The
bird-hunters
1997
(A cycle of poems)
Clear the day was
the birds making northwards.
There were three of us
we went across the ice
shot long-tailed duck, eider and goldeneye.
Black-tarred our boat
we took it out with us
we rowed between the gleaming plains of ice.
The morning water was sun
the day was the day of hunting.
We were bird-hunters
three our names.
Then we owned names.
When the expanses of ice break in spring
and long cracks open up in them
then they sing
– no not them, but the crack sings
and silent days over the sea
then sound like wings.
Wings are not seen
but wings are heard
the short while before the crack widens
and a grave becomes visible.
The crack came suddenly
we saw it too late
too late we saw our destiny.
The one of us who stood farthest away from the
boat:
Oh bloody hell, he screamed
it’s cracking, it’s cracking!
The boat – run to the boat, quick!
The boat we had just left
separated from us by the now widened crack.
We had spent far too much time
turned towards the stretch of eider
the shot and the lure of the hunt.
Flame-green the water at the edge of the ice
quickly blackening towards the depths.
The black-tarred boat, two oars
provisions, boots and birds we had already shot.
The boat – so easy to pull over the ice.
We crouched, just about to make the leap
over the heady blackness.
We held back, held back in the leap
believed perhaps that further on
the crack was less in dimension
– looked that way, hurried over
but the width was already too great.
If we jumped, if we waved our arms
no one dared jump,
no one dared swim through the icy coldness.
Too long our hesitation
the crack did not hesitate.
Paralysed we stood there
grasped nothing. Grasped, did not grasp
as yet death was not visible
it waited still in that second.
Blows of iron we heard within the ice
and through the air
it sounded like planes against planks
– before we had thought it the song of the ice.
The flowers of fear unfolded
the shivers took us, tears were near
the evening was near
we should soon have turned homewards.
No one saw us, no one heard from the shore
the cries that were swept away by the wind.
The sky saw us but did not move
we saw how death wrote our names there.
The ice saw us
the waiting water saw us
attached to our hands the mark of the doomed.
Eagles were seen earlier that winter
they sat far out on the ice
they looked like deposed monarchs awaiting their
death
they fed on hunger
they pecked pieces of carrion out of the ice
and crowned themselves with the longest night.
And our eyes were glazed with fear
and our tongues were stiff like that of the fish
and far off the black-backed gull rested
its eyes colder than those of the hawk
used to living off fish
and whatever else had died in the sea.
The wild leap
The wild hope
the wild cry beyond the cry.
But a hope of rescue for us
would only challenge the ridicule
but there is no ridicule here either.
Far out at sea there is never any ridicule.
And then it was dark
and then there was nothing more
and then there was the water
and the water was the last thing
and beyond the water was nothing more.
Of those that sink
of those that build themselves a nest
down on the sea-bed
of the improbable in the mountain ravines down
there
of the journey there
without memory and prior to their birth
there they build their new boats.
We were taken down into the lower sun-orbit
already
deep under the roof of the ice
our cries were washed away
in distant echoes they could still be heard
before the rekindling of the moon
and more translucent than the bodies of jellyfish
we received the sound from the bells of water.
As when one newly born
leaves its habitat and is led out into the visible
where its name is given and gender determined
we were led here towards what is farther off
where no names and no gender
and no other signs of recognition
apply any more.
So did the first evening sink
the evening when the ice broke.
The land was grey, the houses swathed in grey
grey was the blood, grey was sorrow.
Over the ice in gleaming
black feathers
the released water spread
ice gnawed ice, a
slurping was heard
when the fields of white
were cracked by the wind.
So did the night sink
where no joy was possible
the lights that shone in
the windows
where sleep was not
possible either
strips of red spread out
over the white of the eyes
the hours became the
bodies of phantoms
wrapped in grey
drowned in the dark
no one tasted the bread,
no one ate of the meat.
The cloak of sorrow was
spread out over the night
Damn and blast, someone
cried in hate with clenched fists
God, my God, someone
prayed
the whimpering was heard
right up to the hour of dawning.
The wind did not answer
the ice did not answer.
Grey was the blood, grey
was sorrow
grey were the roses of
death.
Far out there a boat
drifts without its crew
the ice is already
devouring it.
The bird’s outstretched
necks
the long necks
the narrow ones and those
covered with green velvet.
Bright-red was the
morning sun
and the ice breaks.
The long-tailed duck’s
pointed wings
burn in the sun
the clatter, the downy
whirl of the feathers
not yet reached by
buckshot
caress them with your
hand
their down against the
trembling of your fingertips
above the breaking ice.
The goldeneye’s vigilant
eyes
dark crystals
mirrored in the water –
the water that is mirrored.
Whirling bodies, whirling
winds
and when a cry breaks out
ice against blood heated
by the sun
is heard over the water –
is heard under the water
plays at evening and in
the morning.
The cry of the birds
the birds’ pointed wings.
If only it had been morning
and our death been drawn
in the sun
if only we had heard the
watch dogs bark
though there are no dogs
out here.
If March crows that we
are used to hearing
at this time had come
not as a deliverance but
just as company.
If a late aurora borealis
had been visible.
That night the
groundswells were
high mountains of a great
evil
that pass through the
world
they ground themselves
into heavy knives
before the age of iron.
But they were not driven
on by evil
they were from before the
age of evil
it was only us who
perceived them as such.
They were knives out of
the night that devours all
and cuts to pieces any
semblance
of a human face.
The stars watched over
them
the fish listened to them
deep down
the stones heard them in
their hideouts
when they cut through the
world.
To write with letters of
water
the alphabet that only
the water reads
to descend to the sea-bed
and write there the names
of those
that once owned the palms
of hands
and the water that will
stream
before anything has even
been written completely:
the water that constantly
effaces
the water that constantly
once more allows the names
to gleam in the eyes of
the waves.
On walls of sorrow
the water builds its
transparent roof.
The water that talks in
its sleep
follows the path of the drowned
talks itself through
night after night
hides what the day can
find:
planking, rudder and oar.
The eel swims past but
does not stop on its journey
the cod’s eye keeps watch
everything is sucking
mouths.
The water conceals its
eye
fills its mouth with mud
stares as if blind at the
path of those sinking.
If tonight a cry were
once more to be heard in
the gale
it would be the mouths of
the water
would be the cry of the
water
would be the cry of the
nightmare
would be the cry of
breaking feathers
sunk to soot in the
water.
The water that talks in
its sleep, writes in lead
comfort that no one can.
And we who speak here
do not speak with our
usual tongue
nor is it that of the
fish
– the water gave us to
another voice.
It grows dark around us
more than the darkness
lets one suspect.
We were pulled down ever
deeper
borne ever heavier
towards sealed rooms
and a sleep that was to
last for ages.
Beds of a different kind
than those we had previously slept in
were ready to receive us
with a different softness
than a different sleep.
And the sea cow bellows
her udders have
sufficient for all of us
and the beehives on the
sea-bed
are full of the honey of
sea bees
and butterflies
fluttering cause
the various seasons to
change colour
devoted as they are to
both summer and winter.
We have enough space to
walk in
we have enough nights to
sleep through
we have sweetness for our
tongue.
Even so the memory burns
us:
clear the day was, the
birds making northwards.
And when the water
had forced itself into
our mouths
and when we had opened
ourselves
to the sea
and the sea was within
us.
When we were as fish
and as far removed from
the beauty of fish
as can be imagined.
But beauty does not count
on such a journey
– not that kind of beauty
and time does not count
– not that kind of time.
The sea-grass
the sea-hair
the water of sea-cries
and the goldeneyes that
rise from the sea-bed
with their green crests.
After we had taken in the
water
we glided down towards
the sea-bed
the sea-bed whispered to
us.
The air was no longer
willing to give us its life
but the water received us
carried us
like descending wreaths
of smoke.
With hair spread out we
sank
and with outstretched
arms.
Our heaviness was another
than that above the water
our heaviness became our
lightness
we were among those
gliding diagonally
like eggs
we were sinking downwards
towards a nest.
We turned round in the
water
with the whites of our
eyes towards the surface
from which sun had been
able to come
had not the evening
already done so
– though the sun would
not have beckoned us more.
We recalled the potatoes
in the opened furrows
and the blue earthworms
that disappeared
we recalled the gulls
above
the wren
and the caraway that was
gathered
the salt on the table we
recalled
the light birch leaves
that unfolded
the dream of a woman’s
breast, summer nights
and the heat of the skin
against the sheet.
Transformed into animals
into fish-animals, into
cow-animals
we grazed on the sea’s
meadows
and were taken further
and further away.
Transformed into
crow-animals
and the eagles we had
earlier seen on the ice,
transformed into the mice
that nibble
even under the lowest
sea-bed
we were taken ever
further in
towards a large
and heavy heart.
We thought ourselves free
we were where we were
not.
We were there.
Call for a new name
a name that no one knows
the waves whispered to us
those that passed high
above our faces.
And the sea-fire that had
died during the winter
and was waiting to be lit
the following autumn
whispered too.
We then called and became
the cry
that goes through the
backs of the waves
in winter as in summer.
We became the gull’s
wing.
We continue spiralling
downwards
the algae that earlier
did not gleam at all
now gleam like phosphorus
in the dreams that come
before the seen
and after.
The greenly shimmering
feather that follows.
Then we drank oblivion
and went to the threshold
of oblivion.
We spread out our nets as
we did before
and these are the nets of
oblivion.
We love as before
and our women are the
oblivion’s women
they look at us with
shining eyes
as if from desire or from
tears
and they say:
you are oblivion’s men.
On land the houses lie
like dead birds they
hatch dead eggs.
For those that have sunk
there are tall, green halls
water touches water
among fishes’ mouths.
On land is sorrow, its
swirls round itself
its grey shawl.
A notion is that the dead
suckle the breasts of the
unborn.
The hours came, leached
out of the salt
not the salt from the sea
but the salt of sorrow
and the bread that was
given us
we were unable to eat.
The dreams came at night
and took us close
to the land of madness
and even more as a
mockery were dreams held out to us
about the life that had
been.
Fleeting snatches of
torpor
when nothing we recalled
was shown us.
We crossed the field, the
lapwing had returned
the field we did not
know, the lapwing we did not know.
Pale, crumpled feathers
were given us when asleep
and when awake
plucked from birds whose
flesh had already been eaten
the waves hacked at our
ankles like teeth.
The sun burned
the day was entirely
without shadow
the rain that came
was water from the hair
of the drowned.
And the swallows that
already in autumn
sought the sea-bed
beneath the water
so as to drink the winter
open their eyes and meet
us.
They whisper:
tonight the ice broke up
did you hear the singing
crack?
already the heat of
summer is approaching
and we will fly once
more.
They move their wings
and smile the way
swallows smile.
Like ships we drift over
the sea-bed
full of water
we see our ribs and heart
that has ceased beating
our eyes we see as warped
globes
and the feet we have
walked with
and the hands we have
grasped with
and the mouths that have
sucked desire and love
they float away from us
we owned them for a while
in time the water will
dissolve them
and they shall be water.
We become ships
and the swallows smile in
their sleep.
When the ice shattered
the final joy of our
summers shattered
we shrink
and are borne half asleep
ever further away
from what we believed was
our life.
We hear a foghorn through
the mist
but no voices reach us
that we know.
A film has grown
between us and the trees
when they flower
now as before
everything is as before
and nothing is as before.
We pick the apples in
autumn
we collect them in
baskets
but do not know what they
taste like.
We painfully recall the
light of summer nights
and the cuckoo’s cry for
consolation
becomes a cry for death.
We write names
but the paper has faded.
It is not really the
return
we still are hoping for
that a face worn down by
water
that no longer is that of
a human
should show itself.
What is then our hope?
that which is beyond hope
and yet waiting.
The waves speak of a wind
from the southwest
then summer comes
the ringed plover lays
its eggs
and in the still water we
can sometimes see the salmon’s
crooked jaws.
We are not waiting for
any return.
The ropes of sorrow have
stretched us year after year.
Will they then never
break?
No, they will never
break.
The pennants of the nets
show the wind is rising
and what we are waiting
for
is beyond hope and
waiting.
The northern lights we
still recall within us
from that winter
now is the new winter
and the sunsets that
sparkle in the cold
as wild now as then.
The fish we catch and
haul up on the land
from the ice-holes
scare us
they take away our words
when we eat them.
We eat a different bread
than that night
even so we eat of the
same bread
we bake it from dead days
its taste we do not like.
To stay silent we already
learnt after the first summer
but the silence does not
satisfy us either
finally not even tears
have any taste.
We see the crack when it
opens up.
For months we went
searching
but nothing drifted
ashore:
not a boot did we find,
not an oar, let alone
a hand
a heart
an eye.
How shall we hear the
voice that the water swallowed?
We who have long lived
close to some water
and who have long missed
those who have sunk
know that the water does
not own any songs
except the water’s own
complaint.
We who weep
we weep as long as there
are tears
finally the drugs of
sleep and oblivion also
do their work.
Sun that sinks
preserve us from gentle
hands
and consolation that even
so consoles nothing.
The butterfly of oblivion
its wing velvet-smooth
but with a poisoned barb
beneath.
For the water owns no
songs.
Sun come – sun disappear
frost come – frost
disappear.
Summer and winter will
even so come
but to us they will not
come back.
Water come – water turn
wind come – wind
disappear
to us they will even so
not come back.
Goldeneye come –
goldeneye turn
boat come – boat
disappear.
Goldeneyes and boats will
even so come
to us they will not come
back.
For a long time after the
water was clear blue
with tints of green
boats set out from the
land, boats sought the land
fish weighed down the
nets.
We sank and with us sank
time
our bodies were filled
not just with water
oblivion was given to our
memory
and carried us below the
sea-bed
for a while our names
followed us
but when time yielded, so
too did they.
In the rotting where we
had been once before
before names had been
given –
and around us the mouths
of fishes.
But nothing of what we
tell
have we ever told
we are in the land of
death
and we have nothing from
there to tell.
The words are placed in
our mouths
how we were carried ever
deeper
and reached the realm of
Oblivion
where the cows of
oblivion grazed
and we drank of the milk
of oblivion.
Late at night we reached
the shore that sings
snow fell
the song was the song of
oblivion
sweet as honey it met our
lips
as when the man sinks
into the woman
and woman into man.
We sailed on – and the
ice breaks –
we rowed on – we saw
long-tailed duck, eider and goldeneye
our eyes broke, our lips
split
we were borne on
the green of the algae
became our sail.
the eagle gave us its
eye.
It was the journey down
to our death
of that this has told.
Of the land of the dead
and our days there
we have nothing to tell.
Birds that were not birds
sought in towards the
coast
their breasts were rent
by buckshot
in their eyes were also
holes.
They flew against the
windows
they wanted to enter where
the humans were.
We did not sink
like our dead had sunk
in the water of sorrow we
had
long been drawn down.
Sometimes the shore
became a jetty for us
there we waited beyond
waiting.
From the bottom of the
winds
which is deeper than that
of the water
we heard voices
– to us they whispered.
Whether one year or many
had passed
– that spring a wagtail
came.
It sat on the edge of the
field
we saw it
it bore no greeting from
the dead
but it was alive as we
are alive.
The clear air became even
clearer
we saw our life.
A dread it was.
The sorrow grieves in us
– shall we one day see it
as the wagtail looked at
us?
The abode of the oar
forgotten
were it to be found its
wood would be so splintered
that no shore there could
be traced
even less a name.
No memories of eider and
goldeneye.
The oar owned by the
water
The oar owned by No One.