Klaus Høeck paints huge canvases.
This is just a tiny part (pp. 110-117) of his wonderful book.
For the entire text go to here.
‘memory with variations’
my other root reach
es deeper down than holmen
cemetery deep
er than the rose that
i have just planted this last
autumn in the name
of omar khayyam
deeper even than meta
physics and sili
cates right down to the
heavens is how far its lov
ing kindness reaches
memory can be
come recollection become
a whole series of
years that cannot be
distinguished from each other
on the grid of the
calendar no mat
ter how much i attempted
to wipe the pane clean
so as to gain a
final glimpse of my mother
out there in the dark
my mother rose a
gain for a instant when i
opened a bottle
of polish alco
hol which was from her life
time (spirytus rek
tyfikowany)
like a delayed heirloom my
mother rose again
like the genie of
the lamp from ninety six per
cent pure alcohol
but when i discov
ered the black spots (thrips from last
year) behind the glass
which covered the por
trait of my mother (taken
by mydtskov) i was
suddenly afraid
that nothing remains of
the dead though that
did not call the ex
istence of god into ques
tion in any way
memory can be
come recollection can be
broken into bits
and pieces by the
chimes of the clock from pade
sø church a late de
cember day no mat
ter how much i attempted
to retain my moth
er’s image as one
true unity among the
sundays of advent
my mother was born
and grew up on amager
near artillery
road - i do not know
much myself about that is
land’s lanterns and fog
horns (i refer to
rifbjerg’s poems) but i stand
nevertheless despite
all this with my one
leg firmly planted in a
marcadian soil
her childhood passed to
put it briefly like any
other childhood sur
rounded by the heart’s
willow scrub - no not complete
ly like childhood for
all of her brothers
died either of volvulus
or of the black i
vy of tubercu
losis up at the coast hos
pital at refsnæs
my mother has be
come an evening walk down by
the sea a sharp smell
of iodine in
the sinuses a bank of
clouds moving westwards
become a stab in
the heart with a knitting need
le an english trans
lation in anoth
er book which as yet only
exists on paper
my mother has be
come a rococo chair with
canvas embroider
y of yellow ro
ses embroidered by herself
or has become a
bell-pull with the words
‘happy christmas’ in cross-stitch
my mother has be
come a bottle of
pectin become kitchen salt
a raging winter
my mother has be
come three glasses of jim bean
brand bourbon whisky
a pinch of lemon
verbena and an open
sandwich with smoked ha
libut and pepper
one late evening when i put
memory to the
test empty memo
ry’s and midnight’s wicker bas
ket full of seaweed
and memory ad
vances stealthily on stock
inged feet in its sharp
smell of clementines
and brine ‘can you remember
can you remember’
it whispers with a
voice mysterious and draped
in crape - ‘yes i clear
ly remember you
and your seven league boots with
holes in’ i answer
and oblivion
sneaks in like a thief in the
night with its shoes on
backwards ‘have you for
gotten have you forgotten’
it whispers with sil
very voice - ‘yes i’d
almost forgotten you and
your moth-eaten ta
ble runner hiding
at the back of the linen
closet’ i admit
i assume that my
mother had a post mortem
done on her just as
elegant as a
cut by lucio fonta
na that her heart and
her kidneys have been
examined much more closely
than her conscience has
been that she was not
stuffed with cotton wool and tow
and forgetmenots
my mother has be
come three shovelfuls of earth
an urn of ashes
mixed with white roses
become three millimetres
of hoar frost on the
grass at holmen cem
etery become a look
full of wild dreams be
neath the snow showers be
come the last seven words in
this poem by me
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