ROAMING CREATURES

THE COLLECTION

Hello. Hello? Who is awake? I´m asking you, who is awake?

The chirping grasshopper, The singing birds, The burning moth, And the late night thinkers that can’t seem to rest.

THE BATS FLY

The time forecasts a peopled dark And voiceless fights

Time for opening disked eyes

That delight

At night

In evening it is best to wake To stretch our wings

We of the pointed ears

Welcoming The coming

Some with sharpened toes Depend from limbs Or hand from guano rocks In a dark

Unmarked

Some stand in shadow with shaded Yellow eyes

Blind in the sun, now open To Thelightnight

Then stirs our lemur company Of silent hunters

Wakes and sees again In shadow

DO YOU BLEED BLOOD?

Do you bleed blood? Do you think thoughts

Do you rack bikes on The bike rack?

Do you stick candles In the candlestick

Do you cuff hands In the handcuffs?

Do you light night With a night light?

And do you fish Stars with a Starfish?

To him

Come to me in the night - we sleep closely entwined. I am very tired, lonely from waking.

A strange bird has already sung in the dark early morning, When my dream was still struggling with itself and with me.

Flowers open before all springs And colour with your eyes Immortalize ...

Come to me in the night on seven-star shoes

Wrapped in love late in my tent.

Moons rise from dusty chests in the sky.

Let us rest in love like two rare animals In the high pipe behind this world.

THE FISH

The stream moves and fish move in the steam, they flash leaping into the liquid air like tongues speaking or kissing, they strike home. Returned again, they sleep in the gliding stream in shadow or in sun glare leaping or diving they stay the same and their way is the way of all tongues speaking as they kiss what they seek in the lifeless air

Swift waters of the stream flow at the gaping mouth and the loose tongue thrust like a leaping fish that falls from it`s kiss to the cool homeland the rocked pool of its

first wet breath; to sulk low in the sand yawning the life giving air in until caught of danger of desire to a new with they speak to themselves to the sweet air of death

… to tongue forth the rarest syllable of all not loves nor any holy name but that cry wrung of the thrown body of love flung outward to meet the simplest deceiving thing: of death this all but movement beyond the inventions of the stream spend beyond recapture fed of the fleeting lure

HOW STRANGE TO DREAM,

EVEN WHEN I AM WIDE AWAKE

FISH MOUTH

In late august I come back

To the sound for blues and fluke

I wait with patience beneath

This copper sky; an oil slick

Refracts the morning light

I full a fish, a good four pound

Fluke and catch my hands along the barb

A three inch gash is bleeding

Down my wrist; the salty flounder Burns into my skin.

His eyes are flat and glassy in the air

My vision too is going bad

I try to spot the bleeding with a cloth

Which turns in a minute

Bark as a fish liver

I feel the scar along my head

You stitched when I was ten A father in the sweaty night

Tying up his own sons skin

I lay an hour while you tweezed and cut the black thread

Stitched clipped pulled

The cells tight

A bass was swimming in me then, A blue-black scaly thing

Turning in the tangle of myself

I hardly knew

FROM FIREFLY

I think if you knew up to the sky beside the moon You would Winkle like a star

Fireflies at twilight in search of one another Twinkle off and on

If only I could catch my dreams and keep them in a jar Id watch them dance like fireflies, Flickering like stars

They would grow And id let them go

To See how far they^d fly

Lighting up the pitch black night

As they soar throughout the sky

They compete for our attention

As if like us they know

What is in wait, how time

And failure consume us as it were

A moth fretting a garment-

And wield their names like blazons

The tiny and orange footmen

The scored wings the brimstones

The female shoulders

And this

Is only a start: further back White ermines, square spots

Silvers, ghost moths, even

The small phoenix are all

Pressing forward with furious

Imperative breathing, beating

Glamorous for the searching light

-LAWRENCE SAIL

ILikeamoth Endlesslyamdippedindarkness lookingforlight

The moth is busy

All night long

But does he make a peep?

No he’s too considerate

About our need for sleep

So when we spy drowsy moth

Tucked in for the day

Let it be

As thoughtful as he

And let him snore away

The hill where we walk lies in shadow.

While

the one over there still weaves in the light

The moon on its tender green mats

Only floats as a small white

cloud

The roads far away grow paler

A lisp offers support to the wanderers

Is it an invisible water from the mountain?

Is it a bird singing its lullaby?

The dark blue two who seduced each other pursued each other from stalk to stalk in jest...

The rain prepares from shrubbery and bleeding

The scent of evening for subdued pain.

Once upon a time a frog

Croaked away in Bingle Bog

Every night from dusk to dawn

He croaked awn and awn and awn

Other creatures loathed his voice, But, alas, they had no choice, And the crass cacophony

Blared out from the sumac tree

At whose foot the frog each night

Minstrel led on till morning night

Neither stones nor prayers nor sticks. Insults or complaints or bricks

Stilled the frogs determination

To display his heart‘s elation. But one night a nightingale

In the moonlight cold and pale

Perched upon the sumac tree

Casting forth her melody

Dumbstruck sat the gaping frog

And the whole admiring bog

Stared towards the sumac, rapt,

And, when she had ended, clapped, Ducks had swum and herons waded To her as she serenaded

And a solitary loon

Wept, beneath the summer moon.

Toads and teals and tiddlers, captured By her voice, cheered on, enraptured: "Bravo! " "Too divine! " "Encore! "

So the nightingale once more, Quite unused to such applause, Sang till dawn without a pause.

Next night when the Nightingale

Shook her head and twitched her tail, Closed an eye and fluffed a wing

And had cleared her throat to sing She was startled by a croak.

"Sorry - was that you who spoke? "

She enquired when the frog Hopped towards her from the bog. "Yes,“ the frog replied. "You see, I‘m the frog who owns this tree In this bog I‘ve long been known For my splendid baritone

And, of course, I wield my pen For Bog Trumpet now and then“

"Did you… did you like my song? "

"Not too bad - but far too long. The technique was fine of course, But it lacked a certain force“.

"Oh! " the nightingale confessed. Greatly flattered and impressed That a critic of such note Had discussed her art and throat:

"I don‘t think the song‘s divine. But - oh, well - at least it‘s mine“.

"That‘s not much to boast about“. Said the heartless frog. "Without Proper training such as I - And few others can supply. You‘ll remain a mere beginner. But with me you‘ll be a winner“

"Dearest frog“, the nightingale

Breathed: "This is a fairy taleAnd you are Mozart in disguise Come to earth before my eyes“.

"Well I charge a modest fee.“

"Oh! " "But it won‘t hurt, you‘ll see“ Now the nightingale inspired, Flushed with confidence, and fired

With both art and adoration, Sang - and was a huge sensation. Animals for miles around Flocked towards the magic sound, And the frog with great precision Counted heads and charged admission.

Though next morning it was raining, He began her vocal training. "But I can‘t sing in this weather“ "Come my dear - we‘ll sing together. Just put on your scarf and sash, Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash! "

So the frog and nightingale Journeyed up and down the scale For six hours, till she was shivering and her voice was hoarse and quivering.

Though subdued and sleep deprived, In the night her throat revived, And the sumac tree was bowed, With a breathless, titled crowd: Owl of Sandwich, Duck of Kent, Mallard and Milady Trent, Martin Cardinal Mephisto, And the Coot of Monte Cristo, Ladies with tiaras glittering In the interval sat twitteringAnd the frog observed them glitter With a joy both sweet and bitter.

Every day the frog who‘d sold her Songs for silver tried to scold her: "You must practice even longer Till your voice, like mine grows stronger. In the second song last night You got nervous in mid-flight. And, my dear, lay on more trills:

Audiences enjoy such frills. You must make your public happier: Give them something sharper snappier. We must aim for better billings. You still owe me sixty shillings.“

Day by day the nightingale

Grew more sorrowful and pale. Night on night her tired song

Zipped and trilled and bounced along, Till the birds and beasts grew tired

At a voice so uninspired

And the ticket office gross Crashed, and she grew more moroseFor her ears were now addicted

To applause quite unrestricted, And to sing into the night

All alone gave no delight.

Now the frog puffed up with rage. "Brainless bird - you‘re on the stageUse your wits and follow fashion. Puff your lungs out with your passion.“

Trembling, terrified to fail, Blind with tears, the nightingale Heard him out in silence, tried, Puffed up, burst a vein, and died.

Said the frog: "I tried to teach her, But she was a stupid creatureFar too nervous, far too tense. Far too prone to influence. Well, poor bird - she should have known That your song must be your own. That‘s why I sing with panache: "Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash! "

And the foghorn of the frog Blared unrivalled through the bog.

The early graves 1764

welcome o silver moon, beautiful silent danger of the night!

do you flee? hurry, stay, friend of thought!

behold, it remains, the clouds are only wafting away.

the awakening of may is only

even more beautiful than the summer night, when dew, bright as light, drips from his curls, and up to the hill reddish he comes.

you, ah it grows over your paints already serious moss!

Oh how happy I was when I was with you again saw the day redden, the night shimmer

THE TOAD

i breathe swim, in a deep, touched splendour humble voice under the bird’s feathers of fear could and kill!

I may only be an evil vermin to you: i am the toad

and carry the precious stone.

HALF SHELL

the darkness rustles like a robe, the trees totter at the edge of the sky.

save yourself in the heart of the night, quickly burrow into the darkness, as in honeycombs.

make yourself climb out of his bed, something wants to cross the bridges, it sharpens with hooves crooked.

The stars were frightened so white

and the moon like a crab waddles around above with its bumpy back.

SLUMBER FLAKE

the day sank down in dark cakes starry-eyed the night is born without a rudder now pushed off the land the soul hovers above the bottomless blissful as redeemed spirits sway in the barge of the night the dream thoughts

and an albatross in the ship at guest spreads white wings over the shore

do i see clouds carrying the wind? are they mountains rising from dreamland?

ferns flash through torn en belts his wonder port’s coral prongs

all the sails the winds are streaming softly, softly, fall slumbering flakes

I extinguish the light I put out the light With a crimson hand, Strip away the world Like a robe of many colours And plunge into darkness Naked and alone: The deep realm Will be mine, me. Great wonders flit Through thickets, Springing veins In the deepest sense, O leap some more, I’d come to the core In the heart of the world All near, all far.

Only a rose for support

only a rose for support.

reaches for a support and finds

My hand

I feel dizzy. I do not fall asleep.

But I lie in bird feathers, cradled high in the void.

-HILDE DOMIN

that closes the stable door in the evening.

and hear the click of the latch

I want to feel the sand under my small hooves

in the fleece of the reliable animals.

I close my eyes and wrap myself up in the fleece

over the solid earth.

like shimmering clouds

in the moonlight

of the softly parted sheep that

I buy myself a blanket of the softest wool

on the outermost tip of the branch.

like a nest in the wind

my bed on the trapeze of feeling

among the acrobats and birds

I set up a room for myself in the air

THE HOUR OF GRIEF

Blackly in the autumnal garden the step follows

The shining moon, The mighty night sinks against the freezing wall.

O, the thorny hour of grief.

Silver flickers in the dim room the lonely man’s candlestick, Dying, as that one thinks a dark thing

And bows his stony head over the transient,

Drunk with wine and nocturnal melodiousness. Always the ear follows The soft lament of the blackbird in the hazel bush.

Dark hour of the rosary. Who are you Lonely flute, Forehead, freezing over dark times inclined.

At night in the village the watchman called: Elf!

A very little elf in the forest slept

Well for the elf!And thought it called to him from the valley By his name the nightingale, Or Silpelit had called to him. The elf rubs his eyes, Goes to his snail’s shell, And is as a drunken man, His sleep was not full done, And so he hobbles clumsily Through the hazel wood down into the valley Slips so close to the wall, There sits the glow-worm, light to light.

“What are those bright little windows? There will be a wedding in there: The little ones sit at the feast, And are doing it in the hall.

I’ll take a little peek, ‘No!”

- Fie, bang your head on a hard stone! Fairy, have you had enough? Gukuk! Gukuk!

PEOPLE BY NIGHT

The nights are not made for the crowd. From thy neighbour the night separates thee and still you shall not seek him. And do you make your room light at night, to look people in the face, then you must consider whom.

People are terribly disfigured by the light, that drips from their faces, And when they are gathered together by night.., ...thou sees a tottering world... heaped up in confusion. On their foreheads a yellow glow has displaced all thoughts, in their gazes wine flickers, on their hands hangs... the heavy gesture with which they understand each other in their conversations;

and with that they say: I and I and mean: Someone.

-RAINER MARIA RILKE

Behind seven palm brooms, which the landlord bought in a sale, you sit and read your newspaper and the waiters lean against the wall.

Hats swing on the coat racks

hats swing on the coat racks, and the evening wind wants to change them into fruit. But hats remain what they are.

Stars make light advertising. Unfortunately, you don’t know exactly for whom. And the night is not a fine lady, but lets us see her vault.

In the renowned kitchen the fat cook roasts fillet and fish. And he delivers all the smells of his kitchen to the table for free.

If you were lying in a meadow and a deer came out of the woods, his first question would be this: “Kästner, shh! What’s your salary?”

So you stay sadly on your knees and think palm trees are nature. Flies sit on sweet lumps. And the moon is just the town hall clock.

Seven palm trees wave their fans, for they too are getting hot. And the night sits steaming on the roofs. And a guest orders vanilla ice cream.

One hour before day

While I lay sleeping, A little hour before day, Outside the window on the tree A little swallow, I hardly hear it, A little hour before day:

“Listen to what I say!

I’ll sue your darling: While I sing this, He loves a love in good repose, An hour before day.”

O woe, say no more!

O hush, hear no more!

Fly away, fly away from my tree!

- Alas, love and fidelity are like a dream

An hour or so before day.

MÖRIKE

BEFORE THE SUN RISES

Before the sun rises my brothers call the chequered dogs in the yard blow their hands shake dew from their shoes before the sun is up my brothers are behind the village have put nets in the bushes tie a bird tightly it is blind- ed and sings to the end the brothers stuff their pipes lie in the weeds are patient follow the elaborate stanzas now seven are hanging in the net says the youngest and cuts himself a ham But when the full moon is behind the clouds my brothers walk in the woods with their dogs bend back the branch- es and look up into the sky a cracked enamel bowl they lay their hands on the hickory tree pluck out a weed and hit the deer like they learned to do at the first shot they come groaning through the yard on their backs a stiff load My brothers have a yellow skirt stars soft wrinkled boots they carry a knapsack there is a picture of our house in it a can of meat and their bird net they have the latest guns they go out of country they are supposed to shoot when a man is in their sights I know my brothers they bend branches back to each other and are patient to the end -SARAH

KIRSCH