Alfred Brendel Poems

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
...

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
...