They will braid you too some day

in a wreath with pomp replete

but the world will feel as cold and

strange as this vienna street

like a tram you’ll go off wheeling

leaving curled-up rails behind

the sidewalks will be lined

with dandelions’ rind

and you’ll have walked through not a single mind

In the church of the augustine order

whitewashed stucco studded with stained glass

with my back against a pillar I was

listening to mozart’s requiem mass

For the truest orphan’s bred

lacking even his own dead

vinegar’s his tears and wine

his candle can but soot design

hangs out all day by himself

with a flower in his belt

for the truest orphan’s bred

lacking even his own dead

The weather was fit for the end of the world

down to the graveyard the sky was then hurled

the road and the roadside ditch were one big race

the pall bearers could not see each other’s face

sloshed by the flood they were losing their hold

no one could see it but the tale is still told

and the tombs turned into barks to piers bound

tossing their dancing rumps up and around

all mouse-holes gurgled like throats with a cough

and that’s how the coffin then could’ve sailed off

from the danube to the sea

to the oceans’ waves

from the danube to the sea

to the oceans’ waves

floats off a pine coffin

to the oceans’ waves

floats off a pine coffin

with music for its sails

Get out of here you pudgy redhead jerk

kicked her heels the bratty chorus girl

and wolfgang amadeus mozart

from the humiliation even redder now

slunk out of the dressing room

the gnädige frau had tired of waiting

the coach was soon to return

the czech doorman was bowing to the cobble stones

as wolfgang amadeus mozart

stumbled out to the street

just in time to catch a glimpse

of the naked stars as they started to bathe

in waves of music surging up there

and wolfgang amadeus mozart

dabbed his damp forehead and chin

and set out on foot for home

From the danube to the sea

to the oceans’ waves

floats off a pine coffin

with music for its sails

Does indeed god like it when

the neutered sing his praises

all neutral voices neutrum

neutrum neutru-u-um

It is said and even recorded in the histoire de la

musique encyclopédie de la pléiade but also

in kolozsvár at number ten vasile alecsandri street

my friend dr rudi schuller will happily translate

into hungarian german or romanian for those who

don’t speak french the part about the grand

travelers les grands voyageurs who claimed

that the inhabitants of the most godforsaken

les plus lointaines civilizations who were totally

indifferent to the tom-toms of neighboring tribes

would perk up their ears only on hearing

mozart’s music

Inside whitewashed churches

a prayer very white

hey-ho ring a chord

inside a blackened church

a prayer very black

hey-ho ring a chord

inside whitewashed churches

a prayer very black

hey-ho ring a chord

inside a blackened church

a prayer very white

hey-ho ring a chord

it too may be granted

by our great goodlord

With gaggling geese

quacking ducks

lice-ridden chickens

scab covered piglets

from a shared little yard

filthy little brats

conceived in boozy haze

in a mob are gaping

at the sky of planes streaking

faster than the speed of sound

land you world

stop your flight

let us catch up with you now

In the church of the augustine order

whitewashed stucco studded with stained glass

with my back against a pillar I was

listening to mozart’s requiem mass

Dies irae dies illa

a wooden fork can turn a killer

paint your eyebrows in sin’s villa

dig it out fire shovel it back

dig it out fire shovel it back

dig it out fire shovel it back

should that morning ever break

the sky will be a burning lake

on their feet the trees will bake

fires we have all admired

towns in flaming dances mired

and of hell’s chic we are tired

dig it out fire shovel it back

dig it out fire shovel it back

dig it out fire shovel it back

a judge’s the only missing player

as sins inside sins new sins bear

who knows how we will then fare

our atonement might betray

some ancient sins on judgement day

forcing us again to pay

dig it out fire shovel it back

dig it out fire shovel it back

dig it out fire shovel it back

look how doubt grabs each throat

can we truly trust the hope

that none escapes the whipping rope

On june second nineteen-forty-four

the carpet bombing of nagyvarad left a

mother’s four fair children under the debris

two four six eight

years old they were when killed

tells the story my wife every year

when she tears that day’s leaf off the calendar

this is her poem of peace

who fears hell for that — the one

who lost or the one who won?

sin is finish and square one

I’m now getting used to seeing that

the hand can not stir easily to touch

forgetting its own merry shake

and the gaze had better not see much

the words at first appear so harmless

but then the sentence starts to scratch

hinting at a red alarm with

trouble enough for all of us to catch

brother come and let’s embrace

just once more now let’s shake hands

before I fall flat on my face

before you fall flat on your face

My good king my avatar

who were born in kolozsvár

I offer you my candle’s flame

it’s for you my flower’s tame

in hell and heaven a word-feeder

be for us our interceder

My good king my sire

should high heaven’s choir

allow you to be heard

please put in a word

for us to have this grand

protocol here banned

things are getting worse

surely for its curse

protect us with your cloak

in our fear we choke

on our tongues we maim

to our own big shame

Küküllö-angara

maros-mississippi

küküllö-angara

maros-mississippi

headed for home I am — but he

doesn’t believe his own ditty

headed for home I am — but he

doesn’t believe his own ditty

crumbling to dust like sifting snow

that’s how we live like dusting snow

from szabofalva to san francisco

from szabofalva to san francisco

Lord whoever you are or are not

don’t leave us here alone to rot

on your door there is a scrape there

on tiny wings a timid prayer

in baby’s whine but not inane

praise be to your holy name

What’s so wrong with our name

why be shocked so red with shame

who can say we have transgressed

any more than the best of the best

maybe we should arm the lungs

with the ancient prophets’ tongues

all we give is a still nod

daring not dispute with god

beat it bartók beat the drum

your tails to fire will succumb

the thatch and hut in flames are furled

fire eats the whole damned world

I was thirty eight years old when

kristina the almost naked fair

maid from steyrmark invited me for a glass

of whisky to the corner of singerstrasse

I’m poor my dear and a foreigner

macht nichts she said it’s all souls’ day

we finished off two shots each

and susanna the pretty german girl

lives in vienna on tiefengrab street

was für ein gedicht

vier jahrhunderte alt

in her cheeks red roses bloom

her coral lips forever doom

a knight who breathes in her perfume

to seek her in every hotel room

but it’s in vain though that they seek her

yes I would be your susanna free of charge

but it’s a time of mourning all souls’ day

there’s no need to go into more details

she gave me a kiss a real smacker

saying it was enough to leave two schillings

on the cloak room counter.

So in the church of the augustine order

whitewashed stucco studded with stained glass

with my back against a pillar I was

listening to mozart’s requiem mass

Indeed our farm was no big deal

not even god could make us kneel

by hook or crook we managed fine

complaining was not our line

and our prayers we declared

just from the reaper to be spared

Remember me too if you do

the shirt on my back is a soggy mess

like on the fugitive lajos kossuth

when he applied to the turks

the shirt on my back is a soggy mess

I ad-libbed such a fine speech

with my bad foot firmly planted in the door

so that he could not slam it in my face

for then the long vigil would have been for nothing

the morning star

had still been up in the sky

when I parked myself in his doorway

lest I miss him again today

the shirt on my back is a soggy mess

like on poor old lajos kossuth

one hand on the door latch and the other

was clutching my stick as tightly as all the swallowed

words were my throat

I had to be diplomatic

otherwise I was not to achieve my objective

and my small stack of hay might rot

like it did last year that wretched

little hay I cut in the commons

in the commons like earlier as the one third

that the sexton used to provide

from the village on account of emergency

tolling of the bells that used to go along

with one’s share of wheat

the shirt on my back is a soggy mess

while I ask the engineer sir

would he let me have a rig

the harvest is on

all the hands are out in the field

the rig’s idle

the horses are fed for nothing in return

it’s for the public good that the small

stack of wretched hay should be brought under a roof

only one-third is mine

one-third

we’ll see about it by noon or so

hey-you-hey hey-you-hey

he swished the words towards me

by noon or so

how well the stick would have swished in reply

but then there goes the objective and the small stack

of wretched hay hey-you-hey the shirt on my back

was ready to be wrung

like the one on the poor fugitive lajos kossuth

let it burn down where it is

or rot there till judgment day

and now it’s not his feet

that bring him but his stick

well over seventy

browbeaten down into the dirt

my dear old dad

Please remember him thus

it was for him you came among us

don’t forget him our jesus

let him come to a good end

but ask him about it first before

you have the angels blow the horn

On the rims of bright brass flowers

grow the drops of diamond dew

slapping cherubs on the fanny

the conductor gives their cue

The mass and myth just keep on gurgling

the soprano loves her trills

their unearthly balm in me

sweet serenity instills

The corn meal’s steaming halo

to fill the night can still grow

whispers the milk

rustles the milk

splashes the milk

the velvety

and the sweet

that’s all we need

something to eat

that’s all we need

for salvation

it can’t be beat

The mass and myth just keep on churning

the distant chatter of crock pots

and clay pitchers can be heard

the milk is dreaming of cows chewing

sleeping in a

pot of curd

Tu esti vapaie fara grai

de dincolo de matca mumii

past the blessed mother’s womb

you’re the wordless flame who whips

a blaze of itself with the wings

of the angels of apocalypse

Let me have the strength to stay here

and feel my endless blessing’s fizz

where the night is painted black by

murderous futilities

what a hundred eyes are blind to

for none around me has a tip

that to my nest a firefly

rescues me from death’s tight grip

They will braid you too some day

in a wreath with pomp replete

but the world will feel as cold

and strange as this vienna street

wie die glocken ihren schall verloren

forget your joy you will so soon

Willy-nilly we must stop

here the sky has turned to tar

something up there casts a dark

shadow on our guiding star

even though there’s not one cloud

to the skyless sky now sewn

the moon when rises will be starless

as it plows the darkness all alone

cliffs and towers will be falling

voiceless in each other’s arms

smooth and happy will become

all the wrinkles of the farms

whoever started all this mess

will see it through its final phase

under our careless feet we

feel the ocean’s rounded face

Like the bell its ringing

I fast forget my joy

drop off more wine ye angels on my doorstep

with this world I’m set to part

and beam up to those who are free

After all this nothing else can follow

save a levitation as beggarly

as that of an hydrogen atom

but even then I may be pestered by the fear

that they could decide to confiscate

the one electron left to us

              which today

still grants us hope projected

into the next few billion years

and faith in resurrection even

or whatever other myths one hears

Notes:

The funeral in the rainstorm describes one version of how Mozart’s body was buried and lost in a paupers’ grave.

The “good king” referred to in the text is Matthias Corvinus of the Hunyadi family who ruled between 1458 and 1490 over the last flowering of Hungary before the Turkish invasion.

Kolozsvár is the largest city and cultural center of Transylvania.

The fugitive Lajos Kossuth was the head of the revolutionary government in the 1848-1849 unsuccessful war against the Hapsburg rule.

The two lines in Romanian starting with “Tu esti...” are quoted from Ioan Alexandru and are freely translated in the following two lines of the poem.

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