Klaus Høeck: Section from 'In Nomine'

There is no way of shortening this extract from 'In Nomine'.
Klaus Høeck paints huge canvases.
This is just a tiny part (pp. 110-117) of his wonderful book.
For the entire text, go to here
To download a zip file of the text and explanatory material, go to here

‘memory with variations’

           my other root reach

es deeper down than holmen

           cemetery deep

           er than the rose that

i have just planted this last

           autumn in the name

           of omar khayyam

deeper even than meta

           physics and sili

           cates right down to the

heavens is how far its lov

           ing kindness reaches

           memory can be

come recollection become

           a whole series of

           years that cannot be

distinguished from each other

           on the grid of the

           calendar no mat

ter how much i attempted

           to wipe the pane clean

           so as to gain a

final glimpse of my mother

           out there in the dark

           my mother rose a

gain for a instant when i

           opened a bottle

           of polish alco

hol which was from her life

           time (spirytus rek

           tyfikowany)

like a delayed heirloom my

           mother rose again

           like the genie of

the lamp from ninety six per

           cent pure alcohol

           but when i discov

ered the black spots (thrips from last

           year) behind the glass

           which covered the por

trait of my mother (taken

           by mydtskov) i was

           suddenly afraid

that nothing remains of

           the dead though that

           did not call the ex

istence of god into ques

           tion in any way

           memory can be

come recollection can be

           broken into bits

           and pieces by the

chimes of the clock from pade

           sø church a late de

           cember day no mat

ter how much i attempted

           to retain my moth

           er’s image as one

true unity among the

           sundays of advent

           my mother was born

and grew up on amager

           near artillery

           road - i do not know

much myself about that is

           land’s lanterns and fog

           horns (i refer to

rifbjerg’s poems) but i stand

           nevertheless despite

           all this with my one

leg firmly planted in a

           marcadian soil

           her childhood passed to

put it briefly like any

           other childhood sur

           rounded by the heart’s

willow scrub - no not complete

           ly like childhood for

           all of her brothers

died either of volvulus

           or of the black i

           vy of tubercu

losis up at the coast hos

           pital at refsnæs

           my mother has be

come an evening walk down by

           the sea a sharp smell

           of iodine in

the sinuses a bank of

           clouds moving westwards

           become a stab in

the heart with a knitting need

           le an english trans

           lation in anoth

er book which as yet only

           exists on paper

           my mother has be

come a rococo chair with

           canvas embroider

           y of yellow ro

ses embroidered by herself

           or has become a

           bell-pull with the words

‘happy christmas’ in cross-stitch

           my mother has be

           come a bottle of

pectin become kitchen salt

           a raging winter

           my mother has be

come three glasses of jim bean

           brand bourbon whisky

           a pinch of lemon

verbena and an open

           sandwich with smoked ha

           libut and pepper

one late evening when i put

           memory to the

           test empty memo

ry’s and midnight’s wicker bas

           ket full of seaweed

           and memory ad

vances stealthily on stock

           inged feet in its sharp

           smell of clementines

and brine ‘can you remember

           can you remember’

           it whispers with a

voice mysterious and draped

           in crape - ‘yes i clear

           ly remember you

and your seven league boots with

           holes in’ i answer

           and oblivion

sneaks in like a thief in the

           night with its shoes on

           backwards ‘have you for

gotten have you forgotten’

           it whispers with sil

           very voice - ‘yes i’d

almost forgotten you and

           your moth-eaten ta

           ble runner hiding

at the back of the linen

           closet’ i admit

           i assume that my

mother had a post mortem

           done on her just as

           elegant as a

cut by lucio fonta

           na that her heart and

           her kidneys have been

examined much more closely

           than her conscience has

           been that she was not

stuffed with cotton wool and tow

           and forgetmenots

           my mother has be

come three shovelfuls of earth

           an urn of ashes

           mixed with white roses

become three millimetres

           of hoar frost on the

           grass at holmen cem

etery become a look

           full of wild dreams be

           neath the snow showers be

come the last seven words in

           this poem by me