poet Dorothea Grünzweig

Dorothea Grünzweig

The return of the organs

i.

We've had a stake driven in
even if we live beside and
not inside the prison
a stake of sounds to stop us
from running away

The cathedrals have drawn closer
we've made our beds beside cathedrals
to which we listen because inside them

organs strike up

We listen
here are the shells at our head
which need support
like heavy jugs
we do the organ squat
we bend on organ knees
wellknown to us since early childhood
a single bending and
bowing down to music

ii.

Sun organs
shade organs of the cathedrals
we listen in the light
of sun organs listen
in the shade of shade organs
prop up the shells
to keep them from breaking

will not pull out the sound stake
and won't in organstead
stick to other things
will not
get up turn our backs and go

iii.

The shade organs
are close to the sun organs
separated by a quarter tone
just as we
live close to the prison
close to the cathedrals
with a little something between
to thwart the power
of the congruence

there's a friction here
where everything wilted wasted
is ground into sand so
all we need do
is blow it away

iv.

The organ play's no soothing song
no shepherd's eye to heed us calmly
no winterwheat that
springs to life
when the ice breaks

it's an unruly confession
of want of despair

a stamping striking shouting
lustsobbing praisesobbing out of breastworks
and greatorgan against the heavens a race
past the bounds of death and resurrection

is the extinction of our eyes

v.

We listen are beguiled
enslaved we are pure form spirals

now swept up by organs
then squashed
organs like at the beginning
entering into children's open natures
their majesty more than lifesized
like a gatekeeper mouthwarden

Organs their
thundering in the amniotic fluids
even before we began
deeply steeped in our flesh

as member
as gender
as our organphysicality and now
by way of organs reappearing

in the cathedrals drawing close
we too because
it's what we're made for
we too are struck

vi.

Poor tongueworm
how he
twists and winds
thrashing to enter
the realm of words

and if it is denied him

Translated from the German by Derk Wynand

Poem Submitted: Thursday, December 8, 2016
Poem Edited: Thursday, December 8, 2016

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