Poem sequence by Klaus Høeck

‘études australes’

and behind me stars

of glass and soda sparkle

behind my shoulder

that’s smoking with salt

behind my bedhead while i

am dreaming the stars

sparkle like crayfish

on the sea-bed of båring 

vig the stars sparkle

like lightships there up

in the springtime night while i

am falling asleep

i have gathered the

dead around me in a cir

cle as around a

maypole for a dance

and a conversation they

cannot take part in

all the dead members

of my family around

me like statues that

move almost imper

ceptibly whenever i

do not gaze at them

and behind me the

stars sparkle like electric

welding over fun

en from the lindø

shipyards behind me the stars

toll for my ears out

from the spit ene

bærodde as if strangers

were going to be

evening guests or an

unexpected word in my

most recent poem

the dead also look

at me (at any rate from

their carbonised pho

tographs turned pale by

purgatory) or maybe

it is the other

way around that i

only move (am moved) when the 

dead gaze at me and 

that i otherwise 

come to a complete standstill

in my memories?

and behind me the

stars plummet down cold and a

lien with sili

con from their orang

eries and from their enorm

ous celestial map

plunge into the realm

of my poems where they strike

my left foot or leave

behind them such words

as ‘carina’ or ‘puppis’

or as ‘canopus’

and behind me the

stars fall down from their winter

gardens fall down in

to ‘études australes’

from one star chart to anoth

er one and that is

the way the stars sound

then even harder and wild

er than emerald

that is the way the 

stars sound in grete sultan’s

interpretation

nobody becomes

a good person just by dy

ing it is unfor

tunately not that

simple just as nobody

becomes an evil

person just by liv

ing it is not that simple

everyone has to

do it by themselves

both parts of their own free will

it’s that difficult

and behind me the

stars cast out dice over the 

sky’s rough glass surface

like ice-cubes like the

coins in an I-ching throw

like the notes coming

from a steinway grand

piano like the sparks from

john cage’s pitu

itary gland like

crocodile tears like the last

words in the bible

i have gathered the

dead around me for life’s sake

(also the dead chaf

finches that flew in

to the window pane yester

day) life cannot un

equivocally 

determine itself as life

the dead define us

in a way they are

what makes us living without

death there is no life

and behind me the

stars chime with death and necess

ity behind me

the stars ring out for

god – what if i were not to

turn around would i

then not be transformed

into a pillar of salt

or into a stone

plinth would my poem then

not be transformed into a

mourning cherry-tree?