johnirons: Part 3 of Klaus Høeck's 'Metamorphoses' (1983)

ROME

Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell:

No god, no demon of severe response,

Deigns to reply from heaven or from hell.

Then to my human heart I turn at once –

Heart! thou and I are here sad and alone;

Say, wherefore did I laugh? O mortal pain!

O darkness! darkness! ever must I moan,

To question heaven and hell and heart in vain!

Why did I laugh? I know this being’s lease –

My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads:

Yet could I on this very midnight cease,

And the world’s gaudy ensigns see in shreds.

Verse, fame, and beauty are intense indeed,

But death intenser-death is life’s high meed.

keats

I recognise Rome immediately:

from its colour of old bismuth nitrate

that runs down all its walls of brick and stone.

And a distant bell begins to ring in

Side me as a reminder that I have lost

everything. For that which you love the most

you are bound to lose. For that reason I

Have come here in order to celebrate

Death and love, which are so inextrica

bly intertwined as are body and soul.

That is why I have come to celebrate

John Keats and the butterflies’ great reflect

Ed fiery glow over the city when

it perishes against the light’s drum-rolls.

Already on my first evening here I

visit the ivory of the room where

he died, which is still surrounded by ge

Raniums: it is perverse: plaster masks,

Farewell letters and a lock of his hair

which must probably be called cendré. Here

is only the usual, and although the

Fountain has reflected his face, there is

Nothing at all left now except for the

sunken shipwreck of the fountain at the

Foot of The Spanish Staircase and the e

normous scarlet velvet curtains that are

Being pulled back from the sky in order

to reveal once more the Roman sunset.

Even in my dreams I can hear the swal

lows. My magnificent favourite birds

that glitter like violet quartz against

The sun, or like whirling razor blades up a

Bove the Via Degli Scipioni.

They cross my secret ex libris on their

way towards the Tiber river, where the

Mosquito swarms of evil now gather.

I have now reached the point in my life where

things are beginning to fall back, or more

Correctly they are being called back to

their origins. That is why I’m sitting

Almost completely naked between Ho

tel Gerber’s mirrors and pink wallpapers.

That is how I am also slowly be

ing emptied of morals, shadow and

poetry from the inside, while the Rom

An dawn is consumed by its own gilding.

But it is perhaps simply a prepar

ation for the final, great biblical

Flood that I have always wanted. Oh, all

These columns, all this marble – it starts to

Get on my nerves, all this old age that is

starting to approach me at such great ve

Locity. When will humanity raise

a larger monument than the one for

Victor Emanuel, whose rearing hor

ses only pay tribute to matter?

Of course St. Peter’s Square is lovely. A

vast syndrome of beauty, a host that col

lects all the clarity of the sky in

One point. Yet despite all this I prefer

A different form of beauty that is

closer to life. Despite all this I pre

fer a clarity which death has not pro

Vided with the signet seal of God.

Thus for example this beauty is un

able to explain away every sing

Le act of treachery on which it builds.

And this clarity is unable to

Eclipse Keats’ sonnets which are radiant

with laudanum and with deep-felt grief.

Who has said that the moon was only to

shine out here at Ponte Margherita

through the branches of the acacias?

Now it is gleaming out through your own eyes

Even purer than ever before, like

the visions that intermingle with the

coal-smoke of reality. And who

Would ever have believed that the evening

Would come to intermingle with my own

desperation, my fruitful desper

Ation, Yes, who would ever have believed

that the first large drops of the falling

Rain would leave such fresh and green traces

down through the regions of my heart?

I turn off down the Via dei Gracchi

that is blue beneath the plane trees. Here a

hairdresser lifts his scissors as a form

Of blessing. Here the sun drops down its pro

Jection of shadow. I myself lower

my gaze. ‘Morte al fascio’ – is what stands

written on the walls in red spray paint.

The wealthy and the prosperous live here

Like a protection against the people

round the amethyst of the Vatican.

I return home and read the beginning

of Endymion – not out of a feel

Ing of revenge or of rage but because

it heals the heart with periwinkle.

I sit for two and a half hours in the

sunlight on the Risorgimento square.

Acacias and sapphires! – But in

Spiration refuses to manifest it

Self with its elevated suffering.

A nun hovers like a transfigur

ation of white glass above the trees.

Apart from that the Carabinieri

And the gendarmes command most attent

ion. ‘La repressione non ferma

La Rivoluzione!’ I recoll

ect this sentence from the plastered walls

In practically every single street.

I also wrote this when I got back home.

On the Via Flamina the number

one bus route takes you between car painting

workshops and baker’s shops. Every morning

A black angel makes its appearance to

Remind everyone of the traffic deaths.

I also leap for dear life trying to find

a path between Fiats and Lancias. And

The Pope and the Vatican own more than

Half of all the Alfa Romeo fac

tories apart from the estate agent

Companies and the Banco di

Sancto Spirito. I close my eyes

And dare to make this assertion: re

ligion has nothing to do with God.

On the Via Paolo Emilio you

can buy a bottle of white wine for

seven thousand lire. And the shop

Assistant crosses herself at such a

Miracle. Outside the shop there is

a sign with ‘Stella Rossa’ with black

and red letters in what is almost a

Cicerone script. Keats would drink claret

In the evening, when he was happy at

a successful sonnet. I recollect

This while I myself wander over

the fleeting continents that the

Clouds are drawing on this stone-hard

asphalt, clouds with golden edges.

I now reach the Via Pompeo Mag

no close to the Tiber. There a drogher

ia stands out nicely among the

Other shops. It is full of blue bottles

And loaves of bread which float over the

counter like zeppelins midst all the

olive oil and tarragon. And the cus

Tomers resemble stigmatised nuns

And are prepared to sell themselves to the

Devil. (Oh these visions that now e

Rupt once again despite all will-power

(if only they were naked)). From this

Street only a few steps separate me from

the consecrated ones’ delirium.

The sun is mine. The sun is mine today

above the blue fountains of the Villa

d’Este. Above the rich men’s monument:

This effervescent pure champagne from

The people who themselves have produced

it. The falsification has com

pleted this theft. Isn’t it a strange thing

That the Brigades are taking the law

Into their own hands after centuries

of oppression and humiliation?

The sun and the light appear to me to be

more baroque than the laid-out gardens

And the villa. The air and water seem

more classical to me than the statues.

In the Villa Borghese’s yellow pal

ace among the marble statues: this

gleaming Pompeii-red bust of a

Senator staring out with empty eyes.

And the angels rise up towards the sky

in the fresco ceilings as if they wanted

to flee from all the boredom that reigns

In the halls of the Renaissance and the

Baroque. I myself, tired and exhausted,

go out to the poppies, which have taken

Over supreme authority out here.

The Brigades are victorious! – This mess

Age has even reached the foundations of

the medieval houses as graffiti.

At the grey pyramid stone and shadow

of Caius Caestius I realised

the loss. Is it over? – the answer and

Dusk sink over the light of the ceme

Tery. He too lost his beloved.

Lost his in the meantime among

the stones. Keats’ grim death opposite

Fanny Brawne. Blue electricity

Above the crosses’ twilight. And the

opposition of Uranus, gleaming

From the pyramid’s tip. I now lose my

body, lose my soul, if I lose the one

Half, I gain my spirit. Is that a

good exchange between a loving couple?

The crenelated crown of Engelsborg.

And the Madonna’s head. Or harlot’s

diadem. I am really standing here

Among full-length angels. Therefore I

Must be in Heaven in a certain

sense. Among archangels and cherubs

I even believe. White and full of

Authority among the metaphys

Ical clouds and azure. Beggars and

street-vendors proffer me holy

Relics. Here all of us are congre

gated in the name of God, but not

In the Spirit. God & Son Ltd. This

glittering, white, mercantile syndicate.

Rome: gleamingly full of cinnabar.

Red graffiti. And history. But

do not absolve Rome. Not the columns of

Innocence. Not its. Guilelessness is

Over and done. Not pure marble. Not here.

Painted foundations with red and

black insignias. The Brigate

Rosse. Stella Rossa. Trajan’s column’s

Stupidities. The strong were to defend

the weak against exploitation. Against

Suppression. Slavery. Ah, Gajus

Gracchus. Only your. The name. That dissem

Inates its dandelion seeds through the mil

lennia. It. It. Promises justice.

101

Life’s five-pointed star above the Forum

Romanum. Splintered. Chases through me.

Transfixes me to the present. To.

N.A.P. will win. La Libertà. This. Five. The

Five-pointed star in its circle. Stella

Rossa. Libertà per camerata.

Is justice possible without wea

Pons. And revolution possible

Without rebellion. Armed rebellion?

Can power hand over power without vio

Lence. Pantero libero. Between. Their.

Death to fascism. Morte al fas

cio. Wants the privileges. From. Private

ownership: robbery on robbery.

102

La merda è marrone. È mar

rone. La merda. Marrone. E.

N.A.P. prati. Io. Per. Boia. Libertà

Per camerata paccari. Morte

Al manifesto. Stella Rossa.

E. Io. Rosso. Io. Per per.

Brigate Rosse. Io. Rosse. Li

Bertà per camerata paccari.

E. La Libertà. Camerati in

Libertà. In. In. Io. In. In.

La Repressione non ferma

la Rivoluzione. No al fas

cismo. Marrone. Marrone. E.

Io. Brigate Rosse. Stella Rossa.

103

And the skies open searingly pure.

a luciferian mirror for reason

which I will break through with a jet plane

On my way to Rome, the eternal city.

For the one who lets down his beloved

hands her over to the demons.

Therefore I am looking for the final

Key to the sunrises that gleam pink

And golden in the frescoes

in the Sixtine Chapel. Therefore I

Find myself now as a matter of course

at a height of about a thousand metres

Among castles in the air and sky palaces

on the Second Sunday after Trinity.

104

Libertà per camerati arres

tati. N.A.P. vince. Vince. E. Io.

Per. Rivoluzione fino alla

Vittoria. E. Prati. Rosso.

Morte as fascio e at tutti

padroni. Padroni tutti. Uno.

Tutti. Vota al commune. N.A.P. 68.

Operai. Studenti. Soldati.

Uniti nella lotta. E. Uniti.

Tutti. Operai. Nelle lotta.

Tutti. Lotta. Nel. Brigate Rosse.

Camerati in Libertà. In Li

Bertà. E. La merda er marrone.

E. In. In. Libertà. Tutti. E. Rosso.

105

Colosseum. Cola-coloured shad

ows. And my shadow. Which don’t. But

not due to the sun. My own

Dazzling darkness. And poppies

Of light over my forehead. This rich

ness. Enough. This. And butterfly’s make-up.

Stella Rossa. Red star. On the

Walls. And writing. And. Written this:

L’amore è anche spirituale.

With. Its. Red. Red. And. Written. But.

Here. It. Revolution of the blood. There

from sand. But call out. Through this sand.

And. But. Libertà per camerata.

Five. Write this in this. Also It.

106

Rome. A bowl with sodium and water.

In the evening hours. Seething. Fit

tings of stars. Neon. Go towards.

I walk on seething streets. Of

Neon. Away from history. This.

I. Antiquity. This. I. Gone. The

story of the rich full of columns and

Fountains. Their gleaming mansions.

The blood. The pain. The cruelty.

Nothing is heard of this. Facts are

Falsified for beauty. Also that.

Tiberius Gracchus murdered. His

Eyes are history. It. He.

Gone. Roman baths and triumphant arches.

107

Villa Medici, pure mirroring of

the world of ideas. Forty busts

in a frightful round-dance around

The fountain of the spirit. Forty princes in an

Occult rondeau around the centre of

power and tyranny. I place

a small red star of enamel

That I have on my shirt on the grass in

Honour of The Red Brigades. And the

sunset gives off its green glint

As salt does, when thrown onto the fire.

I sit down in the evening coolness’s

Vapours of carbon tetrachloride in the middle

of Rome’s doomed civilisation.

108

St Peter’s Church’s grey cranium against

the clouds which light up the sky

like smoke rising. This. At a papal

Election from The Sixtine Chapel.

White smoke against the sky. That’s that, I

say on the Square of Sacrilege, where

blasphemy burns its magnificent

Azur and gilt. Is what one fears really

deep down taking place towards

the conclusion, because one. This. Thereby

Actually and over. Border or trans

gresses its borders? – Is our fear

And anxiety the smoke in the sky which

indicates our deeper fire?

109

Mausoleum of Hadrian, grey stump of bone or

the funeral drum droning out its

beats. Droning its throughout day and night

And the human heart in the Cath

olic empire, where God is

his own prisoner in Castel Sant’

Angelo’s white chambers of flame.

I lower my gaze behind the charred

eyelashes’, these. A hori

zon has burnt down. I can find no

Kingdom of Heaven turning blue. No one

among the columns and corruption

Of the ruins. Among among. Jesus’ white

figure and face have left this city.

110

Hailel’s violet jewels and precious

stones command admiration among

the Vatican’s rich treasures. Here they

Gleam from the showcases of beauty

Like burning-glass in the light of the heavens.

Twelve stones in the Pope’s tiara and

mitre’s gold. Twelve stones of

Frigidity and infamy.

The worship of false idols and blasphemous mockery

govern this state. Mockery of the people.

Mockery of women. Mockery of

Poverty. Blasphemous mockery of

Jesus’ crown of thorns.

111

The thunder blesses the Madonna on

Via Cola di Rienzo. This street gleams

almost completely green with

Moisture and mother-of-pearl. Despite this

Bribery raises its statues into the

sky and corruption hangs down from

the balconies and from the stucco of the

Window sills. For it runs parallel

With the sloping foundations of the Palace of

Justice. It borders on the legal system’s

Underground of dried-up ochre.

‘Hospedale del Popolo’ is says on the

Fencing and on the scaffolding

for the repairing of the splendid structure.

112

At Lungotevere Michelangelo

the bats trace their blood trails

across the orange-yellow fresco

Of the evening. Oh, these small fortune-

Hunters, they are unconcerned

about the suicide of the morrow

or the revelations that are going to

Take place in the St Paolo

Basilica in Thursday’s shadows.

For it is the task of the poet to

Separate evil from good, and the beauti

ful from the ugly in his crazed

Visions. Thereby he brings out the

real from irreality.

113

The offices of the Motor Organisation

lie on Via Tacito in a corner

property that has strange

canopies and vine leaves of plaster.

Here you can receive extreme unction

from the mechanic before he

ascends into the sky in a cloud of

Carbon monoxide and pink roses.

Slowly I fly after this saint

of a so-called proletarian

On the angel-wings of fantasy (the

entire scene reminds one more of a

Painting by Chagall). And there Rome then lies

beneath me like a vast blueprint.

114

What high mass is not celebrated

in this eatery on the

Piazza Cavour. The waiter is dressed

In a snow-white chasuble with black

Seams, and he brings with him both the

bread and the wine. I have admittedly

been granted absolution by the Pope at twelve

’O clock on St Peter’s Square. But I do

Not regard that as anything compared

to this tabernacle. The holy

Salt cellar, the candelabrum and the writing

that is written out there on the wall

In blood: Operai studenti soldati

uniti nella lotta CMCM.

115

If you go down the Via del Corso in

rush hour you will see a saint on

a column of neon. The priests will dart

Around your legs like frightened chickens

And the large glass facades

will emit electric discharges

of numinous volts. You then descend

Along a side street with claire obscure.

And there the house of dreams will rise up

in the classical sunshine. For poets

Do not dream themselves away from real

ity, on the contrary, they create

It out of a dream. Here one such perished

whose name and poetry have lived ever since.

116

Is it the goddesses of vengeance that send

these tall agaves up towards the sky

in the small atrium garden behind the

Hotel, or is it only my imagina

Tion that is stunting the roses along

the atropine-coloured wall? – I wanted

to write about Keats, who struck

My heart with his lark-like wings in my

Own youth, and despite this the poems

have more to do with myself and

The never-ending labyrinths

in the anatomy of melancholy. I there

Fore make once more for the inns of the

Spanish Square, which smell of iodine.

117

It is not possible for me to explain

why I suddenly felt nauseous

in Santa Maria Maggiore

Church this morning. For there is

No particular rage that is

rising up in my brain like green foam

or any well-defined anxiety.

I just have to get outside to speak to

The chauffeur, whose name is Gabriel. We

drink a cup of cappuccino, while

I absent-mindedly consider the day

moon. There it sits like a water

Mark that is impregnated on the sky.

I will never enter a church again.

118

If you measure a poppy at a certain

distance with your nail, it is just

as big as the library that lies

At Hadrian’s Villa. The deception is

Easy enough to explain, although it

surprises you just as much each time

as with placebo pills or the

Müller-Lyer vases. Oh, what a shame

It is not to be living with this

knowledge of treachery, the false

Hood of women, the entire marble floor’s

optical illusion of circles that intersect

Each other. From now on I put my trust

in the thunder and the black olive fruits.

119

It ends as it begins with daisies, which

are flowering everywhere around

the grave. I have come all this way

In order to pay a debt to the poet of

My youth, who now is reading the green

pages of death. I leave my poetic

will behind here, full of arum

Lilies and dark dreams that will

Unite with the shadow from the

Caius Caestius pyramid every

Night in the moonlight. I also leave

my grieving lyre behind, where time

Has come to a standstill. The rest must be

played on other, lighter strings.

120

This is how May ends in Italy: like

an olive lamp that is slowly

being screwed down behind the horizon.

And the birds know that spring is

Over. They are now illuminated from below

when they cross the vault of heaven like

flaming satellites. I myself become

Aware of it when the rainbow of petrol

assumes a deeper ultraviolet

hue over the Tiber. I must therefore

Also return home to my own

summer, which will be more bitter

Than overheated magnesium, more

acrid than the taste of the plane-tree seed.

121

I heard a bell that has never rung.

I read a poem that has never been

written. But of all that existed

I saw either only the beginning or the

End. And that which I loved

went inexorably to rack and ruin

among the ice-spinning of the stars

That paint the sky as in Michel

Angelo’s Day of Judgment fresco. I there

fore conceal my love for better

Times, the breakers of which I await.

For the one who has been in both

Heaven and Hell, has nothing else

remaining except the Earth.

johnirons

Thursday, 8 November 2018

Part 3 of Klaus Høeck's 'Metamorphoses' (1983)

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