my hysteria is the craving to be loved is the fear of not being able to write anymore is the fear of having to die

hyperventilation. In the nightly foliage of the lindens the
nightingale or moon-
1 eye-opening up eye-lash over the crest of the fly, its faceted-eye
staring at me : assessing (whether I would kill it) : 1 reversible-image by
Escher. 1 fly is 1 fly in the summer as soon as Mother says, 1 fly is more
dangerous than 1 tiger. 1 fly is 1 fly in the winter when I sister-
ly feelings. I chase it away, even when exhausted to death on the
checkered tablecloth of the kitchen-table, I spare it, I look long at
it can identify with it—see Marguerite Duras. It crawls
very slowly into the field hospital’s cabin : as I myself do when utterly
exhausted, weakened by 1 provision toward home I (crawl). In the
countryside there
was 1 honeytrap that hung from the ceiling, black with flies that had
suffered the most undignified death.
It looks at me with its faceted-eye, forgive me that I chase,
hunt, despise it
“I too the soft herbage”—go to the dogs

(after 1 photo by Brigitte Steffanek, subject of hysteria)




oh Phantasus, with corncockle, to broken blossoms

I will go between the garden globes in your garden and
water the trees and flowers with your watering can, all will
happen slowly at sundown, then suddenly I will let go
of the watering can run to you who are under the
whitethorn-shrub, with 1 book, and embracing and kissing
you for the joy of the hour, and will transport me to those
days in D., for I was 1 child, and you will smile enigmatically
when I say soon will be my hour of death, and resist with your
hands and the music from the treetops that you planted
and the moles with pearly eyes flitting past greeting us

for Bodo Hell



These poems appear in the first English translation of her book Scardanelli, translated by Jonathan Larson and published this month by The Song Cave.

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