Thursday, May 05, 2005

After the Same Concert of Lieder

Do men sing to themselves?
Are their emotions
As strong as mine?
Do they throw themselves,
With wide-eyed innocence,
Into love?
Do their hearts inflate with excitement?
Do their lungs feel heavy with grief?
Or is it only an appearance,
Exaggerated by strong words
And raised eyebrows?
If there were only one man in the world
Who sang to himself,
Hope might be kept,
Like a glowing coal
Buried in the ashes.
I no longer believe men are poets.
No, I have never believed it.
Will not someone
Prove me wrong?

Uncertain Observation

I don’t know
If people don’t want to hear me speak,
Or if they just don’t know
How to respond.
If they don’t want to hear me
And they don’t know how to respond.

After a Concert of Lieder

I hurt like a raw wound
And music slips into the flesh
And rubs laughingly among the blood
I have to howl and snap
To drive it away
Otherwise I’ll cry!
…When I say that I hate music,
I do not mean that I am no longer obsessed with it.
I only mean that it hurts me,
It hurts me so that I can’t bear it,
And I need to run and hide from it.
There will be no more songs.

To Thomas Mann

I defy thee, Thomas Mann!
This spirit, while archaic,
Is never obsolete…
This medieval force of wonder,
While you may deny it,
Creeps through us still…
Watch me! Watch me,
In spite of your warning,
As I rush headlong
Into the apolitical void!
Free us to be separatists!
Let us bring forth
Our Romantic Regionalism!
Watch me ignore the world,
And let it destroy itself!
I care not.
I will die of my Romantic morbidity!
Your rationality of life
Is healthy boredom.
Keep your social humanitarianism,
And leave me to love!
Life is more than economics.