Alfred Brendel

A pig
a real porker
has recently been phoning me daily
He grunts out his life
...

As soon as the cybermen
had contrived to behave like you and me
we knew
the game was up
...

Bent over myself
I see
the blurred outline
of an unfamiliar face
a vessel of doubt
chronicle of oblivion
millstone of fraudulent memory
casually washed over
by the water's breath
...

(Kyoto, in November)

I

In front of tourists
they contrive to keep still
practising thirty-three varieties of ecstasy
a thousand aspiring Buddhas
At night though
when no one's looking
they stretch their limbs
become restless
and pant
a latent powder-keg
ready
to burn to ashes
the wooden shrine

Perhaps they only bicker
because they all covet the front row
craving
to be scrutinized in close-up
But in all likelihood
they are just fed up
with standing there like ornamental plants
lined-up lookalikes
rivals in the hothouse of holiness
See
how they spy on each other
clandestinely counting up the golden arms
which
as befits a true Buddha
sprout from their bodies



II

In the recent football match
between the Buddhas and the Texan Santas
the Buddhas
truly excelled themselves
With undreamt-of sprightliness
they laid siege to their opponents' half
and scored
their corpulence notwithstanding
several magnificent goals
After their defeat
the red-capped benefactors of children
can be heard singing Jingle Bells
and observed
out of remorse
to be scaling the giant Christmas trees
with which the island
exasperates
its pedestrians
at every turn
in late autumn



III

Santas
have of late occupied the temples
Singing heartily
they swarm over the balustrades
wade through the waterlilies
or
suddenly silent
play hide-and-seek
in the rockery
Astonished monks
watch them vanish
behind the boulders
There they huddle
hiding their heads
little realizing
that the tails of their red and white cloaks
shoot into the air like arrows



IV

As I stepped on stage
the orchestra played a fanfare
Then the loudspeakers announced me to be
the one millionth Father Christmas
Roared on by the crowd
I was presented with a clone
Tearfully
we embraced
the clone and I
and sang Silent Night in unison
At home
he lives in the attic
When I travel
he deputizes for me
in the marital bed
Sometimes we talk to each other
in monologue
Just once
when a mouse ran up his leg
he turned nasty
Since then we compete in swearing
he in Hungarian
I in Croatian
though
of course
not in front of the children
...

In the hereafter
we can make up
for all we missed in life
Beethoven for example
can be retrieved over there
as a baker
hurling the dough into the oven with habitual fury
The resemblance of his sonata movements to Pretzels
was first remarked upon by Tovey
but it was Schenker's acute ear
that compared the late bagatelles
to poppy-seed cake
The deceased master's most recent composition
his ‘Cursing Bagels'
curse
when you sink your teeth into them
...

Quite an achievement
evening after evening
to pursue on stage
undaunted
without a trace of fatigue
if not with downright zeal
an activity
which most of us would rather keep private
namely
making love
both reviled and spurred on by the public
painstakingly supervised by the author
who
on top of it all
has entrusted the lovers with the burden of dialogue
a stunning coup de théâtre it has to be said
this discourse about the supernatural
delivered by the actors with calm assurance
Well-nigh incredible
how here
eight times a week
Saturday afternoons included
evidence is furnished
that
at the height of passion
reasoning of the appropriate clarity
can help you
blow your mind
...

Surrounded by all that noise
let us be silent
No chance
even to hear one's own voice
A few gestures will do
arms flung above our heads
lips pursed in comic despair
When no one's looking
we swiftly touch each other
What could be lovelier
than wordless touching
From your lips
I can read your tiny sighs
your inaudible scream
...

The discovery of opposites
has already wreaked havoc
in Paradise
On our stages
it has become daily practice
Between empty beer bottles and naked women
Florestan writhes in the dungeon
Pushed by Leporello
Don Giovanni travels Spain in a wheelchair
A white-skinned Othello
murders black Desdemona
In the face of such disaster
what else can we do
but express right away
the opposite of what we wish to say
thus giving theatre directors an incentive
to perpetrate
without any loss of face
though not with pristine innocence
the opposite's opposite
...

We are the rooster and the hen
We're also little chickens

And what about the egg
Who is the egg
WE ARE THE EGG
the yolk as well as the egg-white

Furthermore
we are the fox
that gobbles the hens

Gosh we're everything
...

When Christo had wrapped the Three Tenors
on the balcony of La Scala
the civilised world fell unnaturally silent
Falsetto supplications
barely audible
through the sack-cloth
were registered
in horror and glee
by opera-lovers attending the spectacle
but where that desperate ear-splitting top-note
issued from
remained uncertain
It may however be assumed
to have come from the middle
and more voluminous
of the celebrities
whose mummified contour
began to quiver
while
at his feet
an envoy from the world's freest country
voiced his concern about such curbing
if not gagging
of human communication
Opera-buffs will be pleased to learn
that the wrapping
in grey plastic
of Robert Wilson and Peter Sellars
halfway up Cologne Cathedral
has been confirmed
and will commence
in due course
...

Whether he had been born
remained open to question
He himself did not recall the event
and one refrained
from trusting others
Perhaps he had existed
long before he noticed the fact
a cuckoo's egg
planted in his parents' nest
a botched demiurge
embroiled in his own life
unlaunched
and
who knows
unending
...

You feel an inner void
Something is gnawing at your soul
Enviously
you scrutinize others
longing to be
who you are not
Do not despair
Proudly
we shall transform you
If you drip
we shall staunch the flow
If you feel barren
we shall get your juices going
If you insist on being a man
we'll alter your anatomy
If you feel gentle
we'll drive you raving mad
If you squint the wrong way
we'll invert your gaze
If you are consumed with doubt
we'll inject conviction
If you suffer from anxiety
we'll hang you
by your teeth
beneath the circus dome
If you are emotionally balanced
we'll tear you apart
If you exude good health
we'll contaminate you
Should you
as an after-effect
be gripped by the desire
to prevail amid contradictions
we'll shift you
dialectically
into the middle
Our magicians and magnetists
await your call
...

Demons
scarcely distinguishable from gods
play on the furrows of our souls
like instrumentalists
...

No
it wasn't the cook
and don't let's blame the gardener
still less the lady's maid
...

Gondolas
lie scattered upside down
like stranded whales
Black smoke
...