johnirons: Part 1 of Klaus Høeck's 'Metamorphoses' (1983)

LERICI

The breath whose might I have invoked in song

Descends on me; my spirit’s bark is driven

Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng

Whose sails were never to the tempest given;

The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!

I am borne darkly, fearfully afar;

Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven,

The soul of Adonais, like a star,

Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.

shelley

I did not come here with the spirit’s bark

or with a horse and cart that’s rolled along

two thousand miles or more, but with a Con

Air Caravelle Jet. I did not get to

See either Villa Borghese or the

Colosseum but did see the Roman

daybreak, which corrodes the heart with boric

Acid. I saw the facades of pink and

Yellow and the women who are slowly

being devoured from the inside.

I grasped I’d lived for almost forty years.

The time had come for me now to depart

After just one night at hotel delle Lega

zioni, itself on its way to nothingness.

What had you been expecting then? – I ask

myself, as the city bus passes the

Bar Shelley. What the hell else had you been

expecting than the espaliers of the ship

yards strung across the sky on your way to

Lerici, lit now as evening draw near.

Why should this place be any more sacred

Than other places that are dissolved by

Gold and azure. Only clarity is

left, which is too dazzling for eyes that are

Weak. Only the infinite purity of the

sea washes day out and day in

Forgetfulness of stones and

sand without anyone remembering it.

I am constantly being woken up

by this death-consecrated sea that still

laps under the walls of Casa Magnis.

But I myself have apparently not

Come here to die. I have no rendezvous

with death here, neither out there in the blue

triangle that has a scent of roses

And of calcium or under the shade

Of the orange tree. There is admitted

ly a white-painted door to my room at

The boarding house, which has also been painted com

pletely white, but it takes one to a

Servant’s private quarters and thus not to God

or any form of eternity

Who would have thought that it could create such

happiness to find some common

groundsel, some bonus henricus in these

Southern climes among the rocks and olives.

Who could know that one has to get so far

away in order to appreciate

what one has around one every day? This

Means there is more than just one way to

Travel. And more than just one way to love.

But the sea is calling me once again.

And I hurry down in order to

consult the great underwater medium

That is sitting with hair of seaweed and foam

down her back at Porto Venere.

The pine trees of high praise are really just

as beautiful as they are described. They

raise the sky and give shadow to the earth,

While the murky flames of the cypresses

Flicker from hell. The palms pitch and toss in

the wind, so that beneath them one al

most feels a spirit’s attack of the bends.

I have come to this place with my luggage:

My body, my money and my suitcase

that is full of my clothes and shoes and books.

And out from the west a sea of clouds drifts

in over Via Mantegazza like

A dark occident, with the promise of

rain for the night and my allegorical dreams.

I have only been in the museum’s

vestibule lit up by gleaming ashes.

Strangely enough there is a picture of

Byron hanging there, whose frame has presum

Ably been corroded by salt water.

I try in vain to decipher the sign

with its opening hours which is partly

Written in Italian partly almost

Ruined. If ‘aperto’ means ‘open’ then

there is apparently access to the

Place every day of the week except Wednesday

when sorrow and pain are allowed

To have a day off for themselves in

their own metaphysical apartments.

I took the bus today to the railway

restaurant in La Spezia, the town

that’s tartare-coloured with red lead and rust.

It was raining. I consumed a kind of

Soup and spaghetti with cheese. But why this

should have any at all more to do with

Shelley than so much else has I have no

Idea. But back to what is the main

Point. Me spaghetti with cheese and a kind

of soup. The main point. Me a kind of soup.

The main point. I am alone in a fo

reign town in a foreign country in a

Foreign world. I miss my beloved, I

miss the burnt butterflies of her eyelids.

This was meant to have been a letter to

Shelley to his so-called genius. Now

it is almost becoming a letter

To myself to my own angel of Death.

November is over and it’s still raining.

I’m afraid of death in the air although

it will probably never take place as

A plane catastrophe somewhere near Rome.

Evening’s falling and the moon is coloured

like the buoys for ships in San Terenzio

I saw pulled up onto the shore.

A ship on the horizon that looks like

A long surgical incision. Perhaps

Ariel on his way to his salty jewel?

This journey has its imaginary

reasons. It has its metaphysics and

its transcendence of plaster masks behind

Black gauze. I saw pictures and silhouette

Cuts through the windows of the museum.

The first floor is now made use of as of

fices of administration by the

Sindacato Immobiliare Turistico.

But from this alabaster room of sleep

there still continues to stream a great dream

That reaches the heart of every poet.

And in this house pain still continues to

Burn like a flame in the submerged sapphire

outside the harbour in Livorno.

I have met the Virgin Mary, madonna

of marble, madonna of stone in ma

ny places without praying for something.

God’s mother in a fortress where she

Was incarcerated. I have seen her in

a station cafeteria surrounded by

candles. Her of candles I in a

Station cafeteria she madonna

Of plastic. But nowhere did I

pray to her for protection of

Any kind or prayer to her for the poor.

I do not regret this, perhaps because

Within my mind I have a constant death-wish.

I a constant death-wish within my mind.

The sea really does have a smell of pure

linen and thus of winding sheets. The

sea tastes like crayfish with a cross on their

Backs. The sea is bitter with ivy berries.

The sea is salt of sodium chloride.

The sea is like a requiem for Shelley.

And on the outer edge of thought the ship

Of your own ideas also capsizes.

The sea raises its poisonous hemlocks

of foam among the breakwaters.

The sea feeds on the mercury of mirrors.

The sea invites us to incest and

Suicide. The sea is the mean propor

tional of death and of love.

This museum and the harbour among

the lion’s heads of the clouds have now become

my centre. And the white chapel of my

Room. My world has now become that simple.

Simple among my is this among

this has become this. And the sea which

gnaws inexorably away at the

Coast and at my heart. The carnivorous

Sea of San Terenzio. In this way

the sea takes its revenge on what

Could be called our enterprise.

This brings about a shipwreck in us.

Erases names, wipes out dates, elimi

nates the coastal fortresses of the spirit.

What fear unfolds its flag over

the white map of these sea buoys.

Is God going to send new sorrows to me,

Or is it merely the wind that is getting

Up before rain? – Listen! It is now falling

over the boats and among the stinging

jellyfish, blue, a painful blue. The soul

Leaves the body, roams around over the

Sea. Thus does humankind also walk

on the waters. It on there over

It among me. Humankind in humankind.

in me among it humankind

Thus humankind the waters and

over it on humankind the sea.

This line almost invisible the edge

of the wound where clotted blood is rinsed

clean among these rounded pebbles:

Open beaches, what is almost a crushed bottle

Green foaming baskets that follow the

rigorous laws of infinity,

that rigorous among these also

Follow also this foaming

Like art, which separates life from

death, art like a golden foaming

Breaking surf and beaches between

letters of the alphabet and other

Symbols, other secret signs

in our vocabulary, in our sea.

This is what I refer to as Shelley’s sea

gleaming with iodide. What am I searching

for here. Myself, or my identity,

Recollections or forgetfulness?

But inside me, in the heart’s urn I would

find my ashes. Inside my inside me

with my as me ashes I urn

But I. This searching and longing

for confirmation, affirmation,

recognition has simply become my

Weakness. Simply blue weakness my for

blue as this with recognition.

In the harbour and this fortress’s ivory-

coloured tower there is no deliverance.

Lerici pink over the sea. I almost

succeeded in. Mountain. Sea. Sky.

Rain. Almost happy. The rain. Its

Blue emblem. I. There. Gain clarity. Like.

Like. Rising birds. Over matter.

Mind. Heart. Thought. Also body. And.

One. And it. And And. Two. And. Blue over

Blue. Almost infinity and

Its fire. Between. As an opener for

the pain. Burns me. It. With sapphires.

Eagles. The torches of the rain close

the wound with wet grass. I still. And.

But gratitude begins. Still

And wet. That I still. Still.

Pizzeria. Cassa di Risparmio.

Permette. Zuppa di Verdina.

Con. Via Mazzini. E. Mantegrazza.

Tre. Chiave. Ambulanza.

Cameriere. E. Questo. Vino

bianco. Penna e sfera. Questa.

Con. Agenzia Viaggi. Io.

E. Con. E. Scusi. Per favore.

Piccolo. Martedi. A che ora.

Mangiare. Con. La Banca. Richi

Esta di Fermata. Io. Uno.

Il Conto. Questa. Valagia.

Buona Sera. Con. Argento.

Con. Permette. Golfo dei Poeti.

What impels me towards Italy’s coasts

at this time of year, when the sky is dark with

angels. Why did I leave the woman’s breasts

And my cats, who are so full of

Life in order to visit this bay of death

over whose waters only a foreign sail glides

out onto the white mirror of incomprehensi

Bility. What am I doing in this centre, beautiful

With its circle of holly, but painful

beyond all understanding. What scrawny

Hand drags me onto the richly decor

ated shore of this stage, which lies like a

Piece of lace under the new-born foam. Is

evening taking leave of me or I of it?

Mare. Lerici at the harbour. And. I.

The yachts. There. Lying. Rocking.

At anchor. Jessica and El Cid. Si

E. Scire. Uno. Due. Letimar.

Palm leaves in the wind quiver

like tail feathers do when birds are

mating. Permette. E. Cutty Sark.

Uno. La Rotonda. E. And. The sea.

Looks like emeralds, there emusified

light. Crown jewel almost sea. Break

Now heart. And this sky there potash-

coloured. Villa Marigola.

Under pine trees and the statues stare

stare stare into the blindness.

Crema. Burro. Pastina in brodo

Non capisco. Domenica. Venerdi.

Arranciata. Io. Per. Questa.

Notte. Questa. Elio. Il Giorno.

Io. Trovo. Francobollo. Denti

fricia. Questa. La Nazione.

Permette. Pantaloni. Stringe

Da scarpe. Asciugamano. E.

Il Secolo. Permette. Giorna

le danese. Per Fazoletto. E.

Cartolina. Que sta. Chiama.

Ospedale. Carta igienica.

Lampadina. La verra birra.

Ballare. In. A. Latte. Pane.

Mare. The sea. Killing sea. And.

Café after café. There. Ristau

rante. Leonella. Pensione. Tratto

Ria. Con. Nettuno. Uno. Café. Eure.

Ka. Fabricca Pasticciria. There. I and

Proprieta privata. I and

pass by bakeries pharmacies

Banks, kiosks and to the church.

Non. Uno. Due. Via del Campo.

There. Bar Shelley. Non. The Citadel

In sun gleams green. Walk. Via Turini.

Or Via Biaggini. I at

The sea. Beauty. Blue. The heart gets its

mortal blow of light. Bar Segafredo.

The foam. The salt. I definitely

remember this. Also its smell of

iodine. San Terenzio of the sea,

This prawn-coloured town. And

Finiteness. This finiteness

like a green bottle shard. Edges

that cut. There there there in the heart.

What and what painful light dazzles

your eye and your mind? – Lies

house Casa Magni. The white muse

Um. Remains of spirit. Mausoleum

by the sea. This cuttlefish-green

Sea. Like the shell with roe in if. Oh

pure sea. Clear sea that gives.

I walk down to the sea, its canvas.

Observe the lightning flashes, see the clouds

hear the waves. It is this

Cinemascope. To this to it

to its to I. Here: the stage-sets

of hotels, bars, restaurants.

But would rather see the sky black with dac

Tyls. I of its. See reality:

The fortress towering up as if cut off

as off: the head of Medusa. There

Over the horizon of immortality.

I to me blacker praise the night.

The museum’s catafalque with these swaying

black feathers: the dizzying palm trees.

This sea is angry with the poets.

It snaps like a chameleon

at me when I take a walk

Along the promenade. The sea and

The poet tolerate no equals.

That is why they fight for the foam’s

death masks and and and angry about the

Death masks. But me the sea will never

Possess. My meeting is now with the

spirits of the air. And the sea I leave

To the artists who paint blue

waves in their pictures or

To the fishes. To blue in their

or to the fishes never angry.

This: may the purity from the sea burn

everything out of my brain with the

exception of Shelley’s poems. The hats

And the many images: gone

Museum and the plaquettes of white gold,

and erase this ongoing transaction

with his name. His and this with

Shelley name many transaction gold

In many of my of my of everything from

this. The current value of his books also

Those with signature, this yellowed

letters written in his hand to his wife!

Burn them. Leave the spirit in his poems.

His in them to his from his poems.

I gnaw myself to death on these

stones. The sky above this sea will not

prevent me from this, on the contrary.

My anchorage is the house by the bay

As long as I am here. Gnaw myself to death

on the spirit’s bones, white, crumbled

like washed-up faeces. The white stones

White, crumbled like washed-up faeces.

Not the philosopher’s stone. The white crumb

ling stone. White stones not.

Guide with me: Relicts for

all tourists with myself as

Guide and custodian. Feel ashamed.

Around me with all for me.

The sun is shining. I ought to take the train

to Viareggio this afternoon.

There where the body and soul left

Each other for good. There the coastline

Lies for certain like an orange-tree

branch now during the winter solstice.

But I am tired of sufferings. I will

Stay here. I will not depart from here.

Depart like an orange-tree branch from here of

sufferings each other during the winter sol

Stice. And soon there will no no pills

left in the bottle. The coast resembles

For certain a long half-moon of coffein,

there where spirit and matter left each other.

I have attempted to compare real

ity with a drawing from back then.

It differs in a number of points.

There are more windows on the second

Storey. Reality

reality there reality.

And the garden wall has several

Buttresses missing out towards the sea.

There are more trees in the drawing.

They’re missing now. Apart from that

Casa Magni still looks like a painting by

Giorgio de Chirico. The metaphysics

Is correct. And the sky is cuttlefish

coloured just before nightfall.

It’s raining again. It’s raining over

Italy. I am lying like a dead man

waiting for death, just as I have

Been waiting for it throughout my life.

The distant thunder could be an omen

from God. I allow myself to flow back

towards sleep’s small resolution

With the inevitable. The boats tug at

The hawsers of the dream down at the

jetty. There are foreign birds

In the mirror but not in the room. And I

glide like a ship out onto the sea of the

Seance towards the place where Shelley drowned.

It’s raining as before the Flood.

I have begun to grow fond of my pri

son. I quite like my little exile

here, actually appreciate this

Austere room with its terrasso floor.

The landlord and I converse with smiles

and gestures. This austere room

with smiles and gestures my little exile.

He says: ‘Ecco!’ – and I reply: ‘Good!’

The daughter blushes. She is of the line

of the medusas with the daybreak on

Her eyelids. It is Monday towards

evening. There’s a change in the weather,

And I long even so to be home back

in my own country’s dome of cold.

These sonnets have been blasted into frag

ments by the sea, lumps of lava washed up

onto the shore of paper from the con

Tinent of sleep. They are black with seaweed

And submarine mourning veils. The rain has

perforated them with occult holes.

The more solid sections are illegible

And are of granite and the secret

Passages lead out into nothing

ness and meaninglessness.

They are pebbles washed ashore by

the winter storm on the Ligurian coasts.

But perhaps they have their own beauty when

the sun is refracted by their salty edges.

In my room night has placed a bust

of darkness as well as an urn with

Shelley’s ashes. I no longer speculate

On underlying reasons and causes:

that have brought together salt

and olives. I have enough to do teasing

Out the effects, which among other things

Gives rise to these sonnets full of black pine

Cones. That does not mean that I merely

let things take their course, only that

I follow the sea’s own ground swell

and foaming caesura. I have enough to do

In each day walking along the coast

down to Lerici’s beautiful fortress.

One early morning I make a small

paper boat out of an Italian

bank note that is admittedly not

Worth all that much. I launch it in a

Puddle on the Via Biaggini so as

to realise the myth once and for all.

I do not dare to call it Ariel

Or Don Juan, but christen it instead

Torino, since it actually says that

on it in green letters. It capsizes

At once in these winter storms, which would al

so have sent far larger ships of dreams to

The bottom with the ashes of the spirit

and sinks towards its great meaninglessness.

I have grown tired of the sea, which can be

heard as an echo even in the wine glasses.

For that reason I’ve gone up into the

Hills inland. The small mountain towns smell

Of vinegar. Even at this time of year

all sorts of flowers are in bloom, the names

of which I do not know. Scabiosa

Is an exception because it is as blue

as Shelley’s eyes. But I am distracted

by the hills and when I have returned

Home I immediately lie down to sleep

and dream of a waterspout. I round off

This particular day by reading:

Lines written in the bay of Lerici.

Do not enter the forbidden garden

at Villa Marigola, but if you

do so, be prepared for the transcendence.

Overturned urns lie all over the place

Among the labyrinthine hedges

from where female busts with closed eyes

(the materialisation from a great

Trance) stare out across the Golfo della Spe

Zia in all kinds of weather (like some Mary

Shelley). At the very top the eighth house

Can be seen, whose ochre-coloured walls dis

play their own particular astronomy.

And everywhere the white narcissi are

in bloom the spirit’s flower par excellence.

Once more a great poem is about to fail

for me, illegible behind words and images

like the epitaphs of birds’ footprints the sea

Erases every day. On this final evening

I walk down and place myself in Casa Mag

ni’s shadows at the very centre of the

Floor’s ceramic pentagram. To write poems

About one’s own powerlessness, isn’t it

to die as a human being. To call upon

the spirits of the past in order to

Speak through their painted masks, isn’t

it to die as a poet? – As a

Final invocation I scratch my ini

tials: K.H. in the plaster of the wall.

I know that I will never see this place

again except behind the gauze veil

of my dreams or in these poems or

On a postcard that smells of chlorine.

And that was all that there was left in

Casa Magni: postcards and plastic magno

lias: I finally succeeded at

Getting in to the fusel oil that is

Left after the soaring of the spirit.

I myself leave Italy as I came

To it, not with the night express of red

coral or with an automobile, but I

Fly towards my own destiny. And what

would a person be without a destiny?

johnirons

Sunday, 20 May 2018

Part 1 of Klaus Høeck's 'Metamorphoses' (1983)

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