johnirons: Klaus Høeck: 'Topia or Che Guevara': Eulogy and Prologue

Topia

eller

Che Guevara

An epic poem by Klaus Høeck

One must harden oneself, but without

ever losing tenderness.

Guevara

Eulogy

Fidel Castro, though I never saw your

beard burning like a thornbush, or your

combat gear verde olivo, or your

cartridge belt’s golden-bound hymn book and your

profile on a good many posters, or

heard the sound of your Barabbas voice be

tween Malecon and La Rampa, or

from the Square of the Revolution’s tre

mendous rostra, I felt even so your

presence everywhere and your spirit that

hovered over the waters. And Nissin,

the taxi-driver, confirmed just this for

me: you’re here one moment there the next in

your jeep, never in your rightful palace.

Fidel Castro, although much of my song

of praise is machismo that greets the heart

gilded by powder and ivy, that’s far

from the whole story. For I see your strong

significance for justice and man’s dig

nity. People no longer live off each

other but for each other, they live with

each other on Cuba. And those I reached

and spoke with in St Antonio de

los Baños, which is bright red with elec

tricity in the midday heat all a

dored you so much, even though both of the

banana plantations and death’s mar pa

cifico flower are the state’s mortgage cheque.

Fidel Castro, when a man such as you

laughs, orange pips fall down onto the ground.

When you lift your hands, grains of rice pour down

to the people who are standing round you

or the red showers of maize descend soon

on the land. Not because you are some styl

ish medicine man who’s tattooed with moon

light and thunder, but because this isl

and which you liberated has been out

sourced to humanity. That is why your

laughter is integrated in the ba

nanas and lettuces’ heads of a

ngels. You do not lift a finger without

periwinkles flowering by the score.

Fidel Castro, not till I sat in Mi

rador together with Ricardo Bones

drank beer and ate udder speciali

ties did I realise the the circled zone

that I had drawn around me (like the ring

round Saturn) had been broken. It was re

ality I was experiencing,

beauty I saw as a green fan, a tre

mendous peacock wing spread out under

the flamboyant trees’ almost subterra

neous or magnetic flowers. That beau

ty and reality from a wonder

ful transformation of the mind. A new

richness springing darkly from aorta.

Fidel Castro, things are quite under par

on Cuba. The Sanyo air condition

ing for example I could just mention

and the buses (terminal Playa) are

quite defective. Only the things though. The

mind and consciousness are in fine order.

Nobody steals any seashore from the

next man or the republic’s great store of

glowing sunsets over the esplanade

of Malecon. The clouds and oxygen

have now been nationalised and the sea

grapes along the road to Pinar del Ri

o. All the people you have once more made

rich, given them their native land again.

Fidel Castro, while we are discussing

the Queen’s new velvet hats you’re fighting

for the new man. While these industrial

societies are going through total

burn-out in a shroud of petrol, you’re fight

ing hard for every single drop of pet

roleum or spare part found in the Czech

oslovakian stores. But now downright

frugality has become a boon, while

you yourself never strove for it. New sorts

of wealth you’ve provided, of an other

kind, an inner welfare here on this isl

and, which has a mauvish gleam like otter

skin under the morning sun’s lamps of quartz.

Prologue

Territorio libre de America

I travel to Cuba, my much longed-for land

where in the people’s hands now all power lies

and where no industrial syndicates can

exploit the cirrus clouds high up in the skies.

Less as an exile or as a refugee

on smoking asbestos beaches than a child

who in a way is coming home to a free

and intellectual fatherland with wild

ddddd eeee ffff ggggg hh ii mirr

mmmmmmm nnnn oooooooooooooooo ana

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr sssss æææ ay

agaves that bloom the the distant mirrors

at the back of the mind, a new nirvana

a new Topia that all its stamps display.

A new Topia that all its stamps display

entangled in latitudes and in iso

bars, a sky map for the great mauve hurricanes

(which are to be thought of in a meteo

rological, a social and a mental

sense) a breeding ground and a hotbed for free

dom, where to be rich from now on basical

ly will mean to become a human be

aaa eeeeeeee ggggg hhhh iiiiiii ves

jjjjj lllllllll mmmmmmmmmmmm ooooo pic

oo rrrrrrrrrrr sssssssss tttttt ææ øø waves

ing of greater dignity. An island hid

in the shadow of the Tropic of Cancer

where up from blue waves the lunar node will fan.

Where up from blue waves the lunar node will fan

like a new copper coin from sulphuric

acid, there’s equality, woman and man

alike. Nobody eats at the other’s ex

pense and labour. Everyone has been out too

in the fields of sugar cane, their hair shirts stained

with sweat and salt. Not at all like the slave who

only reaps the fruits of punishment, but trained

St Antonio de los Banos best

among among among among ambra

freedom freedom freedom freedom steadfast

as a fellow creature who has done his best.

Here with the evening sky gleaming like amber

and steadfast the ideals will always stay.

And steadfast the ideals will always stay

despite decline in production and embar

go, despite the fact there no longer may

be ten kinds of tinned mock turtle and of mar

melade to choose between. Despite the fact that

toothpaste’s like cement and razor blades bring a

tear to your eyes, preparations of barbit

uric acid are no longer punisha

between between between between for for

their their their their their their their their its and

dream dream dream dream dream dream all is dream

ble, despite the death of the canning indus

try. For all know the price of brotherhood, and

how much reality’s needed for a dream?

How much reality’s needed for a dream,

(almost like asking if sleep’s death mask, ornam

ented with serpents, topazes and thick-seamed

lips is necessary or not) does it em

pty the subconscious and does it drain the land

of what are feasible solutions such as

nickel manufacture, chrome production and

a planned economy, a quite simply mas

is is the the the the the and and and them

ten ten ten ten ten ten economy

from from from from from from revolution

sive sugar record of ten million tons, does

it throttle back the national economy,

what is the full cost of a revolution?

What is the full cost of a revolution

apart from blood, bandages and corpus de

licit. I mean: how many thousand litres

of pear juice are required for absolution.

How many kilogrammes of imported chew

ing gum that no longer can be bought. Nor are

Cadillacs and Buicks to be seen under

Havana’s strong kingfisher-coloured shadow.

between between between between between us

between between between prics prics prics not

blood blood bandages and and I I I stream

How many dollars and bishoprics does an

armed rebellion cost? I have no idea.

I set off on my journey on my love’s stream.

I set off on my journey on my love’s stream

to this island, which floats just like a broken

palm branch in my mind, a shark’s skin that is strewn

with rubies and salt this insula dulcam

ara of tender affection, this under

water altar that standing there in my pit

uitary gland, where interest and profit

and second mortgage loans are banished plunder.

this this this this this this this this this and

him him him him him him him him him him

dressed in dressed dressed in dressed in Orion

I fly like someone in fairytales and in

myths and am dressed up in my guise of a swan

beneath the constellation of Orion.

Beneath the constellation of Orion

I first embark on the wings of the spirit

then in a passenger plane. For he who lit

tle dares measure his ideal and his vision

with reality’s platinum-iridi

um is not just foolish but a coward. Out

there a bright wake, a full-white streak of newly

opened orange blossoms will without a doubt

ideal ideal ideal of the spirit

death death fly fly fly fly of my hands and hands

I I I am am am am am am pain

stretch all the way out between me and death, just

as the lifelines do in the palms of my hands.

I set off to Havana with all my pain

without having been vaccinated against

either yellow fever, typhus or smallpox.

My only insurance is my heart that’s locked

in solidarity, along with a re

turn ticket and a book by Che Guevara,

a passport whose albedo’s bathed in ashes.

It’s Saturday evening when I at last a

I set off to Havana in my in my

arrive I arrive I arrive in house

I take I only ballast my name in heart

rrive my only ballast my own name and date

of birth (Mars in the house of the rising sun),

my frustration, hemlock in my heart again.

My frustration, hemlock in my heart again

that’s forked out like a lightning strike over the

tropical sky, as I pull it with some strain

out by its roots. I’m on my way to this pe

ople that now is self-determinating and

is no longer controlled by a large lati

fundium and By United Fruit Compagni

whose golden trumpets’ blast brings down Cuba’s and

South America’s customs walls and eco

nomy in Atlantic over Atlantic

golden trumpets’ blast brings down Cuba Cuba

South America’s customs walls and eco

nomy. I am now crossing the Atlantic.

There the sun stings just like a young medusa.

There the sun stings just like a young medusa

above cumulus palaces, whose terrac

es are blue with oxygen over Texa

co’s and over Shell’s, Gulf’s former oil and gas

oline empires, over what have now become

nationalised gaming casinos and

luxury hotels. And areas of land

that used to be marked in bright scarlet in some

the the sun stings like a young medusa

there is a volcano and there a volcano

I am I am I am I now set out

geography books’ atlases (areas with

quite catastrophic earthquakes). This volcano

under the clay-footed colossus U.S.A.

Under the clay-footed colossus U.S.A.

(As in the Book of Daniel they’re though also

made of iron) there lies this cliff from the Eo

cene period and ready to crush Coca

Cola conglomerates, monopolies, multi

national companies and the world of high fi

nance in general, those who deal in iron, clay

copper, silver and gold, so that they one day

become chaff from summer’s threshing floors, whose grains

are garnered in the Oriente province.

I journey as Lorca to Santiago.

I journey as Lorca to Santiago

with hands completely stained with nightingale

blood. Making for this red fountain head that’s scaled

with salt, green with roses. So as to follow

the course of the Gulf Stream from its bowl of salt

petre. So as to listen to the Northeast

Trade Wind under the High’s mighty cupola.

A pure revolution that began over

here. Off then to Santiago vanadi

um apple, dark Idus, wooden-cross city

so as to write an infra-red monologue.

So as to write an infra-red monologue

I have studied the art of stocks, no less

of majorities of shares. I have used log

arithm tables and have worked out the chess

moves on big business’s mahogany board.

One ought to make a green law, and also take

a blue law which made the banks pay the extor

tionary rates of interest. One ought to make

a violet law for orchids as well as

a white one that protected the human race.

I travel to Cuba, my much longed-for land.

I travel to Cuba, my much longed-for land

a new Topia that all its stamps display

where up from blue waves the lunar node will fan

and steadfast the ideals will always stay.

How much reality’s needed for a dream

what is the full cost of a revolution?

I set off on my journey on my love’s stream

beneath the constellation of Orion.

I set off to Havana with all my pain

my frustration, hemlock in my heart again.

There the sun stings just like a young medusa

under the clay-footed colossus U.S.A.

I journey as Lorca to Santiago

so as to write an infra-red monologue.

So as to write an infra-red monologue

I have come here, not to overpraise every

single large sugar mill (and they’ll always be

the mills of Satan), nor with a catalogue

of accolades about some revolution

ary field of maize or other, nor to re

late a Cuban economic solution

to capitalism’s. For my eulogy

aaa bb eeeeeeee ffff ggggggg iiiiii sell

mmmm nnnnnnnnnnnnn ppp rrrrrrrrrrrrr the

rrr ttttttttttttt uuuu vvvv ææææ åååå go

deals not only with the chiselled marble of

material matters but with consciousness.

I journey as Lorca to Santiago.

I journey as Lorca to Santiago

city of colour like Antares, where no

one pays either rent or taxes, the hospi

tals cost nothing and where wages are nearly

exactly the same, where no one has to go

hungry, where electricity is for free

and profit considerations no more de

termine the urban planners’ blueprints and no

aaa dddddddddddd eeeeeee gg iiiiii which

jjj kkkkkk mmmmmmmmmmm ooooooo rrr um

rrrrrrr ttttttttttt vvvvvv åååå USA

gilt-edged papers. City of freedom, which lies

like a large stumbling-block of magnesium

under the clay-footed colossus U.S.A.

Under the clay-footed colossus U.S.A.

it is patently practised: no form of rac

ial hatred, no discrimination. No wage

slavery, no unemployment. It is a

possibility to reflect upon the

empire of clouds. There is time for roses, all

share the rain and the gladiolus to the

same extent, just as the sugar harvest all

is is is is is is is is is is

is is is is is and and Cuba and

Cuba Cuba Cuba Cuba medusa

volunteer to take part in. On Cuba there

is equality quite literally, and

there the sun stings just like a young medusa.

There the sun stings just like a young medusa

almost transparent with aspic above groves

of oranges and coffee plantations, no

profit from which ever goes to Europa.

The tobacco industry has also rid

itself of the golden palms of colo

nialism (which sway there inside the lid

of all the cigar boxes. And the rice pro

yes yes and and in between between on

feeding feeding feeding feeding feeding

my heart my heart my heart my heart my heart

duction now only the people make a pro

fit from, no major foreign business feeding

my frustration, hemlock in my heart again.

My frustration, hemlock in my heart again

(like the tree in a coat of arms) has now be

gun to spread out wide its bitter fruit’s sharp stain,

though not on this island shaped like a green leech

or a lizard. Here it’s impossible to

own each other or buy exemption from a

ny form of dirty or monotonous la

bour. For here it’s only sweat that’s able to

my pain my pain salt salt not not not not al

Havana Havana Havana salt salt

Havana Havana Havana my pain

put food on the table. That everyone has

to recognise, bathed in the salt of their brow.

I set off to Havana with all my pain

my hair newly cut and wearing brown suede shoes,

well aware that this ideal state must remain

a beautiful mirage, a projected ruse

that is clarified in the light of an old

neurosis, like an emerald in aqua

regia, a moon in its Librium-coloured

magic mirror. Aware of the fact that a

between between between between between fly

I I I I salto salt mortale

and and Cuba Cuba Cuba Orion

ny society has faults and great lacks I

fly out with a double salto mortale

beneath the constellation of Orion.

Beneath the constellation of Orion

on evening’s blue velvet robe with all its crown

jewels, regalia and Damascus blade

which now slits and slices through illusion’s veil

of gauze. Away from unemployment, tax ar

rears and dentist’s bills. Away from the land of

capitalism and employers. If a

flight only lasts for a fortnight it is of

I I I I set off set off set off great

great whirl whirl whirl whirl galaxies galaxies

and setting off setting off setting off stream

no consequence. A great syndrome sucks me out,

a great whirl among the rusty galaxies.

I set off on my journey on my love’s stream

even though a picture has fallen from the

wall down into my subconscious, and the

card index is where I will end up. My dream

has come true. Havana is gleaming like a

heliotrope in the night here on the thresh

old of the Dog Days (there is a light bluish

tinge to the zenith that betrays it). I take

I set off on I set off on journey

revolution question and question question

revolution question revolution

a taxi to the city centre so as

to get an answer to one of my questions:

What is the full cost of a revolution?

All right, we might as well take the plunge: you can

not buy any hand lotion or any can

of shaving foam, nor a fresh air solution

in aerosols either. You can sell off your

electric shaver at a huge profit on

the black market as well, your nylon shirts, or

your last dollar. But you are unable on

you can you can you can you capital i

deas your electric shaver nylon shirts

shaver as a dollar as a dollar dream

the other hand to sell the ideas of

capital, but can buy a clear conscience, so

How much reality’s needed for a dream?

How much reality’s needed for a dream,

is there direct proportionality? And

How many working hours does it cost to write

a double cycle of sonnets, one that streams

from posthumous sources? – Beauty comes from a

superabundance of the mind. It can’t be

bought with money from the banks’ golden chests. A

revolution can similarly not be

dream with dream with dreaming in chocolate

with consciousness and with and with consciousness

as steadfast as steadfast as steadfast steadfast

measured on scales weighted with milk chocolate.

here everything is measured with consciousness,

and steadfast the ideals will always stay.

And steadfast the ideals will always stay

even though the F.I. cows don’t produce as

much milk as expected, even though harbours

only have ships from the East bloc that are stay

ing there and a few from Cyprus that trail rain

bows of gas oil behind them. Morale is high

despite the fact that the warehouses are nigh

empty and no longer bulge until they strain

American consumer goods even though

do not do not smell smell of gas and faeces

of gas and faeces and faeces up from blue waves

with American consumer goods even

though the harbour docks smell of gas and faeces

where up from blue waves the lunar node will fan

Where up from blue waves the lunar node will fan

and the morning flares up purer than spirit

in its atlantic mirror, whose surface can

often become misted by divine breath, it

is no longer just in merchandise and in

groceries that people trade, nor do they do

so with an eye to profit, but they trade in

the real sense of the term, i.e. take part too

but they trade in the real sense and and etch

ing but they trade they trade competition

but they trade but they trade all its stamps display

in the chessgame of their own destiny (etch

ing in honour of a chess competition)

a new Topia that all its stamps display.

A new Topia that all its stamps display

an island almost in the Thomas More sense,

johnirons

Thursday 26 March 2020

Klaus Høeck: 'Topia or Che Guevara': Eulogy and Prologue

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