They are the efforts of someone who, overarced by stars that are human handiwork, and who, shelterless in this till now undreamt of sense and thus most uncannily in the open, goes with his very being into language, reality-wounded and reality-seeking.
A poem, as a manifestation of language and thus essentially dialogue, can be a message in a bottle, sent out in the –not always greatly hopeful-belief that somewhere and sometime it could wash up on land, on heartland perhaps. Poems in this sense too are under way: they are making toward something. Toward what? Toward...
Speak you too,speak as the last,say out your say.Speak-But don’t split off No from Yes.Give your say this meaning too:Give it the shadow.Give it shadow enough,Give it as muchAs you know is spread round you fromMidnight to midday and midnight.Look around:See how things all come alive-By death! Alive!Speaks true who speaks shadow.But now the place...
With wine and being lost, withless and less of both:I rode through the snow, do you read meI rode God far–I rode Godnear, he sang,it wasour last ride overthe hurdled humans.They cowered whenthey heard usoverhead, theywrote, theylied our neighinginto one of theirimage-ridden languages.
Ein Nichtswaren wir, sind wir, werdenwir bleiben, blühend.die Nichts-, dieNiemandsrose.
Reality is not simply there, it must be searched and won.
The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosopher’s Stone.
Each arrow you shoot offcarries its own targetinto the decidedlysecrettangle
With a changing key, you unlock the house wherethe snow of what’s silenced drifts.Just like the blood that bursts fromYour eye or mouth or ear,so your key changes.Changing your key changes the wordThat may drift with flakes.Just like the wind that rebuffs you,Clenched round your word is the snow.
U izvoru tvojih očijumore drži svoju riječ.Ja ondje bacamsrce koje je boravilo kod ljudi.