…nothing happened or was it that everything happened so quietly, that white night as we called it, do you remember, and I needed only 1 little time to lay my cheek upon yours and I knew nothing but how much of a STRANGER you appeared as, etc.
Today the currents of air like currents of water, mild / cold mild / cold and it wore me down and took hold of me and pulled me inside, and my legs brought me somewhere, I have no idea where, closed up inside myself : determined and 1 x it took me by the back 1 x by the heart, I let myself be driven as when the words would fall to me like flakes on 1 winter day, touch me cover me totally snowed-in by flakes and words, at night I’d write what I did not want to forget in the morning but then my hand would droop 1 little as I’d almost be asleep
And nights before I go to bed I lay my manuscript folder on 1 empty chair or on 1 corner of the table and beg to be able to find them in exactly the same order the following morning, etc. And it always had to do with this WORDLANDSCAPE or WORD WOODLANDSCAPE, and in the evening someone came with 1 book of glass, Giuseppe Zigaina had written it and dedicated it to me, all the eyes. Then 1 snowflash, nature’s polishedness, etc., I long for my as-of-yet-unwritten books as-of-yet-unwritten lines, pages, strings and strands, wild and wolf-like, from the kitchen window saw a coffeepot with a blue edge, in it 1 bouquet of flowers, vis-à-vis, throughout the months and days always the fresh bouquet, dahlias, red lilies, jasmine, like gondoliers, the candyknots of my head, WHERE IT IS SAD, happily at home in the thicket.
I bought 1 pin in 1 souvenir shop for him, 1 tiny red heart a souvenir of Venice, but he told me I should keep it, I pinned it tight to the neck of my t-shirt, but at 1 certain time it got lost, never to be found again
And something makes me howl, our imagination—as far as the phenomenon of memory is concerned—, I say to Alma, is not just matter (“Matter-Elbow,” Tàpies, 1973), but an overwhelming emotion, the taste, the smell, that touching of the past moment, how many years, decades, as fresh as peonies and the apple of paradise. It shimmers in the heart
A sudden temperature drop, heavy rain, head-book, copy-book at one’s feet, the communicating channels. And we had a lot of birch leaves on the side, the soul, resounding laundry. I welcome the specification of a theme, it guides me, I say to EJ, 6 o’clock in the morning outside in the dewy air, beautiful blooms in the early air, the Rhine shimmers (it’s grown), noted Schumann in his diary, I’m impelled to do things only half-way, I say, no: in the middle and over, I correct (myself), something like 1 aria. The impression of honeyed lips on the paper napkin, cheeks full of food, how unattractive, the onions already sprouting in the dark kitchen, 1 suite, I say, I kissed her for the very 1 time on the cheeks when she came up to greet me after the reading, she looked delighted, I mean, as I write this down I chew on 1 word which doesn’t want to justify what happened, I am on the search for 1 particular word, a password.
& all I once have been : the innermost indulgence, 1 inner Schumann, I ask myself from whence the physicality (materiality) of this text, I already no longer knew how to compose, called Wolfgang von Schweinitz in order to set 1 text of mine to song, my work-psyche, what’s that. CUBISM written in heavy ink. I call A. O., ask him : is it the word AURA? no, he says, it’s the word FLUIDUM I take a deep breath, feel liberated somehow, read in Derrida : “how to write?”, I always look at myself a little, said Max Frisch, I notice when people recognize me in the street, said Max Frisch, back then, when we lived with him in the Sarrazinstrasse, if reincarnation exists, I say to Alma, which I do not however believe in, how awful it would be, how awful to come back as a rat, just imagine where I’d have to pass all the time : canals, sewage, carrion, darkness, etc.
They say that it is refreshing to souls when we light 1 candle here, yesterday I lit 1 candle for the 8th anniversary of Mother’s death but it almost caused 1 fire in my apartment, a hell-like hissing, saving myself with buckets of water as I did, I slept late that morning, cried a lot when I understood how careless I’d been the night before, then everything yellow, Sahara sand across the city, listened to “Pleasures of Youth” from Anton Diabelli’s sonatinas for four hands, cry myself into the morning, hounded by memories, in a minor key in the restaurant, the waterfall pleated, the torrent of tears over swollen eyelids, unless I’m high I cannot write, I say to Alma, would so gladly have said to myself : “I am completely cocooned within my work,” would like to go “outside,” A. O. writes, and on the white paper napkin I work out the so-and-so-many anniversary of Mother’s death, the thinning bar of soap between her hands where there still was foam, that’s how lifesteps are translated into words, I say, that’s how life is metamorphosized into language, the old gnarled pear tree in the untended garden, I say to EJ, the one we sat below, I was 1 little cold, for it’s easier to be cold in summer than in winter, or is it rather 1 shivering as soon as you step out of the sun’s warmth etc., this body which shall later surrender to writing’s sensuality, I have always written with my body, “blossoms” brushed over, beautiful summer days : the naked roses, my current way of working : in accordance with the kitchen chairs, in accordance with the kitchen chairs, the shimmering of the Rhine will tear the heart, wrote Schumann in his diary, the wandering plantations, the mulberry groves, it screams in me, in 1 curve, black, the mulberry fruit burst apart on the loamy soil, 8years old, face fringed, in the pushcart with my legs tucked up under me, in the park drawing Ariadne’s thread with chalk, is the child allowed to listen for the nightingale, the sounds of the wind through the trees, those are tears upon the flowers, said Robert Schumann, I no longer know how, I know less than ever before just how it is I should write, what did I think say feel back then, how to write, the link between madness and self-exposure, the shot of adrenalin brutal, my heart in an uproar, I shuddered with excitement and instead of taking 1 bath threw the hot water over my shoulders like a shawl.
I come from heaven and hell, Elisabeth von Samsonow writes, and have seen an incredible amount of beautiful friendly eyes, thank you for making Eros immortal, in Bangladesh water means FEELING, more than enough. LOVE.
How many times have I bought Breton’s Nadja, how many times Roland Barthes’ A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments after having yet again misplaced these, my favorite books, or taken them with me on all my hikes and travels, I mean, in my rucksack, or when my notes took over to such an extent that they jungled into the printed text, isn’t that so, I’d lay the book next to my pillow, sleep for days on the open pages so that in the morning not only my cheeks but the pages of the book would also be creased, the book as seemingly devoted to me as I to it.
I lay 1 entire night upon your heart, I say to EJ, I lay 1 entire night upon your heart with my right temple, with my right temple I quiet upon your heart, I say
Read, read, read, I scream, so long as you still have eyes, the daily kitten (minou), when someone’s just plain good and tender to me, I say to EJ, I immediately start to cry, an erratic knocking at the windowpanes, thank god it’s raining, a blessed morning, writing at dawn already, the typewriter on my knees in bed, etc. I always love myself a little less (Derrida), I’m going to send you 1 particular postcard without 1 single word, says EJ, and you will know what it is I wanted to tell you
The gingko leaves fell out of 1 letter onto the floor, strewn in autumnal colors, “The poet’s concern,” says EJ, “must be to see into the interior of things,” the color-brothers (wings) with glowing silk (soul), this rough and choppy dovesky, the shadow of a crow’s flight in the corner of the window, my furrowed dreams matching the confused pain of my waking hours, dull and foolish, without any order or sense or dignity.
I believe I’ve always only ever done things halfway with my terrible, typical carelessness, superficiality, relativity, and nevertheless the pulse takes flight, blood pressure in rapid succession, the stomach, my heart-hang heavy in the center of my body, well, I’ll never be able to finish anything
Oh alphabet delirium, etc., and Mother in her last months complained, oh when you don’t speak with me, I forget the entire language and with it my means of thinking, isn’t that so.
…moved namely moving to be able to move one must oneself be moved etc., an immense job, but always before a new one the terrible doubt during work, the deadly hours to come, howls, self-curses, self-eviscerations, to scream and rage, the unproductive path, not a single word and no sentence at hand, the absolute collapse of the mind, the absolute skeletization of soul, that folding up and bend of the body until nothing’s left, no extension more possible, my being shrunk to a dirty naked POINT, 1 overlookable POINT on 1 a greasy sheet of paper, etc. Me myself 1 insignificant miserable thing, and that shimmering in the heart (during the bath), this eternal dislocation…we can only write when disposed, as if seen in a time-lapse : buds breaking open on fragrant blooms, seeds on fruit, maybe man is 1 swindler, 1 charlatan, says EJ, everything faked perhaps, everything a trick, etc.
Ach, I cry, I wish I had providential wings so that I could praise the poetic portraits of language and seek the poetic pulse of life and dreams, I am outside myself, EJ on 9 March 1998, the emptiness, he says, I’m not thinking of anything at all, my head is completely empty, etc. Emptiness, says Tàpies, is born of a strange melancholy, and is almost always connected to a feeling of separation that makes clear—from person to person—what it is we see: how it is we really are.
In the café 1 strand of hair on the person sitting in front of me falls across their nose and mouth, I make typos constantly, sit in my morning-robe on the side of the bed, listen (hum along) to Buxtehude’s Song of Solomon, oh how I’d like to live 1 little while longer in between 1 tear and 1 smile.
my nerves were all aflutter, and Gertrude Stein says that it always showed in his face, when he observed a piece of meadow it was always just a piece of meadow, but when he met his beloved and then looked out on a piece of meadow, that piece of meadow was full of birds and butterflies there where there was nothing at all before, that, you see, is love
And the way they drag a free spirit into the hall, I say, and was always afraid that when the summer wind grew strong it would blow away all those scraps of paper with my most important notes and that I would never find them again in my apartment, and so I weighed them all down with the big stones that EDITH had brought me from Crete and where I would always have liked to travel but never managed as I never got around to leaving my home in order to make that long a trip, and so the whole of language floating as if with arms outstretched.
And then Lili was there and she had an amazing ear, if not much of an eye, but whatever she could see she could immediately weave into some kind of life-story, that is, she could see something take place on the street and simultaneously understand everything that had led up to it, the background, and regardless of whether they were people or animals that appeared to her on the street straightaway she saw their entire lives and fates, that is, was fed with the small and smallest characteristics and events of their daily lives. And then it bloomed all around me and I shook myself out a beloved.
When I would say to EJ, we should take care of that tomorrow, he would say, but only during the day, in the evening I’m too tired, I can’t take care of anything when I’m tired, I just want to sit quietly, drink a glass of wine and rest awhile. Now, I say to EJ, I’ve reached that point too, I try to take care of my things during the day and in the evening I sit there reading under the lamp or writing letters or listening to a piece of music, isn’t that so, and I put off going to bed from hour to hour as I don’t want the day to end, for morning will follow and all those morning hours take up all my energy because I have to force myself to do things, get up wash get dressed. Then one day follows another without the basic questions of life being solved.
I let myself be carried by my language as if it were endowed with tiny wings that could carry me into the air, but I don’t see them and they have to come on their own.
About half a year before his death we were walking on the Hauptstrasze past a florist’s shop where I always order bouquets and wreaths for dead friends when all of a sudden from out of terrifying silence he asked, so where exactly do you order your wreaths?
The sky was blue that summer day after day, and when I looked out the window, I could imagine it was the blue of the sea, but it was only a replacement for the sight of the silky flat glimmering seawater, and I was happy for it. Throughout the war we always had the gas masks in our hands and practiced using them in particular on quick walks and runs, which was quite difficult, and now and again I’d barely get enough air, and when our apartment was destroyed by bombs we moved into the apartment of a friend of my father’s and I immediately began to look through his library and most often pulled out the illustrated editions and catalogues of modern painting and the Zeppelin Alarms day and night.
And I balanced myself above the abyss with outstretched arms, and that’s how I dealt with the clean copy and when I was in Mondsee and wanted to call my mother from a telephone booth the midday bells came in between and I couldn’t hear anything she was trying to tell me nor could she understand me but I spoke so loudly that I could continue, throughout it all the heavy sound of the bells and while I looked at the blue of the sky I felt taunted, a secret blessing, isn’t that so.
The poet didn’t work, didn’t need to decide what it was he saw at every moment, no, poetry for him was something one created during rather bitter meditations, so Gertrude Stein, but really quite comfortably, in a café. This art does not depict reality, but the perception of reality.
And I always said to Mother that she should stop with her habit of putting on her slip while standing, that is, to climb into her slip because there was always the great danger of her falling, and Christa Kühnhold told me on the telephone that the woman with MS who she was taking care of from time to time no longer had any idea what she should wear on hot summer days : every day she put on the same jeans and a woolen sweater, jeans that were so dirty she could have stuck them in the corner and they would have remained there standing, staring etc.
The Picassos were in Spain and Fernande wrote long letters to Gertrude Stein in which she described Spain and the Spanish and earthquakes (“I’m in a garage,” my old doctor used to say to me while interrupting my reports on the mobile), and they were dining room relationships, and she’s supposed to say hello to me unconsciously, that’s according to Lenchen. I remember that, right after the war, I was in a garage in order to have my car fixed, so Gertrude Stein, I like garages, I mean, I like a lot of things, but garages are just about my favorite.
It was in the post-war years and Mother would always wait outside in front of the restaurant where Father was eating and he’d leave her to wait for a long time even though she was hungry but there just wasn’t enough money for the both of them during their vacations, which they most often spent in Gösing or Mariazell, and so she’d sometimes buy herself a piece of sausage and get it down with a dry roll, which was very painful for me to hear, inflamed Spanish beggar in my lap the scraps of notepaper warbled while I wrote, while I move and cry—who was it who called or told me about Pleyel and who did I answer, yes, Chopin did in fact play on a Pleyel, etc. Back at that point in the ‘70s I was an ardent Beatles fan and an ardent fan of Satie and I’d always say that all of classical music was inside it and the whole of Romanticism balled up just the same, and throughout the many years of writing I was very ambitious I was excessively ambitious and EJ always said, you are terribly ambitious I can’t stand it, and during the many journeys by car we took together EDITH always asked has Heinz Schafroth turned up has Marcel Beyer written has Helga Glantschnig called, and she was happy when I could say, yes, she or he called wrote faxed (properly).
We were in that village-world and I dreamt “Ovidian cadences” and Gertrude Stein says that when your mind is really advanced you naturally are old-fashioned and orderly in your life, and when the doorbell rang my heart beating faster I always thought that it would be you at the door or at the sound of the telephone always hoped that it would be you I’d hear, I say to EJ, you know how you feel, Gertrude Stein said to me, and looked at me in her graceful way, she possessed so much grace and rigor and she always made me feel like she knew everything, when I asked her once about something that I otherwise would never have dared ask anyone else and, for a change, she didn’t know the answer, in an almost dismissive tone she said, I do not know, and that’s how you were turned away and thus did not dare ask anything else.
After three weeks in the country I come back to my home but do not recognize it any longer or is it I can no longer imagine it, and that was a flutter of thought, and I literally had to go from one room to another in order to repossess it all. Jargon or conversation-remains and Heinz Schafroth wrote a postcard from Greece upon which: when I looked into the eyes of the lion of Kea I felt a little ashamed of my mortality, he for his part has been looking onto the world’s comings-and-goings for more than 2,500 years and it doesn’t seem that he intends to cease anytime soon, and how all of these things are necessarily true.
At the moment, writes Leon N. we don’t have any flowers in the apartment at all—with the exception of a white rose : an artificial flower. Ach, I must spread my wings, I say to EJ, in order to be able to get further with the copy, or : as if I were endowed with wings (and tears), and as if they could carry me into the air but I cannot see them and they have to come on their own. And once again I hear the midday bells from Mondsee where I am standing in the telephone booth and talking with Mother, but the echo of the bells drowns out our voices etc., I think I’ve forgotten how to swim, I say to EJ, that is, how you swim and thereby keep yourself above water, I was always a good swimmer, but now, when I would like to recapture my youth, I’m no longer able to hop into a pool and swim, I’ve simply forgotten how to swim, I say, I ask my old doctor who by now has an answer for almost everything whether it is possible to forget how to swim when you’re old, yes, she says, it’s possible. And my old doctor often says that’s just part of it all, when you’ve known someone long enough, you have to accompany them upon their final path, isn’t that so, and when one of my patients has an exhibition or receives a prize it’s just part, you go and are present and wish them well, and she said hello to me unconsciously, that’s according to Lenchen. I mean, with just such a trap my trap I already know what’s wrong, and where it’s leading me, I mean, in terms of writing, in what kind of new direction it’s leading me, and I am now writing figuratively.
dear Friend,
The white lilies you laid before my door are an immense pleasure my writing room is luminous and fragrant : it will encourage me to write—otherwise I am doing well, at this point I’m writing almost only poems. By me around the corner the lilac just recently burst open. The multiplicity in the window vis-à-vis makes me hold my breath (doctor and Alzheimer’s) : there the objects change like stages sets, corso, it’s all very uplifting : today a yellow watering can next to an azalea and the yellow fleck of a person appearing, a dusky interior, an embrace
When 1 person is missing (omitted) from a photograph, then only their outline is visible, that is, their omission, we could be dealing with someone who’s died we could be dealing with 1 African person who has been photographed without their permission and predicted they would not be visible within the photograph etc. This omission likes to be found within photographs of families, many insects, shadows, souls, transparent shells APPEARANCE PROTECTS US thanks to the miraculous pianist (Clara) an endless amount of things began to move between Berlin Vienna Innsbruck and Merano. For days I float within music, so Ezra Pound, I’m doing so peculiarly well right now, enraptured by the composer’s piano music from 3 skydirections, with my hands, steps, (with planted gladioli), blowfish, lanterns, Santa Lucia = this passage by Siegfried Höllrigl etc.
I had expired, sunk into a pleasant madness, she was only 1 little sick, the composer said to me, as if excusing himself, Clara is 1 little pregnant—as we in the foyer of the Gartenbaukino just before the show began
the flame the composer says, and see the passing sun, the composer tells me he conducted an interview with Blixa Bargeld, the way the famished bark of a tree eats so the lonely = the lonely souls : books, sentences and words, music, the red of the sunset, the lilacs. The saliva-wet cufflink around the snowdrop-bouquet has dried out, says the female pianist, the composer’s cufflinks—we sat across from one another in silence, the female pianist says to me, we listened to a few new verses from Ferdinand Schmatz while from across the table the composer hands me a sandwich (a sandwich made of filth), which I then fold up. The composer leaves the room and climbs out the window in the corridor in order to swandive into the depths, I grab hold of his legs, pull him back—the female pianist says, I played piano today within myself etc. this blood colony = blood culture is like 1 tiny wood, a young wood growing slowly, so the composer, the doctors maintain, this finding from the week’s beginning, what 1 blood orgy, what 1 blood-organ, as if from out of organ pipes the blood-strophes like tears, I watched, so the composer, how on PALM-SUNDAY the female pianist brushed, indeed caressed, the branches of the palms with holy water, it drove me to tears.
The earlyyearstorms so strong that he, the composer, wrapped the horses’ manes in checkered blankets, ripped and tore the keys, lifted the 4.finger of his right hand (ring finger) up to the ceiling of his atelier so that it hurt, for the 4.finger (ring finger) of his right hand, which is the one that takes over the melody, would not strike sharply enough etc.
After the female pianist the little dog came into the room, almost out of breath. The authenticity of a work of art, according to the composer, is not always to be founded on the copious amount of tears shed into the fur stole, then someone overtook me with a mink cape right in the middle of the 1. breath of the new spring, I mean, a spring terror, suddenly we were all afraid thanks to spring’s explosion, its weave and shudder and that the bushes and trees = fell across the groves overnight this light green GAUZE and veil, if at the same time not actually believable, ever still 1 secret, isn’t that so. These tiny little light green leaves, the sticky buds of the chestnut trees as the female pianist proclaims FEAR and SEXUALITY rule the world etc.
this purple spring, Fuji, behind it the bleeding sunset, so the female pianist, the female pianist undertook distant concert tours while the composer in the asylum at Endenich. He incessantly wrote musical notes : these however have gone missing—they treated him unsuccessfully with, among other things, quinine, the AmericanGermanist Lisa K. asked me, so the female pianist, what do you find to be the “hideous beauty of America,” the female pianist standing like a whirlwind with her hair blown back (a shock of hair) at the corner and whispering with the composer, with this flame in her hair etc. Had a bag a racing heart throughout the night, so the composer, had to take ½ a tablet of Cenipres had a PLEDGE felt empathy for a lit.old horizontal woman suffering from Bechterew’s disease who was crawling across the street, who could no longer stand up straight, the naive painter Henri Rousseau, known as “the customs officer,” surrounded himself with violet snakes in order to be able to work, according to the composer, my half-body says to the composer have 2 yg.friends with you so that you’ll be reminded of your upcoming foot-surges (with their lovely pedal effects). While the dried apricot on the black earthenware plate.
With my childlike spirit it seemed to me that we were sitting on the left-hand bank of the river Traun and looking out onto the current, so the female pianist, while also looking to the other side where we saw ourselves in a sm.yellow Talbot maneuvering in order to swerve around an automobile rushing against us, oh how the valleys flashed.
The sourcelets and young pigeons, sputum and strain, the sensing of a spirituality in the composer, the birthing long, long the walks up and down the Naschmarkt, later hurrying into the “Drechsler,” wine and pear juice, sat in the corner with the female pianist, the view of Spanish-seeming garlands and a cozy seat in the bay window across from us, and next to the new little light green branches the thin brownish murmur of leaves for the wind had not yet blown away the older foliage, the female pianist with her blown away hairstyle that revealed her forehead and gave her a blusterously daring look—in the background the moribund composer askew on his sofa, feverishly writing away at his stuttering partitures
freshly fallen snow =
the blooms of winter
female singer “N.” has fallen silent ach.
Frozen
“sat almost the entire day with BUBI
out in the yard delighted and find
flowers and slowworms festive
whether in thickets or thistle groves…”
and everybody asks what are you reading at the moment etc. while the little skull = little beak on the floormat. All kinds of pills through the night, etc., aussi the withered deep-blue hyacinths in the glass……..back then ‘54 in Salzburg as I was breaking out for London, 1 violent spring, we found 1 hotel room where we could say goodbye to each other : my memories grown pale, etc., I don’t remember what happened there……..I didn’t want to, you know, I didn’t want to travel at all, I didn’t want to split up from you, but I didn’t cry about it, when will I be 1 swallow. Dirty laundry rolled together on the piano, ach, I got lost whilst the hallways in leaf : this abandonment of my eyes, everything just bricolage
Kiki’s Lips by Man Ray
the shoots, the rouging ones, 1 enchanting red in the glass, 1 enchanting red in the glass in the meadow on the dresser, first shedding its leaves in the hair then at the belt then at the black braided pouch I’d slung about my neck
the throat of PRIMAVERA the snowdrop shafts, should we loosen the string around the throat of the bunched snow
drops
and so the nodding flowers bundled together in the glass within this glittering morning as if mourning bells = GLAS (fr.) as if to strangle this glittering flickering herald of early spring, etc. there where the little grasses graze within the flood of tears, the morning red 1 rose-colored veil over the corners/cliffs of……..
ach the waving autumnless ones in the valley, as within a gray mantle out of the village they, walking, on the fields the wild apple trees, ach back then with Mother and not much said, past the yard where with a blue apron and garden sheers. Reseda and safetycommands, I say, the waving woman etc., what kind of discussions with Mother, difficult walking the weather mild the eyes of
the
autumnless ones, the waving of the autumnless ones in the wind the
exercises
“études”……..1 few flowers from Kurtág on the way back, the season’s exercises “études”, namely 1 mountain called piano, etc.
that was the meadow through which I went in summer
that was the hand of my dearest one touching my breast
that was the dance of flakes which stirred my tongue
that was the procession of years whose end I felt
that was the snow of the blooms which melted upon my lips
that was the goldfinch of my parent’s whose mountain of pine
that was the voice of my dearest one deep in a grotto green
that was the gleam of his eyes like the gleam of a flower
that was the voice of the little bird on the rose-filled slope
that was the curl of the waves beneath the ceiling of leaves
that was the chirping of late summer within the deepest night
bewildered I am a bushel of grass little roots moon as a stalker
as the dove kneeling down in the grass—
that is what I wanted to atone for on hand and foot (oh Lord)
I kiss little Man Rays ach the purple (darling) hyacinths in the glass fragrant myrtle purple-like now in January = little winter you’re driving purple blooms …….. was going up the footbridge while my darling little sister was already waving to me from the window : waiting for me, back then, I carried Cahiers against my heart I waved back whilst the thornwoods as a blurry moon pulled the plastic clouds on strings across the black sky I mean 1 freak namely a cataract of tears and dreams, crackers or cookies : this whole sm.world, I say, in the back mirror of the changing room my back’s clever skin, I kiss little Man Rays whilst in the thornwoods
SIDEBOARDS, ruby red fleck sun on a wardrobe etc.,
while the cherryblood of your cheek, namely that we in the shadow
of that little leaf : clothed in white isn’t that so
Hands : as if I had slipped on gloves which had grown too
big, now however it was 1 act of providence, this glowing position of life on earth, the weight of enchantment, etc.
“once, sitting next to me, he said, when I’m old, one day
I hope I shall write some poems : delicate soft-footed things
isn’t that so”
Alexander Booth’s translations of German poet Lutz Seiler’s in field latin as well as his translation of Gunther Geltinger’s novel Moor will be published next year by Seagull Books. He lives in Berlin.
Friederike Mayröcker’s “Time’s Weather” is comprised of selections from the following titles, none of which have been published in English: Die kommunizierenden Gefäße (The communicating vessels, 2003); Und ich schüttelte einen Liebling (And I shook myself out a beloved, 2005); Paloma (2008); vom Umhalsen der Sperlingswand, oder 1 Schumannwahnsinn (Hugging the sparrowwall, or 1 schumann-madness, 2011); études (2013); and Cahier (2014) (all © Suhrkamp Verlag Berlin).
