Variations on Heine (from Then and Now)
Deutschland. Ein Wintermarchen. Caput XX
From Harburg I travelled about an hour
To Hamburg. As if to charm me,
The stars looked down from the evening sky.
The breeze was blithe and balmy.
And as I came to my mother’s, you
Could have knocked her down with a feather:
She wept and wailed, “My child, my boy!”
And clapped her hands together.
“My dearest child! It’s thirteen years
At least since I last saw you!
You must be starving. Tell me what
I can put in the oven for you.
“I’ve a nice piece of fish and a fine roast goose,
And oranges as well to follow.”
“So give me the fish and the fine roast goose,
And oranges as well to follow.”
And as I ate with gusto and zest,
My mother, pleased and perky,
Asked questions about this and questions about that,
Some of them tricky, or quirky:
“My dearest child! and are you well
Looked after in foreign places?
Does your wife darn your socks and shirts?
Does she give herself airs and graces?”
“O mother dear, the fish is good,
But I’d better not talk while I eat it.
It’s easy to swallow a fish-bone, you see.
Now don’t let me have to repeat it.”
And as I was finishing off the fish,
The goose appeared on the table,
And my mother asked about this, about that,
As sweetly as she was able.
“My dearest child, between life in France
And at home there must be some difference;
We Germans are hardly the same as the French:
Tell me, have you a preference?”
“O mother dear, a German goose
Is among the finest courses
On any menu. But the French
Make better stuffing and sauces.”
And as I was seeing off the goose,
The fruit took up its station.
The oranges tasted so cool and so sweet,
Beyond all expectation.
But again my mother smiled and began
Asking a lot of questions,
Among them one or two which made
Some pretty hairy suggestions:
“My child, now tell me where you stand
Politically. Which direction
Do you tend in now? Which party line
Do you still support with conviction?”
“O mother dear, the fruit is good.
And I don’t want to hurt your feelings:
But no matter how sweet and cool the juice,
I think I’ll leave the peelings.”
*
After I’d sat in my parents’ house
For an hour or two, I needed
To walk about the city and see
How English life proceeded.
And should I fail to mention here
Any paternal greeting,
That may well be because he said
Nothing much worth repeating:
The arrogance which we post-war kids
Had imbibed with our free education
Reduced his ignorant virile heart
To silent accusation.
We lumpen Brits have always preferred,
Of course, to mock our masters
Behind their backs. But, given the chance,
I wouldn’t put much past us.
And a finer chance for sons to cut
Their dads down to size has rarely
Been state-supported since the time
King Oliver topped King Charley.
Which is why the telly served instead
Of filial communication;
Helped soothe the disappointment caused
By my evident lack of vocation –
At least, of any which made sense
Or money. For starters, a prissy
Do-gooder. But – worst news of all –
“A poet? The mug! The cissy!”
And as I mused on past events
I passed The Philharmonic –
Or, more exactly, stepped inside
For a double gin-and-tonic.
A beer-drinker, as befits my class –
But not on planes – I’d already
Had at least two en route. When I left
The pub I felt fairly steady,
Until, that is, the fresh sea-air –
Or not so fresh, but no matter –
Hit me, befuddling my brains, and turned
My stride to a lurch and a totter.
Which way to go? My brainless feet,
Rejecting il Papa’s authority
At one end of Hope Street, chose the Church
Of England’s free-thinking minority –
And staggered towards it. On the way,
As I paused for a piss in a jigger,
A mocking voice asked sexily,
”Eh, you, does it get any bigger?”
She stood bare-shouldered and bare-kneed
In a dark back-entry doorway.
She pulled up her skirt – “Remember me?”
She laughed. “I do it your way.”
No moon – no blossom – no Märchenwald –
But November – and Maggie May-time.
Yet I followed her up an alley which
I wouldn’t have dared in the day-time.
And as we picked our way between
Dog-turds and stinking litter,
She mocked my style of life in a voice
Which was neither sweet nor bitter.
“You poets, you’ve always been the same:
You think the world owes you a living.
You’re takers – all of you – full of crap
About love or God or giving [. . .]
“And to make matters worse you kick against
The pricks. If you really must suffer
By committing every sin in the book,
You might at least act a bit tougher!
“But minor poets like you are the pits –
Pretending you’re Joyce, or Heine.
Though from Dublin to Paris to Munich I’ve had
You all up my vagina.
“As long as you pay, my heart’s of gold.
If a client’s too shattered to shag, he
Is welcome to cry or spill his milk
On Anna – Hammonia – Maggie.
“Or if he’s too drunk – or too old – to perform,
Instead of parting my legs I’ll
Impart my wisdom. As long as you pay.
On marriage, for instance, or ‘exile’ [. . .]
“You see those two identical doors?
They contain the past and the future
Of where we both come from. Abandon hope
Like a man. And let me be your teacher!”
I opened the coal-shed door on the left,
Ready to look and to listen –
And entered a bank, whose chief cashier
Was Mynheer van der Smissen.
I knew him at once from his blood-red warts.
“So it’s you”, he whispered darkly.
“Van Koek and I joined Heywoods Bank –
Now it’s a bit of Barclays.
“It was cleaner and safer than life on board
Those ships. Though the tales were all whoppers –
Re violence – bad air – bad hygiene – ‘the flux’ –
Abolitionists told to stop us [. . .]
“We did what we could – for instance, to sowse
The women and children daily.
The men were packed below the deck,
Where the air did get pretty smelly.
“For at least a hundred years the trade
Was pursued here with true resolution,
Encouraging growth at the heart and hub
Of the Industrial Revolution.
“Everyone gained, including those
Who are now the least forgiving.
How can you blame a Christian soul
For making a prudent living? [. . .]
“The trade in slaves began to boom
As merchants achieved their freedom:
We made our fortunes only because
Free colonists grew to need them.
“And in this modern world we’re free –
To eat – or to be eaten:
Son against father – each against all –
Minds sold – mouths bought – backs beaten –”
And with that he waved his arm at a door
On which ‘van Koek’ was written:
“The manager – needs a private place
To contemplate his shit in –
“To wheel and deal – to plan – and to plot
The fall of any rival:
Only the fittest – the lean and mean –
Are blessed with financial survival . . .”
I entered, expecting to find van Koek
At his desk again, reviewing
Investments in this and interest on that –
And totting up the profit ensuing –
But found instead the small dark hut
Of some labourer, some low-wage earner:
Beside the fire hung the blackened clothes
Of a coal-man – or charcoal-burner.
And in that simple hut in the woods
A lonely king sat sadly,
Rocking the charcoal-burner’s child
And singing a lullaby badly:
“Rock-a-bye, baby, the cat’s away,
The lambs from the sheep-cote come peeping –
But the mark of Cain is on your brow,
And you smile a grim smile while you’re sleeping.
“Rock-a-bye, baby, the mice will play,
I know why that mark was set there.
You’ll soon be a man and swing a great axe –
The oak-trees will shake when you get there.
“The charcoal-burners’ ancient faith
Is gone, and their children no longer –
Rock-a-bye, baby – believe in the King
Or in God, who was once even stronger.
“When the cat’s away, the mice will play.
In the end we shall both of us snuff it –
Rock-a-bye, baby – the King in this world
And God in his heaven above it.
“My courage fails, my heart is ill,
And day by day it’s iller –
Rock-a-bye, baby – you oak-burner’s boy,
You were born to be my killer.
“Your lullaby becomes my dirge –
My boy, I can feel you cropping
The hoary hair at the nape of my neck,
Before you begin your chopping.
“Rock-a-bye, baby, the mice will play –
As for my kingdom, you’ve won it:
The cat is dead – you’ve chopped off his head –
My boy, you’ve finally done it!
“Rock-a-bye, baby, the cat is dead,
The lambs from the sheep-cote come peeping:
My kingdom’s gone – and my song is done.
Are you sleeping, my baby, still sleeping?”
He sang with tuneless voice, but I
Felt moved by his emotion –
And bowed my less than sober head,
Like a priest at his devotions.
Behind me a mocking voice miaowed
Sweetly – “Well, isn’t that pretty?
Almost as nice as the famous hit
By Paul of this very city.”
I looked again and saw that the King
Had become my father. He carried
His gory head beneath his arm.
The face looked sad and worried.
But when he caught sight of me he smiled,
And I felt so strange for a minute
I thought again that my bleeding heart
Would spill all that was in it [. . .]
[Munich, 1991/1998]
Translated by W. D. Jackson
Page(s) 65-71
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