johnirons: 01/09/2018

MISSOLONGHI

If thou regrett’st thy youth, why live?

The land of honourable death

Is here: – up to the field, and give

Away thy breath!

Seek out – less often sought than found –

A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;

Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy rest.

byron

Tired of general assemblies, tired of

consultants, tired of the colour

white I took flight number OY 621

To Athens. At the airport I could see

The aircraft standing on the cement like

a blue dragon or a fallen angel

that had got its wings slightly soot

Ed in its fall. I didn’t drink any export

Beer in the departure lounge cafeteria

or buy any cigarettes. Once on

Board I fastened my safety belt and

concentrated my thoughts on the pil

Grimage to the dreadful

Caput Mortuum in Missolonghi.

Just come to Missolonghi if you dare.

This place is still abandoned by all

and sundry in the midst of its salt marsh.

Here there is only room for burnt-out

Poets and utterly failed rebels.

Here there is room for those who have

To do their military service for

Satan every fourth year, or for those

Who are to die. The mornings smell of silver

sulfadiazine and avens and a

Trumpet of crushed porcelain resounds

because the emblems of this town par

Excellence are the playing cards ace of spades,

nine of diamonds and the black cocks.

Right opposite my room lies the Garden

of Heroes. And at its centre stands

Byron forgotten for ever. For it

Is our own image we have raised there in

Marble, it is our own vanity.

And tell me why are so many stones shaped

like hearts in Missolonghi and decor

Ated with white medal ribbons of flint?

Because we are celebrating our own de

feat and reconciliation with death.

But among the dark fire of the four cy

presses that are blazing from the Under

World his heart is being purified three

times in his emerald’s secret solstice.

God Almighty, I say. Is it here I

am to find you, God, under this mercur

y column. Are you here, God! I cry out

On this Ash Wednesday in Missolonghi

The town of the expelled green with mala

ria. Can you see the dog in the oil

barrel and the sheep that I eat with re

Lish for dinner in some Greek hotchpotch or

Other of a dish. Do you see what I

caught sight of this morning: the sawn-through

Bones and the king of the insects.

Are you here, God! I cry out once more. Is

It here among the apple-coloured

walls that I shall at long last find you?

When I stand at the centre of the square’s

pythagorean rectangle paved with

the shards of the dead, I can see it. it

Is de Chirico’s painting: Morning

Meditation, that here has gained real

ity. The inner image projected

from the sluggish shadows of the hypo

Physis. Or conversely, only now does

Reality manage to catch up with

its visions and its blue metaphysics.

That is the reason why time always re

veals us as being the bitter

Argonauts who sooner or later are

shipwrecked in a town like Missolonghi.

Outside the town in the large areas

of reclaimed land you can in these salt

marshes sometimes suddenly come across

Satan’s mirror. It is framed by certain

Flowers that I choose not to name by

name, and you can find the signs of the

fallen angels chiselled into its

Surface or on a rather odd stone

That I threw out into its centre.

I have reflected myself in it today

The nineteenth of April in Byron’s honour,

but I will not tell you precisely where

It can be found. Only this one last in

dication: God’s breath also clouds it.

I went to Greece in order to get to

know about the light and the first ax

ioms. I arrived in my blue bomber

Jacket in order to purloin the fire.

But I became initiated into the dark

into sleep and into death. For I

slept in the Pullman coach through the Eleu

Sinian labyrinth, which was blocked by

Cobwebs. I later took these black gossamer

embroideries to be a sure sign.

Through the Elusinian labyrinth I these

black. And I became convinced when

On the fifth night I dreamt about a

veiled head that had an averted face.

The regular Lord Byron café does not exist

in Missolonghi, so you have to go

right out into the marshes to find him,

There where he rode in all weathers like a

Whirlwind, a waterspout of the spirit

along the salt expanses. Though mostly

through rain that poured down like rice grains

From the urns of the dead and that certain

Ly cost lives. There where he rode like

a god of war without territory

And only his horse left any impression

on the naked republic, while he

Himself disappeared in these labyrinths

in which he lost the thread of his love.

Then the rain also came to Greece. Huge drops

full of secrets are falling in the

darkness over the oxalic acid

And formaldehyde of the lagoons that

Bubbles inside the meander border of the

great dam. I remain seated in

my own megaric circles and listen

absent-mindedly. Byron, what

Would he have done with a rainy

evening like this one. Would he also

Have transformed it into a sonnet.

Or would he have stayed on sitting there

Until late at night and have speculated

on what one does with fallen angels?

Shall I smear my forehead and nose with

mussel blood or with Greek butter

rub them with camphor or with hair cream

To alleviate this searing sunburn.

The sun of the dead has been crueller to

my skin than that of the living. I’m so

badly sunburnt it’s as if I was wearing

A mask of clay and bitumen. Hell’s sun

Has stung me during this exact

opposition to Jupiter. And

As yet I have not found any foot

prints here in the marble of immortal

Ity only a statue that has been

raised in honour of the public.

But no other path to Byron’s heart

exists than this beautiful and danger

ous outermost embankment, where a

Swallowtail butterfly (with Elusinian

Signs on its wings) entices you further

and further out towards the nothing

ness. Here where the king of madness has a

Gleam that’s almost black with salt and blindness.

Out here you can find the morning star

that has plunged down into the breakers.

‘Hercules’ made for the shore this way towards

the mirages of Missolonghi. The town from

Here resembles a huge catafalque

that is covered with white silk damask.

Look, this broken white column – do you

think that the other end of it reaches

all the way down to Hades? – Perhaps

It bores a path right through Persephone’s

Garnet throne. The marble columns you

see as white are the underworld’s shadows.

Our statues, temples only mirrored only

From their there there. Plaster casts only re

Flections and the appearance of shadow ima

ges. And the eagle there resplendent in

Its basalt in immortality only

flying and in its flying in

And its. Are we ourselves the living

shadows of the dead, their dreams?

It is true that we have to consult the

dead if we are to get any further.

The busts (even the black one of Byron

In your imagination) and the mauso

Leums have their significance. Are not

in vain. In onyx does humanity

carve the experiences it has gained.

We see ourselves staring out of white

Marble. We see the stones of our errors

and the granite towers of our conquests.

And ourselves in our numerous monu

ments. And and also the statue

Here on the plinth of defeat that is

whirled around by butterflies. Also is.

The poet’s answer to the future

is to a question from the past. In the

middle of this double piece of obsidian

He wrote his poem after the fault lines.

Do not be afraid of the urns’ ala

baster of the crosses’ sardonyx.

They are also answers. And but and. Living

And and new questions from old and

To young living their their

not perhaps perhaps. But poets

Also exist who have velvet fists

in gloves of iron, that answer

The past by asking the future.

Or they write the present in stone.

I go down once more to the Garden of

Heroes: there in sunshine like a raven’s

wing of jewels. And and or perhaps

There is no mystery. Perhaps Byron

Is simply the poet who happens to

resemble us most. Pride, the black crest

of our dreams, our glorious defeat.

And from the heart. And to the heart.

This epitaph over him: he wrote poetry

about dying. He died from writing

Poetry. The peacock feathers of our

vanity. These and not forgetting

Fame and glory Perhaps from the mystery

echoing to the mystery. Or.

Missolonghi. The seventh bowl of anger.

There. There. In the sun. Shouts. They shout.

This. Me. Shouts and punishment strike

Everyone. Revenge unfailingly follows.

Ee-ow! Ee-ow! the shout soon an echo

between. Also. Those from the heart swamp.

Up to the ears. Pew-Pax! And chasing.

And Between the pillars, the letters. Shouts.

The stone pines. Why are they following me. Guilt.

Chasing in this poem. My punishment. All.

All. I. Mine. Do not acknowledge guilt.

And from the shadows this flight to

The shadows. Whose colour of Caput

Mortuum or dead jackdaws.

Odos Kyproy: urn of marl. It.

Odos Ladia: of quartz. And. Its.

Shine. And Odos. Zalakosta: Dazz

Ling swallows. Soon. Odos Lord Byronos:

Lowered visors. Gleam. I walk along

Odos Dimitrious Sideri. Glisten.

of pink potsherds. And turn.

Odos Mavrokordati. Slants towards Odos

Afan Pasi: axe of glass. Odos

Damaskinou. Of. There. And. Odos

Deligiorih: mask of bronze

and hammered silver. This. Walk.

This. To Odos Pavlaton:

transparency. Walk further. The street.

Aprilios. Mesologgion. I aniksi.

Epono. Hotel Liberty. Kje. I

ouzo. Psari. Kje. Kje. Kje. Line.

Afto. Afto. I stasis. Kje. Kje.

Dhia mesu. Dimarxeion. Mechri.

Isos. Afto. Sindoma. Ine.

Asteria. Dhamaskino. I priza.

Lamba. Ine. Choris. Zaestos. Ine.

Dhia mesu. Dhen. O dhiakoptis.

Afto. Meta. Dhen. Ego. To kreo

Polio. Meta. Kje. To Chartapo

lio. Sindoma. Meta. To Kozmima

Topolio. Lukanika. Afto.

Mesa. Hotel Avra. Meta. Avra.

Aprilios. Kje. Mesologgion. Ine.

Iatreion. Meta. Afto. Andron.

Meta. Afto. Gynaikon. Choris. Ka

Relia. Meta. To Eksofila.

Fistaria. Afto. Apo. Dikastikon

Megaron. Kje. Zigaretta. Kje.

Grammotosima. Meta. Vivlio

Polio. Kje. Kolonja. Ouzo. Hotel

Liberty. Mesa. To rola. Iodio.

Kje. Kje. Aspirini. Kje. Kje.

Afto. Ine. Meta. Kato. Sompa.

Ine. Meta. Machaeropirona.

Kje. To parathiro. Mechri. Trapeza.

Sinalagmatos. O niptiras. Meta.

Odos Zaphir Rapesi: damascene

sword. Of. Odos Kosti Palama:

the desert. Odos Pasikotrika: scorch

Ing and like boiling mercury.

Odos Komitos Roma: Lit de Parade.

Already. Odos Christ: Kapsali:

meridian of gold. And when then

Odos Metaia: alembic with acid.

From. And. Odos Petaludi: chapel.

Am busy now. There lies Odos

Makri: burnt umber. Its. Oscillates.

Twists. Odos Kleisupas: lavender

Branch despite all. On to the square:

Ixion wheel. From. And. There. I.

Missolonghi. Death’s head. Of.

Salt. Arsenic. Seven suns and light so

I burn. Seven angels. Throughout

Morning. Burn with anger. And the day

Of red sulphur. Only the night cool

ing. Which. I. This. Or. Or.

Or. Clarity. Bitter purity to

The bone. Town of purgatory. Here.

Seven trumpets from Heaven and seven from

Hell blow down the poem. Ruins.

Walls. These. Blow over. My.

Blow: Words. Sentences. Entire son

Nets over. With statues of Byron. And

Castrum doloris of alabaster. To.

These sonnets have also already become

a memorial park. The fieldstone of the

letters their colour like aloe. And the

Paths through the sentences that lead

Nowhere. The name: butterfly and

the monuments of the proper nouns. If

you lift here, the woodlice rush

Out to the side. Scorching. The syntac

Tical sky as pure as alcohol.

turning blue in one maze after maze.

And between the words: the cobwebs

of death that fill up and the emer

Alds in the palm trees, the half

cannon muzzles cast in the semantics.

Can it be oleander leaves here in

the empire of grass. Can they bring my

answer to the other side. Somewhat

Rusty ships laden with insects

That nevertheless are soon to leave?

But to what side, to what far shore.

Do the asphodels bloom in both places?

If I have returned, there are swallows

In Hades. That my shadow, the

shadows did not flee from me.

And and the shadow of the shadows not.

Shadows cast no shadows. So goodbye,

And only return with your own

Answers in our green dialectics.

Can a fruit of the olive fall from

the tree of sleep onto the hard soil

of reality. Can you wake up with

The fresh fruits of the dream between

Your lips. Why then all this talk of the

flaming black cypresses of the Under

world? Because the poem is the gateway

To the land of the dead. Among these words

You can find the way down if you seek long

enough. Among the vines of the sentences

From which a forgotten king stares at you.

The message, this entering among

The stones, the letters, the shadows of the

columns that point into the stillness.

I sit throughout the afternoon beneath

this palm tree and wait. I must have

fallen asleep from time to time

For suddenly the light has become

Completely peacock-coloured and strange

echoes reach me from the far side

of the soul, the side that turns out

Wards towards the mighty heptagon of the

Salt marshes. Hardly or between. I

observe the fate line that also ends

Out there, full of salt and sweat.

From this but to I run or.

And I almost believed that I had been

forgotten until I got this reply.

It is one of those days when I am

enclosed within myself like an

urn in a locked cupboard or a bust

That is wrapped in black gauze and string.

I do not know what day it is. I have

no idea at all what colour my

socks are and there is a faint stench

Of paraffin in my sinuses.

God! – I then say, bloody hell how I

hate this life you have created, where

Everything devours each other. And I know

this is blasphemy. And I hear the

Black cock crow thrice. And I know that I

am standing with one foot in Hell.

The boundary of madness lies on O

dos Kyproy! From here the expanses

begin violet like polecat fur

Beneath the quartz light. The arum lilies stand

Full of rabies in the small gardens

mirroring each other to death in the

whiteness. And when I ask a young

Fisherman the way, he answers: Filippa!

I look up at the sky, which today is

once more infected with radiant

Purity: not a merciful cloud.

Then I go out once more into the

Salt hell to carry out my task as a poet:

to bring down God’s wrath on my head.

In a foreign country you will find yourself,

but not your home. That is the law of the

spirit, that bluishly evaporates like

Meths from the great hellenic mirrors.

Conversely George Gorden Noel Lord

Byron found in one sense his home

on the death-bed of vine leaves and black

Laurel leaves in Missolonghi, but not

Himself. And whether or not he thus

ever managed to find his way

Home is doubtful, even though his body

was brought back to England on

Board the brig Florida through the

collapsed Doric portals of exile.

Mister! – a girl calls out from a parked

lorry. – You speak English? – It must

clearly be visible in me like some

Disease: idiotic tourist. I look up from

Under my broad-brimmed Hermes Tris

megistos hat (bought cheap in the Lord

Byron Street) and try to look mys

Terious. – Me Olga, and you – name?

But nothing really succeeds today.

Suddenly there is a crowd of spectators.

All right! – Me Klaus. Where is Sideri

Street? – She shakes her iron siren

Curls and smiles. – Goodbye! – I must

be off again on my psychopompish walk.

Why I have to go all the way to Hellas

to visit the dead, I do not know,

where every night I sink down into

Their realm. But now at any rate I have

Been photographed standing in front of

Byron’s statue in the second quad

rant, which is full of red admiral

Butterflies. And I have never seen so

Many gathered together on one spot. They

carry the night’s falling stars on their

Wings in honour of him who gave everything.

For what can a human ultimately

Give more than his personal fortune,

his health, his love and his life?

Was it in this ruin of a pa

trician villa that Byron died. There are

faeces everywhere on the floor, but

On the ceilings strange dragons have

Been drawn as well as completely empty

coats of arms: the Devil’s signature. Visit

it when evening approaches when the

Sunset is in the west like a smoking

Paraffin lamp and a breeze

from the modern pumping

Station adds a faint whiff of fin

de siècle to the scene as well as of

Soda. Was it in this placenta-coloured

house that Satan fetched his favourite.

I cannot tell you why these marshes

exert such an attraction on me.

These great reservoirs in Ha

Des, these great tanks in the sub

Conscious full of evil, these e

normous fixation vats that are full

of blindness and acid. I cannot

Tell you why, but each and every day

I search further out in this system

of sea walls. Perhaps so as to find a

New Lernaean hydra, or perhaps so as

to see this mysterious red colour that

Only exists in Missolonghi at the

bottom of Hell’s large retort.

Even though the swallows are building their

nests right outside my window at Hotel

Liberty, I do not have any feeling of

Having returned home. And even though

Itacha is practically lying

at my feet bathed in violet

salt. But the sea is not any bluer

Nor is the sky any bluer than

It is anywhere else, so is there any

reason why death should be as blue

As it people claim that it is in Greece.

Even so there is something holy

About the light down here perhaps because

It originates from geometry?

If he refuses to come to me, I will have

to come to him. That is how I reason

things on this last day here and place

Two copper drachmas under my tongue.

They taste of arsenic and on the

one side there is a ship and on the

other there is a portrait of Konstanti

Nos Kanaris, whoever the hell he is.

The boat I am crossing on has three

blue stripes on its stern, just like

The toy boat I had as a child. And just

as then the trip is nerve-racking,

By which I mean it is truly dangerous.

There is only my own shadow on the sea wall.

To anyone who has been fired to clay

in the marshes of Missolonghi, nothing is

the same any longer. To anyone who on

The Devil’s anvil has had his brain transformed

Into ochre, there is only one essential

thing left: the sun, salt and

your own singing pain. Out here

The potash of your worries is spread out

Across the great expanses. Spurge quenches

your thirst and cockles provide you

With food. The shadows are welded

away from beneath the sun’s flaming zenith.

To anyone who has been in Hell,

there is only the Kingdom of Heaven left.

I have been in the Underworld

(with one leg in Hades and the other in

Hell, split between the Greek and the

Christian spirit) and sought him here. But

Byron was not there, neither in Greece.

So God must have fetched him home at

the last moment. That is why I also

Fly calmly home once more with Conair

OY 622. It soars like a white eagle

on niobium wings over the Acro

Polis in a converse, heliacal spiral.

But what poet could do without

The stigmatisation of the spirit

or a deal with the Devil?

johnirons

Friday, 28 September 2018

Erik Gustaf Geijer: 'Ensam i bräcklig farkost'

Thursday, 27 September 2018

zkv79

Wednesday, 26 September 2018

Part 2 of Klaus Høeck's 'Metamorphoses' (1983) (Byron)