Ashes for Breakfast

by Durs Grünbein

  When the books close ranks and it transpires they don’t speak.

  (OF THE ONE IN THE CROWD)

  You, with your knife-edged trouser-creases, were soon spotted,

  But it seemed to make no odds to you, and you went whistling on.

  Feel the price tag at the back of your neck? Annoying, isn’t it?

  On your tongue the taste of tap water and canned food.

  You live as One. Used to the system of decimals,

  Only relying on things that stack up. Never mind Laocoön in his toils—

  You are the vertical line moving ahead through narrow streets,

  The misplaced comma of an over-eager typesetter,

  To whom the city falls into printed matter, columns, and tables.

  And the twice twelve hours, the rota of electric light,

  Is promise enough. Openmouthed, you learn to esteem

  What the many zero faces never grasp.

  (OF INNER UNREST)

  And what about you? Ever think of calling the whole thing off?

  The brain, no sooner alone, already neglected, entertains every thought

  So long as it’s big enough, and cuts to the chase.

  Sooner than crack peanuts, or minutes, it would take on

  The rest of the body, the sorry remainder. With brutal curiosity,

  It likes to batter the trembling flanks. A reporter,

  Coolly studying destruction, as if it were its own handicraft,

  Not someone else’s. Anything to deny that.

  It acclaims the violence

  That goes out from things and words. Injuries and scratch marks

  Console it, reconcile it to its obscurity and obsolescence.

  So the ashtray, resting on the table, quickly becomes a welcome

  Support on slippery days. Inner unrest as protection against clocks.

  (ON CURRENCY)

  One thing never left lying around is money. Whenever you see anything

  Round and glinting on the pavement, heads or tails, you stoop to conquer.

  Because every coin seems out of place, where normally people spit

  Or tread. Doesn’t the dog’s nose sniff every penny on the floor?

  And don’t you cannily set your foot on the find, and whistle innocence?

  Why are these triumphs penny-wise, and never silver talers or gold ducats,

  And often enough you come up with a trouser button, and blushing drop your treasure

  While someone jeers! Money draws your eye, magically,

  Turns your arm to a mechanical claw that grasps what it holds.

  In all that greed, deep in the junk, is self-help.

  No slim, coiffed goddess, but a feisty Chancellor between your fingers.

  Would you rather an emperor, or a torero? Do yen and Krugerrands

  Flatter the skin like cowrie shells? Isn’t all money the property

  In any case of the bank? Oh, to be a child again, grubbing in real feces.

  * * *

  And why, you ask yourself (why being the most childish of questions),

  Why am I involved in this rat race on bartered ground,

  Where these weaklings are kicking around a dead pigeon.

  Silently bred out of love, only to be, who knows, hauled onto the nearest stretcher

  After the cardiac event, with rapidly cooling testicles.

  Someone who knows when a word has run out. Who nods silently,

  Because a smile or blush is too much of a deception, and the mouth prefers to keep the throat covered anyway.

  Aren’t tragic parts generally mute? And how many scenes there are

  That go unwitnessed, before the duster wipes the coffin down.

  People change, cities change, but the mole beside your navel stays put.

  And woe if you don’t perform your reverences, kissing a hand here, inclining

  Your supple torso there—to this life, so useless, so rich.

  (ROBINSON IN THE CITY)

  These petrifying coasts … Only he gazes out to sea, as ever.

  “Who is that biped anyway?” the scaffolding poles on the new office block,

  The skeleton-stiff cranes, inquire silently of one another. “Fucking bonkers,”

  Yawns a malodorous hole in the ground.

  Not one room, not one plank of his cot

  That survived the shipwreck. “Nothing I can put a name to,” silently replies

  A security fence, when asked whether the fellow reminded him of anything.

  But he can’t let it go. Stranded somewhere in the interior,

  The suburban roofs are the horizon that he scans. What for?

  His sails are now the screens of multiplex cinemas. The foaming waves

  Are traffic noise. No mast that doesn’t say: “I’ll flatten you.”

  “And you can piss off!” he hears from the graveyard that the bulldozers

  Are clearing, because time’s up for moldy bones, their concession’s run its term.

  Everywhere the flashing lights and sirens of the emergency services—

  That deafening da-du, da-du—only he, beachcomber, keeps grazing the concrete,

  Fails to get it when, on a Friday night for instance, on high heels, the stuff of dreams,

  A chanson teeters past, hips swinging: “La mort vient et je suis nu…”

  (ON THE DAILY NEWSPAPERS)

  I have breakfasted on ashes, the black

  Dust that comes off newspapers, from the freshly printed columns.

  When a coup makes no stain, and a tornado sticks to half a page.

  And it seemed to me as though the Fates licked their lips

  When war broke out in the sports section, reflected in the falling Dow.

  I have breakfasted on ashes. My daily bread.

  And Clio, as ever, keeps mum … There, just as I folded them up,

  The rustling pages sent a shiver down my spine.

  (ON TALKING IN ONE’S SLEEP)

  The damage has been done. Now you’ll see.

  What holds a life together is a window in a calendar.

  Even the man from Omaha—no Apollo he—will tell you

  You must change it. A lot of crying goes on here.

  But only once did a woman experience birth pangs over you,

  And only once were you the subject of a convulsion

  That went through the walls. Hey, snoopers, that’s how it began.

  When the evergreen drips with rain, and Christmas trees sparkle with tinsel

  The knees go weak, reliably, year on year.

  No toothache or neuralgia

  Can suppress the pressure of dead days, that longing for an unlived life.

  Are you sniveling? The damage has been done. What you see here

  Is utterly different from whatever it was that made your thumb,

  Sticky from sucking, so distinctly promising. Worth bawling for.

  The tablecloth, the stain the flies investigated only yesterday,

  Will testify that the hour is endlessly perishable, that the miracle has not taken place.

  Where there is a date, the body, bringing up the rear, had better look to itself.

  And the further it goes, the deeper it sinks, ultimately in over both ears.

  And who knows whether it’s shame, maybe what will survive of us is Blah …

  The damage has been done. Someone, call in the receiver!

  (ON THE BEAUTY OF HEMATOMAS)

  Blood allays itself. Pain remains the skin’s secret,

  Mapping the intruder till the end, and asking for soft knocks.

  The bone-stuffed earth crunches underfoot. Time leaks out of solitude,

  Hence our little twosomes … When a violet flowers on the thigh,

  Suspicion is apt to fall on the devil, the senile old companion.

  But it only blooms for days, Etruscan and beautiful, under stockings and dress,

  A pressed orchid. A blood-frilled quadrilateral

  Becomes a chartreuse sm
ear that mocks: “Look, you’re getting on.”

  And soon enough it’s lost all value, the blue Mauritius above the knee.

  The duff spot.

  Was man not the animal who chewed gum

  When he left Eden and blasted off for the moon, bemused by love and π

  Like your foot when it sticks, in summer, to the asphalt.

  (ON FALSE MOVEMENTS)

  What days are these, that begin like frolicsome foals, and by night

  Are hedgehogs schlepping their bloody bulk along the side of the road?

  Whoever set off bright and early to learn about fear, crisply crunching on the gravel,

  By the end of the tour stands spraddle-legged over gurgling gutters,

  Full of Andromeda’s gift of department stores,

  Mixed with secretions and the effluent from certain clinics.

  Impossible to remain Fortunatus.

  Whoever once saw the stab in the back,

  Or the wasp find the child’s open mouth, will have nothing to do

  With the wheedling and cringing, the “Our Father,” and “Blessed are…”

  “Too late!” cries Mr. Sadist as he sees the bloodied hand—

  Three streets along, at the taxi stand, there’s the next cry of “Stop, thief!”

  Every full moon is an anniversary of helplessness.

  Purblind, fussy

  Catastrophe clears a path through the crowd (“Gangway!”).

  A five-course dinner ends with a fish bone lodged in the throat …

  No amount of “Oh woe!” will lift the dumbbell off the crushed toe,

  Once the pas de deux turned into a weight-lifting contest.

  In the crush, the plainest news assails the passerby

  Like the sodden film poster with its blurred “The-o-di-cy.”

  (ON THE HERE AND NOW)

  What if your glance finds it ever harder to be away, the nice pet

  That found nothing human alien to itself? Now novelty just tires it out.

  Manageable, and with helpful illustrations, it falls easily through the slit

  Of your inflamed lids: that pompous now and jumped-up here.

  What begins as piano, tiptoeing like a mouse, an étude,

  Ends up as stadium rock. The assembled rabble

  Sweats it out in fortissimo, screaming, “Pan is dead! Pan is dead!”

  Not even in the unconscious does time stand so still that you can stop

  And catch your breath. Each instant is instantly ended.

  With the note still held, or the expression. Repetition menaces

  Any primary impulse. Holding a pencil perpendicular to your skull,

  A hand scratches the name it’s learned. God, it tickles.

  KOSMOPOLIT

  Von meiner weitesten Reise zurück, anderntags

  Wird mir klar, ich verstehe vom Reisen nichts.

  Im Flugzeug eingesperrt, stundenlang unbeweglich,

  Unter mir Wolken, die aussehn wie Wüsten,

  Wüsten, die aussehn wie Meere, und Meere,

  Den Schneewehen gleich, durch die man streift

  Beim Erwachen aus der Narkose, sehe ich ein,

  Was es heißt, über die Längengrade zu irren.

  Dem Körper ist Zeit gestohlen, den Augen Ruhe.

  Das genaue Wort verliert seinen Ort. Der Schwindel

  Fliegt auf mit dem Tausch von Jenseits und Hier

  In verschiedenen Religionen, mehreren Sprachen.

  Überall sind die Rollfelder gleich grau und gleich

  Hell die Krankenzimmer. Dort im Transitraum,

  Wo Leerzeit umsonst bei Bewußtsein hält,

  Wird ein Sprichwort wahr aus den Bars von Atlantis.

  Reisen ist ein Vorgeschmack auf die Hölle.

  COSMOPOLITE

  The day after getting back from my longest journey,

  I realize I had this traveling business badly wrong.

  Penned in an airplane, immobilized for hours on end,

  Over clouds that bear the appearance of deserts,

  Deserts that bear the appearance of seas, and seas

  That are like the blizzards you struggle through,

  On your way out of your Halcion-induced stupor,

  I see what it means to stumble over the dateline.

  The body is robbed of time, and the eyes of rest.

  The carefully chosen word loses its locus.

  Giddily you juggle the here and the hereinafter,

  Keeping several languages and religions up in the air.

  But runways are the same gray everywhere, and hospital rooms

  The same bright. There in the transit lounge,

  Where downtime remains conscious to no end,

  The proverb from the bars of Atlantis swims into ken:

  Travel is a foretaste of Hell.

  BERLINER RUNDE

  Für Christian Döring

  I

  TAUENTZIENSTRAßE)

  Ach, kein Liedchen wirbelt mehr durch diese Straße.

  Und der Fahrtwind, der vorbeischaut, flirtet mit den Kanten

  Dekorierter Stahlvitrinen, drei vier Stockwerk hoch und voller Waren.

  Die hier leben, eilig und in kleinen Raten, sind Passanten.

  Kehrmaschinen sorgen nachts für reibungslose Flächen.

  Überm Glanz von Eislaufbahnen streuen Leuchtreklamen

  Wie Gerüchte Namen aus, von denen es im Telephonbuch wimmelt.

  Früh im Schlußverkauf gibt man die letzten bürgerlichen Dramen.

  Eine Kirche steht hier, die erinnert streng an Bunker,

  Seit ihr Turm, ein abgebrochner Flaschenhals, plombiert ist

  Mit demselben Baustoff der im Parkhaus höllisch von Motoren dröhnt.

  Taucht ein Lächeln aus dem U-Bahn-Schacht, stößt es auf Maniriertes.

  Stecken Zähne im Asphalt, sind sie von Fahrradboten,

  Die beim Slalom stürzten oder Fensterputzern, vom Gerüst gefallen.

  Grün der Mittelstreifen wird zum Sprungtuch. Durch den Stoßverkehr

  Blitzt ein Glücksrad für die einen, wo die andern Bußgeld zahlen.

  Wieviel Krimskrams trägt man in den Taschen

  Mit sich fort von hier, und wieviel bleibt an Ort und Stelle

  Für die junge Archäologin, die im Schutt der legendären Städte kniet,

  In der Hand den weichen Pinsel, dieses Echo jeder Maurerkelle.

  II

  ANHALTER BAHNHOF)

  Hier haben die Panzer gewendet,

  Und Machorkarauch stieg aus dem plumpen Turm.

  Wo kein Gleis mehr, kein Reichsbahnzug endet,

  Legte sich der Mongolensturm.

  Griechenland Expreß. Abfahrt der Schönen und Reichen

  In verhängten Coupés, südwärts, in Polster gelehnt.

  Ein Russe stand an der letzten der Weichen

  Und sammelte Uhren ein, Goldschmuck, den Siegeszehnt.

  An den Kreuzungen las man kyrillisch. Den Weg

  Durch die Trümmeralleen zeigten Dachbalken an.

  Den Roten Stern zu belächeln, kein Sakrileg

  Wäre schlimmer gewesen. Verworfen der Plan,

  Berlin, das Räubernest, zu schleifen wie Karthago,

  Im Staub von Brandenburg ein Großstadtschatten.

  Doch Gulasch dämpfte bald, Kosakentanz das Largo,

  Wenn auch Frau Krause nichts zu lachen hatte.

  III

  AM FRIEDRICHSHAIN)

  Nein, von Begrüßung konnte keine Rede sein,

  Sieht man die Einschußlöcher Haus für Haus.

  Es waren Trommelfeuer, keine Salven

  Damals am Friedrichshain.

  Und vom Verbrüdern war das alles weit entfernt.

  Wer im MG-Nest saß, der schoß heraus.

  Kann sein, im Park die Hunde und die Malven

  Haben dazugelernt.

  Die weißen Fahnen zog ein strenger Winter ein.

  Verbandszeug brauchte man und Bettuch auch.

  Daß in den Kellern keine Bitten halfen,
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  Ahnt man am Friedrichshain.

  IV

  POTSDAMER PLATZ)

  Um und um wird die Erde gewühlt für die Hauptstadt in spe.

  Der nächtlichen Menschenleere gehn Raupen vorweg.

  Germania im Bunker, auf preußischem Kanapee,

  Von Baggern im Schlaf gestört, wälzt die Hüften im Dreck.

  Downtown Berlin hilft der Diva den Gürtel zu lösen.

  Und schmachtend macht sie, Walküre, die Schenkel breit.

  Das Gehirn, in den hellsten Momenten, den bitterbösen,

  Wittert etwas, das nach Zerstörung schreit.

  V

  EPILOG)

  Was geschieht hier, fragt man, und erkennt nichts wieder,

  Schultern eingezogen unter Kränen. War man nicht ein Riese,

  Dem die Stadt gehorchte? Plätze schrumpften auf ihr Spielzeugmaß,

  Stieg man aus der Erde. Ein ›Hatschi!‹ riß ganze Wohnblocks nieder.

  Eben war da noch ein Brachfeld, Sand und etwas abgebrannte Wiese,

  Die im Stadtplan fehlten. Daß dort Goyas Koloß saß,

  Wartend auf die Wiederkehr der Steppe, glaubt dir keiner mehr.

  Einmal eingenickt, und alles hinterrücks war parallel versetzt.

  Aus dem preußisch blauen Nachmittag in vier Sektoren, zwei Versionen,

  War die Stunde grauen Dunsts geworden, wenn im Kreisverkehr

  Hinz und Kunz sich überholen. Zappelnd hängt im Straßennetz

  Bald die Hälfte der Bevölkerung. Ihr Motto ›Schneller Wohnen!‹

  Zeigt den Alten, wo es langgeht. Bis auf Grazie, gibts hier vielzuvieles,

  Das den Eilschritt nahelegt, den Tunnelblick. Genügt nicht ein Magnet,

  Zum Türeöffnen, seit Apartments als Zementbrei aus den Mischern quellen?

  Einestags entdeckt man, hoch an Glasfassaden festgeschraubt, Reptile,

  Die neutralen Augs den Kehraus überwachen. — Daß ihm nichts entgeht.

  Nur Gewohnheit, dieser Arbeitslose, kehrt zurück an taube Stellen.

  BERLIN ROUNDS

  For Christian Döring

  I

  TAUENTZIENSTRASSE)

  Here no more little songs go skipping down the street,

  And the breeze, blowing by, cuts itself on the edges