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1994-02-01
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11KB
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484 lines
FULL BLACK Q
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Black
black
black
ten to eight
black
the night stalks everything
there are shadows in which we cannot dwell
others dwell in them
you dwell in them
like mirrors that explore
the wrong side of you
you who are lost
you who are the seekers in the desert
of african violets
you find only scorpions
you find only poison asps
hot sand
black night
even stars don't shine
black pawn
in a jungle of deposed kings and queens
you try hard
try harder - it is the darkest night
and the brightest day
grey day
paynes grey
black non-colour
mixed with white
full colour produces
grey
grey
black and grey
darkest night
the poet writes a song about a bird that does not fly
about old men waiting for their demise
which has already come so long ago
young men lost to emptiness
everyone lost
broken bottles
drinking drunk
stumbling falling falling
it is the abysmal alley
through which we stumble
in which we fall
it is the alley through which we walk
drunk and drugged
hoping for the night
the day
hoping for anything
it is woman
it is life
it is a dragnet
which is all that is gathered
it is the poet gathering
he gathers everything
the tree might grow
but it doesn't grow fast enough
it is books and dust
books and dust and
repetitions
it is periods of this
it is periods
the ending of a sentence
the next paragraph does not begin as easily
as the next note
what is the next note
what is not
streets
walking up and down the
streets
walking up and down
one's past
poems of the
notebooks of the
journals of the
passing of the
past the indecision
the decision that
gathers
what to do
or not to do
the words
angry words
sullen words
words without a hope
of evidence
that we exist
letters
answering letters and
telephone calls
and noise
bearded men and
lovely ladies
poet's verses
sunshine maybe
perhaps clouds hide it
hide everything
there are clouds in my eyes
your eyes
everybody's eyes
the eyes that see
the eyes that don't
the ears that hear
and the ears that won't
read read
read the
blackest poem on the whitest page
in this monotony
seated by the open window
years ago
dreaming
dreams still come and go
dreams still do a lot of things
but we mix them with reality
reality
fine illusion
like the tv set
are there really actors
are there really people who write this stuff
are there really poets
can there really be poets
this cant be true
truth is stranger than fiction
fiction is the stuff of dreams
dissected into fact
and how we conquer it
how we want to conquer it
how we have a wish to conquer
what is there
what is left
take stock - fifteen thousand pages
fifteen thousand ages
in a world a-swim
and how the world has aged
how we turn the page
how the world has bled
for understanding and for knowledge
calling wood and city
country places
cars and bicycles to work
I just realised how alien this is
I just realised I was realizing
nothing that has been the same
stale conversation
stagnant poem
like the stagnant and polluted waters
of the world
whales and oceans
saviour and society
telephones
snags in all communication
it's a wrong number
always the numbers one wants not
out of order
passed away
ten years ago when the world was younger
it was aging still
this poem stretches back ten years
it stretches back to shape and form
upon an unknown canvas
just exploded in my mind
it ages back to everything
old and new
the past that is the past
which was once before the future
one searches and one finds
renew yourselves
yes thank you
works of art are incorrigible
everything is
people of the roofs and jars of
opium
disturbance in the audience
the audience is on the radio
everyone should know that
what
yes yes
whatever is
whatever's not
all of us
chains do not unlock
they make such pretty sounds
clanking through the corridors
go down do go down
deep wells of wisdom
filled with garbage
on the beach a bottle
and no message
in the bottle
cold wind
and a dead gull
white black
feathers ruffled
by a living wind
pages
black
white
peanuts and
squirrels
blue jays
music
photographs
not liking one's own
the image in the words
the images on porcelain
and the mirror of picasso
the lives relived in words
and photographs
only surfaces
too romantic to be seen
in true flight
why couldn't i have been born earlier
when the world was young
and people stuck together
in their feeling for each other
and their art
all of us
what have we done
we have seen our heritage
diminished
we have shrunk from our duty
as citizens of the world
we have made a sham of everything
fragile planet
birds
rows of birds are art
everything is art
nothing is
where do we stop
where do we go
where do we see these things
we do not see
what are these words
these images
these repetitions
what are these poems
with no rhythm
these poems with no rhyme or reason
reasons being out these days
the poets are such simple people
who like to think themselves much more
they know as much about a poem
as they know about themselves
nothing
we are all dumb
broken
shattered
vanquished
dumb
it is boredom that we are afraid of
we play games
it is games that we aught to be afraid of
it is panes of window glass we see the world
through
see through everything
writers cramp
of course
everything's the curse of need
machines break down
and can be fixed
like democracy
at ten a.m.
rain
clouds
dark and black and
grey
paynes grey
of the voices
voices that communicate
voices that fall silent
that can't
some have no ears
some only scars
some are devastated
some collect their ingenuity
and smoke a cigarette
and talk to pretty girls
about their civil wars
in bed
break
pause
back grey day
day that must be rain
fingers of prague
rain that must be shadow
without sun
salt
and pepper
rain on all of us
blue roofs
darkness in the streets
don't shave
when morning comes
like a lark on fire
singing
songs of torture
but the morning isn't
good enough
don't look in the mirror
even if it cracks
don't look at people
they might just look back
don't do anything
pace the room
pace it up and down
shout
scream
drink
get drunk
forget to forget
everything
the blackness in your heart
the too full jungle in your mind
contrived in spaces
that are inaccessible
to anyone but god
and who can boast
of being god
my guts ache
they don't write poems
like that
they copulate
like that
the dregs of earth
the lowest of the low
that grace the lips of satan
in eternal hell
what's the use
disguising in the world
the good and bad
the sun and moon
what togetherness is not
good poems do not lie
they twist the truth
society tells the lie
and why not
we're only here for the duration
of eternity
we can never do ourselves
the harm to put ourselves away
what we do not finish in one life
we finish in another
what is the use
what can we do
of love and of devotion
love what
devotion to whom
STOP
and as the sign bearer stops
everything also stops
black
notice that there
are no stars
the last one having been
outdone by the dawn
the pregnant dawn
all our images are broken by the dawn
the blazing dawn
society depends upon the dawn
the ageless dawn
everything depends upon the dawn
the dawn of what
another day
a new beginning
question yourself
the dawn of what
i just want to top
the dawn of
what
we know everything
nothing
the nothing that we know is everything
only we don't know it yet
isn't that a laugh
the birds are on their southern journey
give a warning sign
they are going on vacation
we only lock ourselves
into our prison cells
it is like we would be if we were not
or vice versa
with ladders climbing to the sky
the rungs are broken
we all think we can climb the ladder
we try
we only fall down trying
and still think that we succeed
we get nowhere
the higher we get
the further we get away from what we had
and what we had
has been our solid base
we are in outer space
the solid base is weightlessness
how long will it last
chains rust
but to actually cast them off
that takes courage
how much courage do we have
what is freedom
will we ever dare again
were we ever in danger as today
do we have each other
do we know any more
do we know ourselves
were all these things as important then
are they that important now
the art of fighting
without philosophy
yes yes yes
they are important
the saviour is society
we are the witness to the truth
we are the witness
to the silence we equate
with full communication
if we could
only learn the language
of community
if we would only listen
to the cars and the
machines
and where the footsteps end
upon a barren beach
where is the wind
where are we
and do we really know ourselves
do we really know anything at all
do we really care
are we so broken as to think that we are together yet
and look at what we lose by losing
look at all of it
all the wonder
the light
the different light
that permeates everything
as open to the sky
as love envelops us
the blue cerulean
the wonder of this studio
with outstretched arms
the radium sun
heightens us in shadows
shadows of our nature
shadows of the brightness of our silhouettes
let is leave the darkness of this city
let us leave the darkness of all cities
let us walk into Beethoven's pastoral
and let us seek the quiet place
where we are sheltered in the gentle sounds
and breathe the freshet air of harmony
beneath the gentle universe of stars
it is late
and it is early
and the voices of the night are silent
and the voices of the day begin
another clamour
i will say no more
i will let the word come through
of its own accord
forgive me reader if i've said too much
i will say no more
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyara.
Shantih shantih shantih...
- Night of 21/22 Aug 1975
- Klaus J. Gerken