S T I L L L I F E
When everything lies there in fallen heaps
thoughts, moods, duets
— lies there despoiled
without tinfoil — and the scraped membrane
— all the layers washed away —
of the bloody conjunctiva stares into silence —
what's left?
The sixty-four-thousand-dollar-question! But who in his senses
asks it anymore —
Renaissance reminiscences,
Baroque overlay,
castle museums —
an end to drilling,
but still no groundwater,
the wells dark,
the styles exhausted —
time has acquired a stillness,
the hour breathes
over a wine jug,
it's late, the last blows have been traded,
a clinch and a hang on the ropes
before the bell — I give the world
to anyone who wants it, let them be happy:
the jester's not to turn serious
the drinker's not to wander into the Gobi Desert
even a lady with a lorgnette
entertains aspirations to happiness
well, good luck to her —
the lake rests at ease
rimmed with forget-me-nots,
adders laugh.
(1949-1955)
—————————————
Gottfried Benn
I M P R O M P T U S
Selected poems and some prose
translated by Michael Hofmann
Farrar 2015
NEVER HEARD OF GOTTFRIED BENN?
