B004I1KX1S EBOK Read online

  In the flames I distinguished many strange and ambiguous forms. But I remained among the voluminous archives. I had to write my memoirs in German—Ist Welt die Probe?—again and again. Elsewhere in the darkness, a messianic little devil was screaming The world is constraint as the words that I wrote were taken apart and put together again, this time as a study of John 2:1. This subconscious vision has shaken my view of the world as singular. So I silence myself in a book of the a. Kurt Waldheim is a formal negotiation. A collective music circles history.

  In the ruined remains of the china, one can discern a figured individual in the background of a far field. I have seen him with his basket of soil, a private man, stocky, with a manner that makes conversation an effort. Bridges to the East. I was intrigued by a sentimental touch in the image. In the office I had ample opportunity to observe this piece, obsessed by the idea that it was a figure for life on our planet, which, having reached the abyss of immeasurable outer space, has now come to Earth.

  Now I realize that, in the theatres of neutrality, the heart freezes. This is a difficult problem. Everybody watches the wheel as it turns. Apparently incapable of peace and well-being, and unable to draw political conclusions, in the late summer, on the outskirts of a small town to the south, I embraced a new work. It was engendered in my dream. It was built of desire. Experience taught me that, in the final analysis, nothing ends. The first steps must follow.

  BOOK THREE

  1

  It was a forlorn eve,

  my descent wintry.

  In that foreign midnight,

  I sounded

  the chanceries of doubt

  as day drove up

  in an ordinary yellow cab.

  To my astonishment,

  I seemed to be blindfolded

  but the clock

  —talk talk—

  continuing called me,

  a voice ever stranger

  in complaint.

  With my staff I came

  to the first step,

  sanguine indeed,

  and dressed in a well-cut Western suit

  —quite the best I saw on anybody

  during my whole stay

  in that unstable regime.

  There were people in plots

  bowing to creation.

  Please I protested,

  I had not come to stay.

  You will go in

  said Nobody,

  all will be quiet.

  I looked down

  and could see thousands

  crowding into the grounds

  —my my—

  and climbed into the burial site.

  Within the twisted

  rows of graves,

  the teeth of under,

  some spoke of hatred

  and some of hope.

  Blind, they wept on command,

  in wheelchairs,

  on crutches,

  waving stumps.

  It was rather haunting—

  the gate of shadows,

  the path unlit,

  and ahead,

  also dark,

  an abandoned fortress.

  Carried along by the crowd,

  our way lit by flashlights

  through dim corridors,

  I said Citizens,

  no no.

  Ahead, a door opened.

  I recognized the old council

  sitting round a table,

  some in religious collars,

  the atmosphere a court.

  Chairing the proceeding,

  a tall, bearded figure

  uttered a few words in German

  for my benefit.

  He had lived for a time

  and remarked

  that I needed

  to be dealt with.

  Listening quietly,

  I tried to avoid

  any show of emotion.

  This clearly displeased him.

  He seemed to expect me

  to present my own commentary.

  I said in reply

  the following,

  shaken and uneasy,

  the slim thread of truth but little help…

  2

  I was born into empire,

  my crown in poor condition.

  A world broke out,

  a world drained of weather.

  Mother made me

  from whatever little was available,

  a window,

  a magnet—

  my my,

  I remembered my life—

  my father nothing more

  than footsteps in a clinic.

  War broke out one day.

  It sickened me to see such slaughter,

  but I liked horses and rank

  which led to the army.

  To the Far Front

  we were called,

  and marched

  into newsreel footage

  without a word—

  I continued in Latin,

  although they made a point

  of stopping me frequently,

  under constant surveillance

  in that plot we all shared.

  We were surrounded—

  a squadron of horse,

  a squadron of bicycles,

  another of motorized weather.

  When the rains came,

  the call came to fire.

  It was desperate work,

  a passport to heaven.

  Wounded by a splinter,

  a serious wound,

  by happy chance

  mein lieber Freund,

  I was evacuated,

  my regiment disbanded,

  and in a little train

  listening to the countryside

  I prayed somehow

  in a cattle wagon

  perched on a crate of apples.

  Along the line we stopped

  at innumerable stations

  whose names we could not read.

  We never stopped crying “No.”

  Later we reached my house,

  the windows blown out,

  winter hard by and the farm for sale.

  3

  In that dream

  born of the wretchedness

  etched in identity,

  I broke down

  and was called

  into the office of a minister.

  He had held the job

  since the election of man,

  a clandestine Christian

  with a gift for friendship.

  He said Waldheim,

  I believe I believe,

  therefore I believe.

  That venerable form,

  subtle in art,

  with cold ruined hand

  had written a book

  which caused uproar in Eden.

  Lower,

  look lower.

  You speak of reality

  under illusions

  in an earthy little world turning.

  John 1:4

  However perhaps

  accompanied by me

  the Minister went on,

  through worlds beyond reason

  an adventure in the unreal

  might be of interest?

  Given the circumstances,

  I whispered

  There must be some mistake,

  I am not expecting any call.

  By now the Minister

  was going through my portfolio,

  and, moved by goodwill,

  he commented that the caviar tin

  on the table

  had been handed

  to Saint Bruno

  after their work in Italy.

  I became red

  —not in connection with the heat,

  just touched by this gesture—

  and told him I could not imagine a better job.

  4

  Drawing to a close,

  he was quiet—

  so I said my name

  from time to time

&nb
sp; and wondered

  whether I sounded

  like myself.

  The Minister

  pointed out a little book.

  Looking at the strange pictures—

  a black sun,

  the Earth seen from inside,

  and war in a box—

  My my,

  such pictures!

  A little gallery of being

  I thought,

  but soon found

  unending regions

  of consequence

  under every image

  —fields endless

  but visible

  behind every field.

  So I and the Minister

  left for a quest

  under this world,

  thus seeking

  to return home

  in new country,

  our little joke being

  We don't believe

  we're making believe—

  star fields

  prevailing in the East

  over the kingdom

  as a man considered a pile of bones.

  There he was,

  blunt Under,

  resigned to his post—

  a loyal servant

  of the world above.

  Under had been serving

  for some time

  and had served perfectly well,

  but now

  he had perhaps

  drunk a glass too many,

  as he was known to do on occasion,

  for somewhere in the mountains

  his wife was looking into her hands

  to see once more where Under lived.

  In a soft voice he explained

  he could no longer return

  to his wife and daughter,

  because Under now served

  in nations of continual shadow.

  This beguiling man

  said Death is another home,

  smiling at my problems

  with the world in general,

  and particularly personality

  —that foreign little whole—

  which he advised me to bury completely.

  5

  Lost in the middle of life

  we continued.

  It seemed essential

  to build a house.

  Clouds were gathering.

  They perturbed the Minister.

  He complained

  that I did not believe

  in his extraordinary world.

  I saw him quiet

  those who refused him—

  their heads in a privy,

  saying Waldheim,

  we believe we do not believe…

  I could not accept

  that they were so many,

  and was overcome

  on the banks of the canal.

  The dead do not cease in the grave

  I wrote on a stone

  as the Minister,

  his voice running out,

  said Either go back

  or move forward by other means…

  Colleagues, I had done some thinking

  about Genesis 1:2

  and was becoming emotional

  so yes, I followed him

  with reddish eyes,

  a man of words.

  Finally the road stopped—

  the untoward road,

  the road made of blood—

  and in the light of the fire

  continuing forward

  I approached a closed door in the field.

  Not of this world,

  it nevertheless remained

  substantially in place—

  stationed in the ruins

  of a great stage

  under nations.

  Opening that door,

  I now looked on a dim room

  with one empty chair.

  In the opposing chair,

  broken King If said

  Sit down with me.

  In his office

  under the world,

  he expressed concern

  at my desire for illusions.

  Help me I said.

  There was a book

  in the office

  that I wished to view—

  new within

  but old without—

  In the Middle East of life

  it more or less went,

  unthinkable to the end.

  6

  My my

  Archbishop A

  with his deteriorating wing

  regarded the world.

  I visited the spirit

  there in his august palace.

  He complained about the heat

  and asked if I would mind

  if he took his mitre off.

  I agreed and took off my coat.

  Whether he really believed

  is difficult to say…

  Certainly life

  burned inside him.

  He had composed a few lines

  in Greek,

  insisting it was only a draft.

  My shaky work he called it,

  but I had to admire the line

  There there.

  In Greek I repeated it.

  He would look

  into the blue overhead

  from this private chamber

  and praise his own words

  with no intention

  whatsoever to stop.

  Very little could be done,

  so I took it upon myself

  as cautiously as possible

  to cross that phantom out thus

  Archbishop A

  and took the chair

  there there

  in disrepair.

  There was an eerie silence

  at the table.

  I tried making

  stone men to continue

  the discussion.

  As evening progressed,

  the men unbent—

  Good

  edging closer

  good good…

  We spent hours discussing forms.

  One had a map of the real

  that we later published

  in the Times in Latin.

  One opened a little clock

  and said freedom.

  Together

  we opened my will

  over August wine

  poured into new bottles

  as one asked

  Why don't you smile?

  I smiled, and set my spade by.

  7

  Given early baptism

  in a grave

  as the Minister described

  creation and the fall,

  I found fences

  all laid down in blood.

  How

  I cannot say—

  they were broken in unity,

  deteriorated unity.

  Thus continuing,

  we looked with little reason

  for peace

  in utterly black country.

  Time had affected the stability

  of the western steps.

  step step