Wednesday 26 May 2021

Klaus Høecks afskedssalut


     and death said to me

i will give you three years more

     if you will stop pos


     ing and putting on

an act all the time – will stop

     imagining things


     and putting on airs

okay i answered that's a

     deal – but in that case


     you are to stop hood

winking me and leading me

     astray i replied



     ole sarvig wrote 

his green poems collection

     a generation


     ago – and they're still

standing – they pop up every

     year in october


     like death caps – but aren't

such mushrooms both a bright red

     and highly toxic?


     and so what – they grow

only in fairytales at

     the back of my mind



     it is as if re

ality has become too 

     real at the moment


     now that corona

has decided it will add

     the crowning glory


     and shown us how frail

the world is that we had con

     sidered unshakea


     ble a year ago

but wait and see in a month

     it will be fake news



     in just a month life

has turned into a struggle

     for rye bread and toi


     let paper – no more

was needed for this than a

     tiny virus which


     when magnified on

screen is as beautiful as

     a red carnation –


     no more was needed

for our own frailty to

     be clearly revealed



     at the world's end stands

the tree of life and that's where

     i'm finally seek


     ing that's the way it

is and there is nothing one

     can do about it


     i'm relatively

unfucked about not com

     pletely burning up


     so write myself out

of this poem to music

     from final countdown



     now it was my turn

to place a book under my

     pillow and to sleep


     soundly among oth

er words in my dreams than my

     own ones other red


     admiral butter

flies from the B-pages of

     the black book other


     hopes for the fu

ture that i can no longer

     expect to be mine



     a singers' war at

heartland – a mad nightingale

     sings the whole night long


     if only then it could

match the notes in yahya has

     sans poems at ze


     ro six hundred hours

i try whistling: time to say

     goodbye but that does


     not help in the slight

est – for it is still singing

     away as i write



     despite corona

and all the deaths taking place

     spring is on the way


     with its usual

splendour of magnolia

     blossoms and new dreams


     about everything's

tremendous power and force ma

     jeure everything's e


     ternal return in

various green disguises

     and new breaking news



     one thing is knowing

oneself (to know what a self

     is) another is 


     living it – god all-

flaming mighty – it takes an

     entire life to


     do it or as some

motherfucker or other

     once said: werde der


     du bist – it takes quite

simply an entire life

     (with the stress on takes)



     i walked over to

the wood to pay a visit

     to the tree i've called


     doubleheart because

the bark at one place has split

     off and has formed a


     heart both in the tree

trunk and in my gaze i saw

     that it was bleeding


     green but took that as 

neither a good nor a bad

     sign but a true one



     and it's all the same

when it really comes to it

     for perhaps i lost


     myself along the

way more than i actual

     ly found myself – or


     maybe i more in

vented myself as a kind

     of proxy or pseudo


     self or what one could

perhaps also give the name:

     an honest liar



     thank you god for al

lowing me to write this great

     number of poems


     i mean i could just

as easily have been dead

     at the age of twen


     ty-six (the number

of the holy spirit) like

     so many other


     poets and then there'd

only have been yggdrasil

     to show – so thank you



     time sure flies

i am writing my last poem

     nothing more to say


     no more nonsense and

no more poems either and

     no more words from me


     death will not mark the

end of my authorship – i

     will do that myself


     i now unsheath po

etry's samurai sword – swiiish –

     did you hear it zip?

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