
to him their sons would bring
and say as joyful as they can:
Long live the Tara King!
Another knight would offer here
his girl a wedding ring
and even louder join the cheer:
Long live the Tara King!
But then I heard a bleat from there,
and all those brave young men,
those merry girls and ladies fair
turned into sheep again.
Erin's ruins stand in blossom,
jewellery from Nature's store,
bounteous like the Hanging Gardens
Babylon was famous for.
Flowers, purple, pink and yellow,
red as blood, blue as the sky,
breaking through the walls of ivy,
bring a heaven to our eye.
Everything that man created,
Beauty conquers it at last,
and the Paradise is growing
over dwellings of the past.
The moon is full and pale,
and vapour fills the dale -
none of God's creatures is
out on a night like this;
even the water vole
retired to its hole,
the birds have ceased their song,
but I still ride along.
Only my life I claim;
with freedom as my aim
and hunger as my guide
across the moor I ride.
The fog grows denser now,
but I shall keep my vow
to ride until I find
peace for my troubled mind,
though I can hardly see
the trees in front of me.
The first time since I've fled
I slowly turn my head,
and in the humid grey
the workhouse fades away;
since there's no place to hide,
across the moor I ride.
My stallion raised his ears,
cause from the mist appears
a rider swift and grim;
I do not look at him,
but still my weary eyes
see a black cloak that flies
around a scrawny shade,
and they can see the blade,
reflecting through the haze
the pallid moonlight's rays -
a stranger by my side,
across the moor I ride.
On Sundays people go to Mass,
and some go on a hike,
and some go dancing with their lass;
I go and ride my bike.
Down Sackville Street by bike I go,
along the old canal,
from GHQ to GPO
so oft I cannot tell.
£10,000 are on my head,
but still my bike I race:
the foreign forces want me dead,
but they forgot my face.
Through all patrols, round every fence,
and, voicing my dislike,
through all the raids of Black and Tans
I go and ride my bike.
And now the foreign forces sent
their master spies to kill
the members of our government,
but I don't think they will.
At nine we're standing at their door -
the final blow we'll strike,
and then, a free man evermore,
I'll go and ride my bike.
If you don't eat your tea and cease to fight
the praties with your fork,
the Drumcree Bogey will appear tonight,
and with a frown he'll gawk
at you and take you to his murky cave,
where rats and leeches keep his company,
where louse and cockroach live in unity
and many a child is working as his slave;
there, with an evil sparkle in his eye,
he'll murmur: 'I -, I -, anal spye!'
I'm not afraid, for I don't fear
his apoplectic face,
and I will run if he comes near -
I know that he can't race!
If you don't do your blinking homework right
and tidy up your room,
the Drumcree Bogey will appear tonight
and bring you to your doom.
He'll grab you with his paws and bring you down
into his black cadaver-flooded den,
where ancient fetid constipated men
pray to a brittle idol made of crown,
and with an evil sparkle in his eye
he'll bawl out: 'I -, I -, anal spye!'
I know that he looks fierce and grim,
but if he comes too close,
I'll throw green oranges at him
and punch him on the nose.
If you don't go to bed, switch off the light
and sleep before we're back,
the Drumcree Bogey will appear tonight
and put you in his sack.
Then, in his gloomy dwelling, rife with age,
you'll listen to his fits against mankind
and to the ravings of his bilious mind
and to the thunder of his blinkered rage,
and with an evil sparkle in his eye
he'll bellow: 'I -, I -, anal spye!'
I'm conscious of his decadence,
and if he rants like that,
I'll hide my face behind my hands,
and thus I won't get wet.
Hard fists and whingy dirges,
hard facts and oral lore,
hard luck and emigration
and praties by the score.
Thick ferns and lofty palm trees
and nimbi in the sky,
and many an attractive
colleen to please the eye.
The lakes, the moors and mountains
where ancient rivers roll,
the farmers and the poets,
the children and the dole.
Rough coasts and rougher language
and gingerbread for tea,
and rugged hills and people
determined to be free.
The Celtic Boar still lies asleep
to rise again at break of day.
As long as he's in slumber deep,
he is a playground for his prey:
the lamb has climbed him in his bed
and makes the V-sign on his head.
Awake! Awake and greet the dawn,
welcome the blessing of the day,
and show thy tusks with every yawn
to scare the cheeky lamb away;
then from the god above break free
and wake the ancient gods in thee!
The sun smiles brightly from the bluest skies:
this is the day to seize the day,
and so I walk along the busy road
to drink the beauties Life provides.
Ignoring all impatient motorists
I breathe the air of wood and sea,
and with the poet's heart I strongly feel
the power of the quiet things.
The cragged mountains are all dressed in firs,
in grass and broom, and far and near
there's daisies flanking streets and little brooks
and bluebells ringing in my eyes.
And after miles and miles I reach the lake
whose beauty crowns the pleasant walk,
sit down beside the water and refresh
my senses and my tired feet.
Soon two mute swans enjoy my company,
while every now and then some cars,
trespassers from a poorer world, rush by,
but pass too fast to break the peace.
And on I walk to see the waterfall
that's coming down the ancient rock:
the vibrant waterfall is grey with youth,
the ancient rock is green with age.
A tourist brings his family: he puts
them all beside the waterfall
and takes a snapshot, then they turn around
to hurry to another sight.
Barbed wires separate me from the brook
that's leading to the waterfall,
but I have climbed barbed wires all my life
to get the fragrance of this world.
And in the silence of the little stream,
surrounded by the whisp'ring trees,
uniting with the forces of the earth,
I rest and let my spirit roam.
The river is me as he springs from the hill
and leaps through the valley in bends wild and still,
caressing the meadows with life-giving touch,
embracing the woods with his nourishing clutch.
The river is me as he rolls through the plains
in quest of the ocean, and nothing restrains
his powerful current, his light-hearted soul:
he knows of no aim but to roll, but to roll.
The river is me as he kisses the sea;
there, where he is strongest, he ceases to be.
He flows through this world, yet his waters run free:
as I am the river, the river is me.
Walk softly on the mellow ground
and find a place to rest
your bones, because the slightest sound
might wake another guest.
This is a peaceful land. Our King
in silence leads his flock;
on Sundays we're allowed to sing
and hymn till twelve o'clock.
With milk and honey we are fed,
fed each and every day,
our bed is fluffy cotton, spread
upon a sheaf of hay.
Don't you admire the stars and sun
and hills? There is so much.
Those beauties shall be looked upon -
they vanish with a touch.
So praise our King, but drop your voice,
and treat your hungry eyes,
and let your weary heart rejoice:
you're now in Paradise.
Their unfitness they emphasise
by spitting everywhere:
they feel despised, so they despise,
but still they want their share.
They see the world is full of sham
and still don't want to quit;
they know the whole world spits on them,
and so they spit on it.
They're leaving every now and then
their pools both great and small,
and I still wonder why these men
don't shrivel after all.
Unconsciously, without an aim,
they grease the ground below -
like filthy dogs who mark their claim
wherever they may go.
They're bashful, but they feel they must
express their soul's complaint;
they're not aware of our disgust
and not of their constraint.
It's fun to join the other lads
and raise your self-esteem:
who has the biggest mickey, who
provides the thickest stream?
How many have their foreskins left,
who has the strongest fall,
who lets it dangle free, who gets
that spider off the wall?
We're squeezed into a narrow space;
my neighbour stands quite close,
and if he sprinkles on my hand -
well, that's the way it goes.
We use no tissue in this dear
society of friends,
and so the last drop always flows
into my underpants.
I never wash my hands, as there's
no dirt that I could see;
I'm sure my pint glass holds more germs
than what comes out of me.
'The next time I will get it right!'
(sworn after every ex);
your girl might be a noble sight,
but she's of fickle sex.
Pretend the gifts that she bestows
on you were rare and dear,
pretend that you believe her vows,
swear what she wants to hear.
She will convince you that she's true,
and you should do the same;
but as she won't be true to you,
why should you miss a game?
A goddess often hides her charms,
a clown will take her place:
the less that she respects herself,
the more she paints her face.
Due cose belle ha il mondo:
amore e morte.
Italian Saying
Two things are really beautiful
on earth: that's Love and Death!
That is what an old saying says:
they both will take your breath.
I damn my youth and loneliness!
I damn each single day,
because these things so beautiful
are oh! so far away!
With your fingers on a button,
staring at a narrow screen,
you prepare your next adventure,
captured in a programmed scene.
Hunting over flick'ring mountains,
battling on a stormy sea,
chasing knights across the forest:
you, who never saw a tree.
There's a mountain at your doorstep
and a sea to swim and dive
and a forest full of action:
meet the cyberspace of life!
No places to go to, no people to meet,
no faces that know you and talk in the street,
no woman whose smile cuts your heart like a knife;
there's nothing as calm as a day without life.
No need to say sorry, no need to forgive:
a good day to die and a good day to live!
The flow of your time is too easy to strife;
there's nothing as bright as a day without life.
I cannot leave the places
I love, and I can't stay,
I live with untied laces,
remain and walk away.
To know a place a life is not sufficient,
to see them all an aeon not enough,
and if I had the lantern of Aladdin
I'd be in every place at every time.
Unless the skies unravel
the secrets of the day:
forever I will travel,
forever I will stay.
My love is gone and slanders me,
the sky is dim and grey,
but since a child has smiled at me,
nothing can spoil my day.
Of jobs and women I recall:
have one, and you can have them all!
Oh, I advise you: love not with your heart!
You would abuse your nose if you would try
to eat with it, and soon your shepherd's pie
would sting your nose tube like a fiery dart.
At busy crossroads it would not be smart
to look out with your ear and close your eye:
you will get hurt, and you might even die,
if you refuse to use the proper part!
Your teeth were made to grind the mellow spud,
your neck was made to bend your head and shove
down all that food, and for the endless flood
of drinks your throat was made, the brain above
to think. Your heart was made to pump the blood;
another part of you was made to love.
Busaras Station Tuesday night,
as I was leaving town;
behind the iron gates two girls
were walking up and down.
They had bright sparkling eyes, short skirts,
long legs and long blonde hair,
and answered with a friendly smile
my most admiring stare.
Their stunning beauty took my breath,
my heart refused to beat,
and my excitement rose as they
paced up and down the street.
Two honest samples of their sex,
they mean just what they say,
for they will tell you in advance
how much you'll have to pay.
I watched them till the bus drove off;
I could not keep my eyes
from their divinest bodies and
not from their well-shaped thighs.
Their legs were slim and smooth as necks
of swans, and just as pale
as marble temple pillars, or
as birches in the vale.
I would have loved to see and taste
the heaven twixt those trees,
to grasp and chew the knolls and buds,
while squeezed between their knees.
I felt the urge to talk to them
and ask them for some fags,
but as I had no money, I
can only praise their legs.
Spring entered through the open window
with the sweet fragrance of a blossom
I've smelt quite often since,
although I never could make out
the flow'r or tree.
Wide awake, trying to fall asleep,
I lay upon the bed
and felt the yellow sheet against my body.
I lay upon the bed and thought of her,
my country classmate and her rosy cheeks,
her long blonde hair, her warm brown eyes,
her friendly smile, her velvet voice,
her firm small breasts, her dainty body...
I thought of her and felt relieved.
Then I looked at my sheet.
I knew what it was, but still I was surprised
to see that stuff.
Golden coaches of the High King,
chasing fast through snow and frost,
pulled by hundred wingèd horses,
cannot bring what I have lost.
Western winds with breaths of iron,
of their gentleness bereft,
wildly blowing through the country,
cannot bring what I have left.
Spirits of the past and future
who can visit every spot
that there ever was or will be,
cannot bring what I forgot.
There are birds that quack or coo or croak
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't sing!
There are birds that hide their heads in the sand
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't fly!
There are birds that dwell in solitude
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't flock!
There are birds that stay throughout the winter
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't move!
There are birds that build their nests in trees
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't swim!
There are birds that live on fruits and seeds
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't kill!
There are birds that sit in lonesome cages
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds aren't free!
The full moon's silver bowl is poured
into the indigo of night,
sinister brightness drowns the earth
with houses dead and graves alive,
and Death is dancing on the roof.
The wolf obeys the lunar call,
the raven preys upon the rose,
the silent ocean claims her share;
the air is still, the air is cold,
and Death is dancing on the roof.
His hollow eyes are watching us:
they follow every living thing,
and patiently he takes his aim,
and suddenly he strikes his blow,
as Death is dancing on the roof.
The sharp blade of his sickle glints
intensely through the purple night,
his cape is blacker than our fate,
his drinking-horn filled to the brim,
as Death is dancing on the roof.
Looking up at little children,
taking every kind of fun
seriously, living easy,
growing younger every day:
I'm on the Road
Nobody knows a flower's fashion,
can tell a blossom by the root;
we only get a vague impression
as soon as we can see the shoot.
Cast a warm summer with some showers,
and every little plant will thrive:
roots will bring forth all kinds of flowers,
and children are the roots of life!
My daddy's name is Santa Claus.
He is laid back and mild,
and you may think I would have cause
to be a happy child.
I get more presents, this is true,
and though this may appear
as an advantage unto you:
I see him once a year.
I envy all those kids whose dads
are living on the dole,
for they have time for their own lads -
mine's working at the pole.
On Christmas Eve I'll wash my face,
a carol I will sing,
and then sit at the fire-place
to hear the sleigh bells ring.
I'll wait until I see his boot
appearing on the grate,
my mom will dust his crimson suit
and tell him that he's late.
He'll say that he is on his way
to bring the toys he made,
and that he'll take me there one day
to learn our fathers' trade.
He'll kiss me by the Christmas tree
and tell me I'm all right,
but he has no more time for me
than for my mom that night.
Now I am back in Germany
and wish that I could hide:
I dream I was back home in Galway,
back home at Riverside.
Each morning I drew back the curtain,
and through the window's glass
I always watched the Ginger Fairy
playing amidst the grass.
She talks to sparrows and to beetles,
turns princes into frogs,
as her companions she has kittens,
her bodyguards are dogs.
There's magic everywhere she goes,
and on a gloomy day
there is a cure that cannot fail:
just watch the fairy play.
Between the little girl and me
no single word was spoken.
I didn't even dare to try -
the spell might have been broken.
Her elder sister's just as nice,
a nymphet in her prime,
but she'll be casting spells on guys
in just a few years' time.
I may forget my home and castle,
my folk and parents, too,
but all my life I will remember
the Ginger Fairy from Crescent View.
Gone are the days of the next-door horizon:
endless is everything, nothing important,
everything alters and nothing will change.
Watching the wheels or attempting to turn them
won't change their speed and won't change their direction:
with you, without you this world stays the same.
Nothing to wait for and nothing to fight for,
nothing to live for and nothing to die for;
still it is nice to be here.
We know what we do when the waters are gathering round us,
our mind and our conscience are clear when we're tying the knot,
we know what we do when were finally pulling the trigger,
for looking at Life's opportunities, this is the best.
We won't give you hints or a sign that we want you to help us,
we won't beg for pity or hope to be rescued in time;
would your respect for us grow if you knew what we're up to,
and would you not only pretend that you suddenly care?
You dare to accuse us of causing you heartache and sorrow,
but why should we suffer a lifetime to set you at ease?
This curious meaningless world was not made for our people:
we know we are leaving for good and know certainly why!
He lived in the city. His pleasures were few.
A pint in the evening, some more at the weekend,
a fag after work and a girl now and then.
On Sundays he'd sit in his small empty room
and wait for his Monday to come. Downstairs
old ladies would meet and have biscuits and tea.
His dream was his home, but he didn't remember.
A long time had passed since he'd been there. The clouds
came in through his window, he fed them and sighed.
The indigo carriage of gods of the country
was certainly gone, and the bread of the fairies
would never arrive at his house. To the castle
the ravens and swallows would fly, but not him.
Embracing the memories that he had left
and counting the blessings that Life had rejected,
he dropped his old shoes at the bed. In winter
he'd sleep in a carpet that granny had bought him
in happier days. From the frame of the door
hung down something yellow. His socks and his mornings
were dark as the night of a greyhound in gaol.
He once had to sell his collection of hymens
to get his small television repaired,
but soon it was broken again. His betrayers
allowed him to rescue the rest of his teeth,
which wasn't a lot. He was good at his work -
not excellent, though, but quite good. In his fridge
he stored what the landlord was never to see,
and down in the village they all didn't know him.
The mountains, the oceans, the birds and the graveyards
were far, far away, and he couldn't be bothered.
He sat in his room and was chewing his fingers
and waiting for Monday and looking outside.
The strangeness of being we fondly endure
by searching for systems, so simple and pure,
that every man jack, every fool and his wife
may manage to fathom the meaning of Life.
The quest for this meaning divides us from beast;
we feel we are chosen, to say but the least -
and why? We research. The result of our strife:
we're smarter for searching a meaning of Life.
The gods drink their nectar and water the land,
and what they created they don't understand;
like Beauty I never would question but see,
the strangeness of being is nectar to me.
As soon as you're speechless, you lift up your arm:
'Me dad's done the same, and't din't do me no harm!'
The blow of your hand, be it hard, be it slight,
just proves that you're stronger but not that you're right.
A thrashing, a clip on the ear - it's all one
and shows disrespect for your daughter or son.
A bomb can wipe out many millions of men -
do you think it was nice if it killed only ten?
'It was only a smack'; you may swim with the tide,
but the damage you've done is not on the outside.
You're proud that your child now obeys when you call;
your child is afraid, not judicious at all.
Your kids who are constantly scared by your paw
grow up with the knowledge: the fist is the law!
The parents of bullies, vexatious and wild,
you see more of the Gards than you see of your child.
Frustrated and angry, you'll moan before long;
'By Jesus and Mary, what have we done wrong?' -
You taught them that violence solves every row
and expect them to be peaceful citizens now?
You have learned, travelled far,
emptied out Pleasure's jar,
been a slave, been a Tsar,
seen the bright morning star,
yet you lock every bar:
have you seen what you are?
The dying trade was weak, her servants silent,
but only those who sang her death song died;
the others scorn the joys these realms provide
and hope for others on another island.
Instead of Beauty they all worship Duty,
and men apologise for being there,
grim raven-collared toads croak everywhere,
but there's no minstrel who would sing of Beauty.
Beauty is gone long since - the sickly pigeon
survived the graceful swan, as now we know.;
who would have thought a hundred years ago
that Poetry would die before Religion?
The church bells are ringing, solemnly calling
the people to come to Mass for the masses.
The people are going, the people are list'ning,
and then they go home, child and husband and wife,
go home and continue the life they were living
as told by the priest.
One life. One god. One spouse. If I had only
the gods of Homer, the wives of King Solomon,
and with them, Almighty, the spirit I have!!!
The cave is still there and the paintings within,
the seeds they consumed and the tools that they used,
the bones of their prey and the stones on their graves;
the river, the river is rolling.
Their images, sealed by the skin of the earth,
will always be lifelessly lying between
the mountains of skulls from the wars of their gods;
the river, the river is rolling.
The smoke disappeared and the chimney decays,
the cross falls apart and the church bells are mute,
the houses deserted and covered with weeds;
the river, the river is rolling.
Thy flesh was white and so is mine,
as white as that of stainless sheep,
and still my wound is just as deep -
what better is thy flesh than mine?
Thy blood was red and so is mine,
as red as some sweet summer's rose,
and yet the wound still grows and grows -
what better is thy blood than mine?
Our lives are spotless and divine:
we never fell from our belief,
it may have caused us joy or grief -
thou hadst thy values, I have mine.
For love of man thou once didst die,
and diest again for all the shame
wherever people call thy name
and make thy hymn a lullaby.
I live - alive I'll always be:
I won't be crucified with jeers
nor hurt with jaded soldiers' spears;
take up thy cross and follow me!
Waiting for the lightning,
without a blossom or a leaf,
the blackboy stands: a tree among the trees.
He seems to bear no life,
nor any beauty may he call his own;
no food to squirrels and no home for birds,
not seen by men - he stands just there,
waiting for the lightning.
And thunder comes and storm and lightning,
and soon the world around him is on fire -
the colours of the flowers fade away,
the flames destroy the beauties of the forest,
the trunks of mighty trees are burnt to ashes:
the wood is gone, deserted lies the land.
But now the blackboy stands amidst the desert
like God once stood amidst the chaos,
in fullest bloom, in most outstanding beauty,
in gracefulness and glory never known,
and spreads his seeds among the others' ashes.
Evening. Darkness. Midnight. Fear.
He sat. He lit a fag. He spoke.
Spoke to the wind. The trees. The gentry.
Far from the woods. The wolves were howling.
And suddenly thunder and lightning and horror
was filling the place, and the beasts ran in terror,
but could not escape their destruction and death!
The storm broke the trunks of invisible trees
and shattered the rocks and the faith in the gods,
leaving a trace of blood behind him
as he moved eastwards to the city.
He sat. He lit a fag. He spoke.
Midnight. Morning. Sunrise. Fear.
I.
Upon Mount Casablanca Satan stood
and felt the joyful sting of nightly lust,
he watched the planets turning into dust
by love, and he agreed that it was good.
He'd only have to think the word and could
harvest the billion votaries who trust
his foe and brother, but he knows he must
not hurry nor delay. One day he would
reap what he sowed with all its roots and plant
a belladonna herb with rampant twigs
to feed his bird who constantly would chant
beside the soothing ripple of the Styx;
there's fifty stars that move at his command,
but soon there'll be six hundred and sixty-six.
II.
I'm back again: the Raven eats my heart.
So scarlet is the blossom of the rose,
black is the stem and black the leaves; who knows
how it began? The Raven eats my heart.
I was a man; the Raven eats my heart.
The flower's full grave petals will disclose
her sweet and bitter scent to me. Who grows
this poison then? The Raven eats my heart.
To feel the thorn, to feel the faithful thorn!
And then again, forever to depart
from what we never leave; who isn't torn
between his will to live and Beauty's mart,
who's there who never wished that he was born,
or always did? The Raven eats my heart.
III.
Black clouds obscure the moon, the night is rough,
and I expected her. The cold winds blow,
she waits for me upon her stone; we know
that for a life a lifetime is enough.
Blue eyes that spark amongst the blackest fluff
invite me to the hide-out of the Crow:
she nods her head, persuading me to go,
and in a bracing gale my spirits luff.
She looks like many a sorceress who hollowed
out my entire heart right from the core,
and tore my senses and my flesh and swallowed
my mind and soul in happier days of yore.
The Crow departs; I follow as I followed
black shocks and azure eyes so oft before.
The cockroaches are looking for food around the fridge. They hear
footsteps, and the light is switched on. They hurry under the fridge,
but one is left behind, and the opener crushes it with his heel.
Choir: Oh Master of all and Creator of every creature,
oh Father of the first clutch and Avenger of evil,
devoutly we bow before thee and thy glory and beauty!
For thou art our Saviour, thy love is our blessing and fortune,
but hard is thy punishment, hard in the neck of the wicked,
for those of thy children who dare to look at thy beauty
are crushed by thy merciless heel for their infamous deed!
Thou shin'st in the night and bringst light into sinister darkness,
thou comest to us from the heavens to see if thy children
still hold thy commandments, to bless us and save us from evil!
Opener: Burp! He opens the fridge.
Choir: Thou openst thy treasure again for our undeserved blessings,
thou helpst us in troubles and givest in times of our need!
Opener drops a piece of meat and kicks it under the fridge.
Choir: Thou knowest that we would be left in the desert of sinners,
hadst thou not directed our way to the Promised Land!
Thou givest us manna; thou knowest that we are not able
to care for ourselves, so thou gently providest for us!
Opener drops his tin of beer.
Opener: Oh fuck! He picks it up again, but a pool is left on the floor.
Choir: Thy voice sounds like music to us, and thy people
are grateful for every word that thou sayest, and humbly
we listen to thee, and the speech of thy lips is our law!
Opener closes the fridge, leaves and switches the light off.
The cockroaches gather around the pool.
Choir: The light of thy presence still shines in our darkness, oh Father!
We know that thou leavest us never for long in the night!
Thou quenchest our thirst with ambrosia over and over,
thou never forgetst any one of thy children, sweet Master,
and up to the heavens, immortal Creator and Leader,
our praise and our song of thy glory shall rise!
The King sat on his throne and raised his glass,
and all the peers around his table cheered,
he welcomed everybody of his class,
and soon the dishes that were served were cleared.
He told his most outstanding deeds to pass
the hours and often smiled with pride or sneered,
and as they got into the mood for jests,
he called his Jester to amuse his guests.
The Jester rang his bell, arranged his gown,
and, pointing at the King, he grinned and said:
'This man has robbed me of my cherished crown
and put a fool's cap on my head instead;
the noblest man is forced to act the clown,
meanwhile the meanest plays the country's head!'
The monarch listened to those postulates
and giggled like a schoolgirl who's in fits.
The Jester rang his bell: 'His Majesty
talked of his deeds. I'm sure he hasn't told
you he has stolen everything from me:
my garments and my treasures and my gold!
There was a time when I was just as free
and rich as he in merry days of old.'
The King enjoyed the floor show with his train
and held his waist as if he was in pain.
The Jester rang his bell with knitted brows:
'I've loved the fairest woman in the land -
we had some fields, a garden and a house.
We were a cheerful couple: hand in hand
I used to walk the meadows with my spouse,
or I would lie beside her on the strand.
Then came the King and took my loving wife;
he'll pay for this betrayal with his life!'
The monarch burst out laughing with his crew
and, choking on the wine he gulped, fell down
beneath the table while his face turned blue.
Straight his physician came, but with a frown
he felt his pulse: 'There's nothing I can do.'
The Jester took his wife, his gold and crown;
and happy minstrels evermore will sing
the Ballad of the Jester and the King.
It was the night of Samhain; white
and thoughtful was the moon,
and at the river sat Marie
and hummed a lovers' tune.
The wood was cold, the raven croaked,
the air was fresh and mild.
The waters parted; from the waves
her husband rose and smiled.
'Beloved Edward! Do you come
from Heaven or from Hell?
What's God, what are his angels like,
and do they feed you well?
'And if you'd like to meet a friend,
would you be free to go?
Do you have knowledge of the things
you always longed to know?'
'What makes you think that all is clear
after your final breath?
How silly is it to believe
you're wiser after death.
'Here is no road to walk upon,
no guide to Fiddler's Green,
no angels come to show the way,
no Lord has yet been seen.
'Here is no Heaven and no Hell,
here is no Golden Shore:
we walk in darkness night and day,
just as we did before.
'Our souls live on, and still we have
to struggle and to strive;
we don't know more 'bout afterlife
than you do know 'bout life.
'Our souls live on - we have no choice
to be or not to be;
our souls live on - and from this life
no death will set us free!'
'Oh Edward, how I miss your love,
your kindness and your kiss!'
And, stepping closer to the shore,
she put her hands in his.
'You married me 'cos I was rich;
you killed me for the same
reason - I want to take revenge,
and this is why I came.'
He kissed her gently and embraced
his spouse and held her tight:
'From now on I will cling to you
till death do us unite!'
He pressed Marie against his breast,
his smile was cold and grim,
and where the river meets the sea,
he drew her down with him.
Eight hours a day and forty hours a week,
a hundred and seventy hours a month
and many a thousand hours a year
I take those plastic parts out of machines
and put them into boxes.
And when a box is full, I close it
and get another one, and then again
I take those plastic parts out of machines...
what price to pay to live in Paradise!
If I was living back in Germany,
I'd be amongst a bunch of happy children
to spend the day with and get paid for it.
I'd love to work, and I could save my money
for years and years, and when I'm old and grey
I might be able to afford a house in Ireland.
Yet here, unless I have a sex change, I will never
be working as a playgroup leader,
and so I take those plastic parts out of machines...
what price to pay to live in Paradise!
But when I walk along the rolling river
and climb the wild and rugged hills,
and when I breathe the air of fields and forests
or listen to the fury of the bay,
I happily remember what has brought me here,
and I'm aware that there's no sacrifice too big,
no price too steep to live in Paradise!
Once upon a time, or rather
in the gloomy future ages,
lived a kind and caring father,
loving husband, man of fame,
a scientist of Life who viewed the pages
of History and hung his head in shame,
Knowing of the awful slaughters
that attend all human cultures,
parents killing sons and daughters,
noble races, slain in wars;
men seeking carrion like hungry vultures,
yet not to feed themselves - what is the cause?
Genocide is somewhat newer:
soldiers fought for tribe or nation
when the men on earth were fewer,
but the knights would slay the knights;
yet since the world's Americanization
the innocent expire in pointless fights.
The contempt for life in cities
seems to be the worst: they care not,
while the countryman still pities
any neighbour in dismay -
but many townsmen fight and kill and spare not
the old and weak, while others look away.
Why is Life's esteem so clouded
and its value so rejected
when the place or time is crowded
and the people lack their space?
Could it not be that Nature has protected
herself against an all-consuming race?
So he learned of other jammings
leading into self-destruction,
watched the travels of the lemmings
and the rats that eat their brood:
he found the trace of Nature's self-reduction
and started to research in hopeful mood.
Soon he found the body's guidon
to the course of fatal features,
and he called it suicidon,
due to the effect it had:
its influence will cause the tamest creatures
to kill their kind and to go raving mad.
Any overpopulated
race must soon destroy her beauty,
therefore Nature has created
suicidon to assure
that no one ever keeps her from her duty,
for always Nature's balance must endure.
Every race she instituted
spreads it to a slight degree - she's
making sure it's well diluted
and its doses fairly small:
as long as there are few of any species,
their suicidon can't be sensed at all.
But in case the population
of a species is increasing
drastically, its concentration
will increase accordingly,
and, sensed by many creatures, its displeasing
effects will set their hate and anger free.
Those will turn against their brothers
and the families they live in,
kill the young and slay their mothers
and exterminate their kind;
the sensible of those who have to give in
at least to kill themselves make up their mind.
All the suicides, oppressions,
homicides, each hostile action,
all the wars and all aggressions,
children slain before their birth
show Nature's most destructive self-protection
to limit human beings on her earth.
All the battles of the nations,
poisoners of air and water,
all the nuclear power stations,
careless drivers and hard drugs
attest like priests of violence and slaughter
that suicidon turns us into thugs!
Soon the substance was located
by the scientist who sprightly
had a great deal isolated
from his subjects; with a gloat
he stored it in a flask and sealed it tightly
and started to prepare the antidote.
'Fights and wars are disappearing,
and my children will be able
to grow up in peace!' - Then, hearing
breaking glass, he sensed the end:
the wind had blown the flask down from the table -
or was it Nature's omnipotent hand?
'Why', he thought, 'why should I worry?
Am I then my brothers' keeper?
If they want to fight and hurry
to their deaths, let them expire!
Mankind is low, and it will sink much deeper -'
He set his studies and his house on fire.
So I have to leave my friends and beloved ones
to kill my brothers and sisters
who happen to live under the jurisdiction
of another government,
and it's unlikely that I'll ever return.
In a few years
one of the parties will hoist the white flag
over our graves.
And those who sent me out to die
will meet at a marble table,
sign a paper and
shake hands.
The clearest, the bluest, the coldest of all,
this indigo night leaves her brand on my soul,
the full moon implies with his mystical light:
there's always, there's always an end of the night.
The birches are pale in the light of the moon,
the swans are asleep in the cradle of June,
the river convinces me, moved by my plight:
there's always, there's always an end of the night.
For freedom I hunger, and freedom I'll find -
the peace of the churchyard enlightens my mind,
between all the stones I hear voices that say:
the end of the night is not always the day.
The servant sings the songs of freedom
in local pubs and cheers,
for this improves a man's digestion
and adds the spice to beers.
-HEINRICH HEINE
Standing at the bar, I listened
to their talk of revolution,
and their sweaty faces glistened
as they said: 'The casts remain -
our weapons aim at every institution
that keeps the slave in bonds without the chain!'
'Bring the government of neighbours;
we don't want a lord or master!' -
'And the land on which one labours
and the harvest must be his!' -
'Those goddamn jerks who tell us to work faster
don't value Life and Freedom as it is!' -
'They allege we have no morals,
being used to their inflation.' -
'Till the gallows or the laurels
we will fight for anarchy',
announced their leader to his congregation,
'for every man and woman shall be free!'
Soon the pints became more shallow,
so he raised his arm, and staring
at the stump I heard him bellow:
'One more round for all my friends!'
I watched them closer as they kept on swearing
and realised that none of them had hands.
In better days the Bearded People
lived happily in the green fields of Harmony Hill,
and dancingly, lovingly, drinkingly, fightingly passing
their days, they thought of no evil.
But, gazing with envy upon their rich meadows and orchards,
watching their harvest being too full to be gathered,
the Shaved People assembled one day at the bottom
of Harmony Hill and decided to conquer the land.
They invaded the hill with their army at night
and slaughtered the children, the men and the women in their beds:
the few who survived had to serve the Shaved People,
and while the invaders were selling their fruits to the neighbours,
they starved to death.
There was food for the Shaved People - not for the Bearded.
There were rights for the Shaved People - not for the Bearded.
For aeons they slaughtered each other:
the Shaved killed the Bearded to strengthen their position,
the Bearded killed the Shaved to free their country.
They massacred men and women and children
as long as their facewear made them an enemy.
One day, at the top of Harmony Hill, their leaders
met face to face, and, lifting their spears to start the battle,
abused one another with voices that shrieked with excitement.
'We've lived on this hill ever since; we were happy
until you invaded our country and butchered our people,
until you enslaved us and stole all our wealth from this land!
Go home now and leave us in peace, or we'll fight you
until your race is exterminated or ours!' -
'We did not invade this hill' , screamed the other,
'we were born, we were bred on Harmony Hill:
there's no other home that we could or we would ever go to.
Don't blame the Shaved People for the deeds of their fathers;
they may have brought us here by their conquest,
but Harmony Hill is our home, and it always will be!'
They looked closely into each other's eyes
and straightened and hesitated and trembled
and finally lowered their spears.
'But what can we do?', they sadly said to each other,
'as long as there's different facewears, the war will go on!' -
'But why should we have different facewears at all?
If we all wore moustaches, we'd all be the same!'
So the Shaved and the Bearded People laid down their weapons
and grew moustaches.
The next generations will still talk about the feast
that followed on Harmony Hill:
Moustached People sharing their wine and their fruits and their lives,
not asking the previous facewear of any brother
sitting beside them!
- But in hidden holes in the ground of Harmony Hill,
anxiously lurking like rats on the pounce,
there are Shaved People still and Bearded People, armed to their teeth,
waiting for their time to come!
Why hast thou abused my faith, Lord?
After victory in battle,
fought for thee, it was my daughter
who was waiting at the door.
How couldst thou do this to thy faithful servant,
how couldst thou do this to thy people's judge?
Every time I was returning
home from battle with the laurel,
it would be my wife who's standing
at the door to greet her man,
to sling her massive arms around my shoulders
and tell me that she's happy I am back.
With her childish voice she'd ask me
if I missed her hugs and kisses
on the battlefield, and if I
killed a lot of enemies,
then she would hide my face beneath her wrinkles
and drag me up the stairs to prove my strength.
Now the Ammonites were fighting
to restore the land their fathers
populated, and I promised
that to thee I'd sacrifice
the person who would meet me at my doorstep,
if thou wouldst give them all into my hand.
Thou hast heard my earnest prayer
and delivered them, but bitter
turned the victory at Mizpah,
when I saw my daughter's smile
as she awaited her beloved father
and kissed me at the threshold of my house.
Never will her blooming body
know Love's pleasures, never will her
songs delight a lover, never
will I see her smile again.
Why must it be my wife who gives me comfort,
why must it be my girl who climbs the pyre?
Healing blind and curing hunchbacks,
fractures, plagues and evil spirits,
Jesus Christ was busy when he
was disturbed by two young men.
John's disciples came to Jesus,
and they said: 'Our master sent us,
who prepared the way for you,
and whom you have now forgotten.
'In the dungeon of King Herod
he is suff'ring for his teachings:
there he never sees the daylight,
there he lives amongst the rats.
'He who prophesied our saviour
lies in chains and wants to know if
you're the one, or if Judea
has to wait for someone else.'
Jesus said: 'Go back and tell him
what you see: the blind can see now,
and the lame are swiftly walking,
and the lepers have been cleansed.
'Deaf can hear, the dead are rising,
and the poor can hear good news,
and the man is blessed forever
who takes no offence at me!’
Simon came to him with Judas,
and they said: 'Whatever happened,
John deserves to hear the answer
from yourself or your disciples.
'He has prophesied your coming
and prepared the way for you,
and if we are talking to him,
we might even save his soul.'
So they went to see the Baptist
in the dungeon of King Herod,
and a servant with a torch
led them through the narrow hall.
'I smell treachery', a thund'ring
voice was chanting through the darkness,
'treachery against Judea,
treachery against the world!’
'John, calm down! It's only us,
Judas Ischariot and Simon
Peter, for our master sent us
to give answer to your question.
'He whom you prepared the way for
is the saviour and Messiah
of the world: the blind can see,
lame are walking, lepers dance.
'Deaf can hear, the dead are rising,
and the poor can hear good news,
and the man is blessed forever
who takes no offence at Him!’
'And how many has he cured?
Three, or ten, or even hundred?
Did you count the ones who still are
blind and lame and sick and dead?
'Who of those he raised from death
will from now on be immortal,
and whose thirst for right was quenched
by his talk of Heaven's realms?
'I'm not blind, and I can't see,
I'm not lame, and I can't walk,
I'm not dead, and I don't live,
and I never hear good news!
'Any mountebank heals sick
and turns water into wine,
but the saving of the world
is a bit more serious!
'I was preaching of the saviour
who would crush the serpent's head,
who'd relieve the world of evil,
as the Lord, the Lord has promised!'
'He'll go back and see His father
to prepare His children's mansions,
and from there He will return
like a thief who comes at night!'
'We awaited the Messiah
many thousand years, and now
the Messiah comes and tells us
we shall wait for his return?
'How much longer? Yet another
thousand years or even more?
If he has the will and power
to release, he won't delay!
‘Tell your master I would rather
sacrifice myself to Baal
than remain the servant of a
god who doesn't keep his word!'
And the thunder of his mighty
voice kept sounding through the dungeon;
thoughtfully the two disciples
left his cell and went away.
As they left, the prophet's angry
words still echoed in their hearts,
and they trembled with each forte
they remembered of his speech.
But outside the air was sweeter,
and the day was bright and sunny,
and the vineyards stood in blossom,
and their Christ was son of God.
'One equal temper of heroic hearts,
made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
to strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.'
-ALFRED TENNYSON
We're almost there! Just one more mile to go,
and we will be where no man was before,
just one more mile across the endless snow,
and Life won't be the same for evermore!
We were withstanding Nature's wild resistance,
survived the terrors of the mind and soul.
It must be near that black spot in the distance! -
So cold, so cold is the pole.
Again we pull our sleighs and travel forth,
five dauntless heroes on their way to fame,
and everything we see is in the north.
We'll soon be there to stake the coldest claim,
the first to reach the world's most southern snow bank;
but who put up the tent, who left his sheet
and put a foreign flag atop the snow bank? -
So cold, so cold is Defeat.
We should be celebrating in the field
of ice and snow, for we fulfilled our vow
to strive, to seek, to find and not to yield:
we were the second! Second, but somehow
don't feel like runner-ups; the five explorers
now turn their back on this perfidious day,
eight hundred miles of ice and snow before us. -
So cold, so cold is the way.
Evans looks wild; there's madness on his face,
Oates suffers from exhaustion, strain and frost,
while short-legged Bowers hardly keeps the pace
and snow-blind Wilson hurt his foot. We've lost
the energy that brought us here; we faltered
to our first depot, but the glacier’s vice
awaits us, and it seems the weather altered! -
So cold, so cold is its ice.
It starts to snow. We argue where to go;
a labyrinth of crevasses now extends
before our eyes. We've never been that slow
and weak, our feet are frozen and our hands.
We are not sure of the precise location
of our next depot - there, it is in sight!
Now every man will get a proper ration. -
So cold, so cold is the night.
Now Evans stays behind like every day,
so we look back and see him at the bend,
his eyes wide open, kneeling at the sleigh;
we bring him with us and put up the tent.
He doesn't wake, and everyone is worried
about our friend. In vain we try to save
his life; beneath eternal snow he's buried. -
So cold, so cold is his grave.
'Why don't you go ahead? I'll be okay.'
We wait for Oates. We wouldn't leave his side,
although we're losing precious time. Today
we'll reach the place where our poor ponies died.
There is the mark - the depot is below it!
We empty it: the ponies' meat is there,
but where's the petrol? There was more, I know it! -
So cold, so cold is the air.
'You'll have to leave me to survive'; the same
discussion every morning, every night!
A snowstorm stops us; Oates is not to blame,
but he is pacing up and down inside
the tent, as restless as a spotted lizard.
'Nice day to take a walk; it might get late.'
He lights his pipe and walks into the blizzard. -
So cold, so cold is his fate.
Eleven miles to our last depot; we
know well it is unlikely, still we plan
to reach it by tonight - but suddenly
a blizzard keeps us in our place again.
There's food for some more days if we are sparing,
but there's no petrol left to keep us warm,
and chilly are the clothes that we are wearing. -
So cold, so cold is the storm.
Ten days passed by, and still the blizzard's rage
remains unbroken while we cannot stay:
unfit to fill discoveries' last page,
unfit to live; the others passed away,
and I am left to pray for the departed
between their corpses, under hostile skies,
alone, away from all and broken-hearted. -
So cold, so cold are their eyes.
It won't be long before I'll be relieved
of all the pains of hunger and despair,
and, thinking of the things that I achieved,
I'll leave you. Falcons perish in the air;
the homely pigeons die beneath the steeple.
I'm ready, I'm prepared to meet my end
tonight; for God's sake, look after our people! -
So cold, so cold is Death's hand.
Then they said, 'Come, let us build
ourselves a city, and a tower with its
top in the heavens, and let us make a
name for ourselves, lest we be scattered
abroad upon the face of the whole earth.'
-Genesis 11, 4
Sombre and black, without a single motion,
without a single tender wind to blow,
still, calm and harmless lay the sleeping ocean,
the patient iceberg waiting for his foe.
- Silent was the sea.
And there she came; the dockyard's noblest daughter,
the tallest of the sisters in her day -
gracefully steaming through the quiet water
the mighty beauty proudly gathered way.
- Silent was the sea.
Some older couples stared at the Atlantic,
some honeymooners gazed into the moon,
and while the restless youth became romantic,
the band did play a merry ragtime tune.
- Silent was the sea.
The diners clapped their hands and joined the chorus,
and to his colleague said a member of the crew:
'There is an iceberg starboard waiting for us -
they say that you can smell 'em, and I do.'
- Silent was the sea.
'Last orders', rang the bell at half eleven,
because the time to say goodnight was near;
before the blackness of the sea and heaven
a shadow even darker did appear.
- Silent was the sea.
'Iceberg ahead'; the lookout got excited,
and three times the alarm bell he did ring -
he felt the ship was doomed when he was sighted,
and thus he trembled as he pulled the string.
- Silent was the sea.
'Port! Full steam backwards!', cried the navigator:
too late, too soon - the wrong time anyway,
for just some seconds earlier or later
his order would have saved the ship that day.
- Silent was the sea.
The prow turned left - how softly she was gliding;
a smile of his relief he could not hide,
but as he thought he saved her from colliding,
a grating sound came from the starboard side.
- Silent was the sea.
The noise disturbed some poker-playing brothers,
so one of them went out into the cold -
he soon returned, and he informed the others:
'We just did graze an iceberg, I was told.'
- Silent was the sea.
'Oh, is that so', they said and kept on playing,
enjoy'ng their peaceful and relaxing trip,
for they felt safe as everyone was saying
that even God himself can't sink the ship.
- Silent was the sea.
The frightened skipper ran as quick as never -
somebody looked at him and raised his drink:
'An iceberg on the maiden trip - how clever,
a brilliant chance to prove she cannot sink!’
- Silent was the sea.
'This game of bridge is nothing but a bother -
let's go on deck, we’ll have a little fun',
and gladly throwing ice at one another
some adults played like children in the sun.
- Silent was the sea.
A snobby undertaker rolled his eyeball
and called the waitress: 'Please excuse me, Miss:
I've ordered some more ice for my large highball,
but not that much - this is ridiculous!’
- Silent was the sea.
'See how inertly our president on deck sits
while we are flooding like Atlantis town.’ -
'So close the bulkheads and the third class exits
and tell the others we're about to drown.'
- Silent was the sea.
'Come, women, bring your children!', they implored them,
but very few saw the necessity,
and as the men were not allowed to board them,
some half-full lifeboats soon put out to sea.
- Silent was the sea.
Up to the deck a doubtful crowd was guided,
but soon the passengers did realise
that those few life jackets that were provided
as well as the few boats would not suffice.
- Silent was the sea.
A storied money-grubber took a jacket,
another one for his Lolita bride,
and yet a third to cut it and to wreck it
and show the girl what it was like inside.
- Silent was the sea.
He said: 'That boat seems fragile and unstable,
bound to capsize as soon as there's wave.
Enjoy your trip as long as you are able -
I'll stay right on the ship where I'll be safe.'
- Silent was the sea.
A salesman's widow left with grateful thinking
after she killed her husband in a fight -
she could not wait to see the colossus sinking,
for with the ship her guilt was out of sight.
- Silent was the sea.
'Now here's the lifeboat. Madam, won't you enter?' -
'I can't as I would leave my husband then!' -
'For Christ's sake, Mister, take your wife and enter!' -
'I will not leave before the other men.'
- Silent was the sea.
'We've almost for a lifetime been together.
We may survive this night or we may drown:
I'll stay with you in sun and stormy weather!’,
and so they took two deck-chairs and sat down.
- Silent was the sea.
'No', said the priest to his young wife with fire,
'there's many other things for us to do;
this is no time for honeymoon's desire,
so come, let's help, and God will help us, too!’
- Silent was the sea.
'No one will help us, neither all your brothers
nor any grateful power from above.
You spent your life to give your love to others -
now be a man and let us die in love!'
- Silent was the sea.
She foundered with the water she was gaining;
the women, children and some first class men
were sent into the lifeboats still remaining,
and no one dared to turn his head again.
- Silent was the sea.
She called for help, but no one heard her calling,
though many of her sisters were around,
and some survivors saw a White Star falling
and quickly sinking to the ocean's ground.
- Silent was the sea.
The captain told the telegrapher: 'Hey man,
the CQD's a signal of the past.
Now there's a new one, simpler for the laymen:
the world's first SOS will be your last.'
- Silent was the sea.
A sudden gush of water was surprising
the diners who laid down their fork or spoon,
and while the water in the lounge was rising,
the band did play a merry ragtime tune.
- Silent was the sea.
All those who could not board the overcrowded
boats died at once in Neptune's gelid den,
and the Atlantic currents soon enshrouded
three hundred dogs and fifteen hundred men.
- Silent was the sea.
After she disappeared, there was no motion:
the overcrowded lifeboats left the scene,
and calm and harmless lay the sleeping ocean
where just before the pride of man had been.
- Silent was the sea.
If I would be the President
of the United States,
to Mars my army I would send
beyond the pearly gates.
They would defend our freedom there
against the Little Green;
they'd slay and kill them everywhere,
because they’re small and mean.
And if they bothered the UN,
our veto soon would stand -
nothing could stop our brave young men
from fighting for their land!
And if they should approach the press,
they'd also have to fail:
I'd shut their stations, cause distress
and put them all in jail.
And if they ventured to strike back,
our allies we would call,
and mightily we would attack
till nothing's left at all.
Our boys would fight on distant stars
and therefore leave their hearth;
disaster then would reign on Mars,
and peace would be on Earth.
Once a landlord in a pretty
valley ran its inn. His chilling
look was feared, and so the city
called his place 'The Evil Host's':
with every room he offered for a shilling
he used to moan about his halfpenny costs.
Constantly he was forgetting
salt and change for every table,
every room that he was letting
was minute and bare and cold,
his meals were small and dear, his chairs unstable,
his ale was flat and thin, his bread was old.
He was wealthy, he was greedy,
and he roamed the streets with pleasure:
there he robbed the poor and needy,
and he snatched the beggars' hats.
Another fav’rite pastime in his leisure
was kicking wife and children, dogs and cats.
On the outskirts of the valley
lived the rich and cultivated.
Once he walked along their alley,
and the host became upset:
he didn’t know them, for they celebrated
in their own mansions every time they met.
As the city's sole purveyor
he announced a public meeting
to appoint himself Lord Mayor
and proclaim the mayor's law:
no visit was allowed, no talk, no greeting
outside the city's inn for evermore;
Everybody had to render
contributions to his dive now;
every critic and offender
would be put to death at once;
no public enemy'd be left alive now;
the may'r will be succeeded by his sons.
Thus enforcing law and orders,
his regime was constituted,
and within the valley's borders
no one dared to talk again;
the few who did were swiftly executed,
and every night the inn was full of men.
Nothing passed unknown: no stealthy
visit and no word of gumption.
His new customers were wealthy,
so he charged a higher price:
this caused his guests to limit their consumption,
which activated once again his vice.
With a club he struck their heads and
took their money and possessions,
tore their mantles into shreds and
left them bleeding on the floor.
Nightclubbing was the strongest of his passions,
until they brought their valuables no more.
Soon some helpers were recruited:
his own wife, his sons and daughters
broke into their homes and looted
them and took what they could find.
The host was bringing them their ales or waters;
meanwhile his clann left not a nail behind.
Facing poverty, his latest
customers were now refraining
from their visits, and his greatest
business loss aroused his hate:
mere fractions of his profit were remaining,
and once again the host became irate.
Thinking of a vengeful gesture,
finally, one Sunday morning
after Mass he changed his vesture
and put on the mayor's gown.
He went to their estates; without a warning
he lit a torch and burnt their houses down.
Mighty flames were now appearing
which destroyed their living places;
after hours the smoke was clearing,
where their mansions once had been.
In ragged clothes and with disfigured faces
the few survivors stood before the inn.
'Help us, please! Our living centre
is destroyed, and we are leaving
from the ruins - let us enter!
But he laughed and held his spouse:
'You only want to share what we're achieving;
go home and get a job and build a house!'
Some preferred to die as quickly
as they could and started speaking
to each other, while some sickly
went into the woods and prayed,
and some refused to leave; the host was freaking,
and with his guests he shot the ones who stayed.
Soon the city celebrated
with its self-appointed leader,
and the Evil Host created
loopholes for their hunting game.
I'll meet you in his inn tonight, dear reader:
the host still serves, and Europe is his name.
For Michael Sean Nicolaou
Our fate in women's clothes has dropped the curtain,
your mother has divided what was one:
though you are not my child, she knows for certain
that in my heart you'll always be my son.
She left the man she claims to be your father
and everybody else who ever cared;
instead of getting settled, she would rather
chase every male to hear his love declared.
I've worshipped her as long as she pretended
that she could love, I quivered at her touch;
I found the girl I deemed divine and splendid,
with her the boy whom I adored as much.
But to be honest, it was you who found me:
behind your mother you played peekaboo,
and once you flung your loving arms around me
and triumphed: 'Mummy, I caught Frank - for you!'
We jumped upon your bed - while I was kneeling,
you tumbled up and down into my arms;
I grasped your ankles, and you walked the ceiling
with this broad smile uniting all your charms.
We often went to town, and I was taking
you on my shoulders every now and then,
and when we walked down Wine Street, you'd be shaking
your little fist and shout: 'I'm Superman!'
Some droll requests were on your child's agenda:
'What does Frank look like when he smokes his pipe?' -
You'd gnaw it, bend your head, squint up and render
a grin that's of the most mischievous type.
You picked the flowers and the weeds like crazy,
and in our house they covered every place;
now every dandelion and every daisy
reminds me of that bounty on your face.
We went for walks along the quiet ocean,
collecting shells and pebbles at the beach,
and in the bathtub we have mixed a potion
from every tube and bottle in our reach.
You chanted 'Kick it high!' when we played football,
and so I kicked it over Fairy House
over and over, till I kicked the football
right through the bedroom window of our house.
'God talked to me tonight!' - Proud as ten stags
you woke us at the very break of dawn.
'He has three eyes, a red nose and six legs
to walk with, and his second name is Sean.'
You'd ask me how to write a certain letter,
a certain word, and I would show you how,
and every day your skills were getting better -
I bet you are a perfect writer now!
And when the Strandhill heaven smiled above you,
you'd race your bike around the church, and through
the empty car park you would shout: 'I love you!',
and I'd be shouting back: 'I love you, too!'
We conquered worlds together, we were ready
to share the pleasures of your childhood years,
and I remember when you called me Daddy
I felt so trusted I was close to tears.
Our friendship was so tender and so stormy,
until your mother chased another guy;
she dumped me like so many men before me
and after me with hatred in her eye.
Only in retrospect I saw your mother's
licentiousness, her weak and fickle mind,
aborting and deserting all your brothers
and sisters just to keep one ogre blind.
When now I meet you, you appear to doubt me:
you hardly talk, and you cast down your eyes.
I know not what your mother says about me,
but I assure you that your mother lies.
I miss you when I walk the beach without you,
and every time I see a father play
with merry children, I must think about you,
but still without me you will find your way.
May nothing ever quench your thirst for knowledge,
may beauty be in everything you see,
may you succeed in Epicurus' college
and be as free as you let others be.
We're separated by the fiend who freed me,
but all our memories I cherish still,
and I'll be there for you if you should need me:
I love you, Michael, and I always will.
You're growing up, my little boy,
my friend and son for half a year,
and as I see you getting big,
I wish that I could still be near.
Whate'er it was your mother said,
you know I care - this I can see,
and when you spot me ere she does,
you say hello and talk to me.
But when you're walking at her hand,
your mother drags you down the street,
and we turn round as we walk on
like brothers who can never meet.
You saw me when I smoked my pipe
and when I drank my pint,
you saw me when I read my poems
and when I went to work.
You've never seen me dancing on the battlement
or racing the clouds in the face of the storm,
you've never seen me walking the waves at sunset
or challenging spirits who altered the Earth.
You've never seen me burning to ashes
when trying to find some warmth,
you've never seen me chasing the eagles across the sky
or playing dice with Life,
or searching the world for something to search for,
and you've never seen me making love on the edge of the cliff.
You've never seen me at all.
To follow in my footsteps, you’ll have to go ahead:
you cannot follow me if you follow me.
He passed away.
He left. Nothing
can be said of him
that can't be said of others:
He breathed.
He ate.
He drank.
He slept.
He fucked.
He consumed.
He passed a way.
He left nothing.