"Goethe reads Hölderlin"
"The Devil reads Faust II"
Always
(Immer)
Always someone swifter than you
You crawl
He walks
You walk
He runs
You run
He flies:
There's always someone still swifter than you.
Always someone more gifted than you
You read
He learns
You learn
He seeks
You seek
He finds out:
There's always someone still more gifted than you.
Always someone more famous than you
You're in the papers
He's in the encyclopedia
You're in the encyclopedia
He's in Who’s Who
You're in Who’s Who
He's a monument:
There's always someone still more famous than you.
Always someone richer than you
Your book is reviewed
His is read
Your book is read
His is devoured
Yours is treasured
His is bought:
There's always someone still richer than you.
Always someone more popular than you
You are praised
He is loved
You are honoured
He is adored
They lie at your feet
They chair him on their shoulders
There's always someone still more popular than you.
Always someone better than you
You are ailing
He languishes
You die
He passes away
You are judged
He is redeemed
There's always someone still better than you
Always
Always
Always
Reflections on an obscene drawing (as seen on the walls the adult education centre)
(Obszöne Zeichnung am Volksbildungsheim)
Prick on the wall –
standing proud, standing tall.
Painted it myself
once on this partition,
when my own appendage was
still in prime condition.
Captured it with felt-tip pen
during daylight hours,
cupped it tenderly at night,
marvelled at its powers.
That this is all so long ago
does not make me sad.
That hands still decorate these walls
is reason to be glad.
Even if no prick of mine
serves as inspiration,
there'll always be one standing up
symbolic of creation.
Rising to a mighty height
from balls both tight and tender,
spurting out the juice of life,
a tribute to its gender.
Prick on the wall,
taking the piss.
We think it's ours,
in fact we are HIS.
(Obszöne Zeichnung am Volksbildungsheim)
Prick on the wall –
standing proud, standing tall.
Painted it myself
once on this partition,
when my own appendage was
still in prime condition.
Captured it with felt-tip pen
during daylight hours,
cupped it tenderly at night,
marvelled at its powers.
That this is all so long ago
does not make me sad.
That hands still decorate these walls
is reason to be glad.
Even if no prick of mine
serves as inspiration,
there'll always be one standing up
symbolic of creation.
Rising to a mighty height
from balls both tight and tender,
spurting out the juice of life,
a tribute to its gender.
Prick on the wall,
taking the piss.
We think it's ours,
in fact we are HIS.
All poems translated from the German by Ursula Runde
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