Winfried Sebald - Across the Land and the Water - Selected Poems, 1964-2001

Herrenhausen is offering
a cruise to Denmark two
visits to the seawater wave —
bath thrown in someone
will be waiting at the station
& will say how nice
to meet you & how
about a Fitness-Week
in Eckernförde. Outside
the light is thinning the
ribbon of a road glistening
in the drizzle black
patches of forest & off
white farmsteads
pass, in a lime
works over the hills
stone is being ground to
dust. We are wired
I read to the vital nerves
of our national economy
radio, transmission &
defense systems
office communications
railways & building components
ready & waiting for you.
Simply phone or fax
us this coupon. At some
point during the hour
between Fulda & Frankfurt
it had started to get dark
& where a moment before
there had been blue
landscape I saw in their
rows beside me the
reflections of the heads
of my tired fellow
travelers gliding
on through the night. Thus
spake the angel of
the Lord: Fear not
for our house is kept to
the highest standards
& has a pleasant
ambience. Gall-bladder
liver stomach
intestines metabolic
disorders overweight
aging impairments
rheumatism please
write for our prospectus
& ask your chemist for
the energy-vitamin for
executives especially
those over forty.

I am in the unmanned
station in Wolfenbüttel
waiting for the railcar
from Göttingen to
Brunswick. Fleecy
clouds fleck the sky
sporadic leaves spin
from the trees an old —
timer in brown breeches
rides a lady’s bike
across the tracks. Hearing
the bells ring I recall
the cathedral at Naumburg
the minsters of Ulm &
Freiburg the Church of Our
Dear Lady in Munich
long-forgotten Hogmanays
& other catastrophes.
The Herzog August Video
Rental a one-window-fits —
all semolina-colored
establishment is closed but
the kiosk between the donershop
& the Wellaform
hair-salon is open
to anyone in a hurry
to purchase the Bild —
Zeitung or a porn mag.
In the yard in front
by a lattice fence
overgrown with
pink roses stands
a small gathering of
all-weather drinkers
in beards & baseball —
caps like gold diggers
from the Australian outback.
Their bottle of Chantré
does the rounds while
from an election poster
on an advertising column
the Father of the German
Nation gazes anxiously
on his reunified country.

in Germany persistently
foggy & dull. Bottom temperatures
from zero to three degrees
with low cloud cover
over Brandenburg & Berlin.
A cold sea breeze from
the north sweeps across
the square where once
the Lustgarten lay with
its symmetry of Prussian
precision a fountain
to left & right, white
diagonal gravel paths
an equestrian monument
at the exact center & lawns
that are out of bounds.
That says my guide
is the cathedral
sixteen Hohenzollerns
lie under the sand
in fact this ground
is steeped in history
they find corpses
every time they dig.
The ravens on yonder
grass patch know what
they are after. The S-Bahn
winds out of the chasm
between the Pergamon
& Bode Museums
a bright streak high
on the bridge another
below in the dark
waters of the Spree.
At the train station
which is wrapped in
plastic sheeting we
say goodbye. She returns
to Brüderstraße while
I set off to Wannsee
there to stay
the night at the literary
villa & for the very
first time ever
witness a living
Greenlandic
poet in the flesh.
Called Jessie
Kleemann she stands
in a blaze of
floodlights in
her red velvet suit
her pale oriental —
looking face in
front of the penumbral
figures of the audience
her lips whispering
into the microphone
forming sounds
that consist it
seems to me of
nothing but double
vowels & double
vees sliding up &
down the scale the
sounds of her feathery
language taavvi
jjuaq she says the
great darkness &
lifting her arm
qaavmaaq the
shimmering light.

now these inter —
regional catering
clichés the full
buffet breakfast
the sliced cheese
the boiled ham
the scrambled eggs
the nutty nougat
crème the stew of
the day the hearty
goulash the Nuremberg
Bratwurst the potato
salad the burger
with bread-roll
grandma’s beef
olives your favorite
choc-bar the salted
peanut De Beukelaer’s
chocolate-filled
cookies the Nordhäuser
Doppelkorn the oldest
Asbach the finesses of
Gau Köngernheimer
Vogelsang &
the Rotkäppchen
dry.

said the guide
Friedrich Chopin
stayed here at the White
Swan Inn. It had
taken him nine
days from Paris by coach
to reach his beloved
Marie Wodzinka. He
gave frequent recitals
on the piano to a small
circle who gathered in
the evenings. The peaks
of the blue Bohemian
mountains grow
ever darker through
the window. The cold
damp weather weighs
on his chest the doctor
mumbles something about
incipient tuberculosis. At
the beginning of November
their engagement is shattered
her father in Dresden has
put his foot down.
Thirteen years later
a packet of faded
letters is found in the
deceased pianist’s
residence. Tied with
ribbon it carries the
inscription: Moja
Bieda — My sorrow.

late in November
the rain sweeps
down from the Jura
throughout the night
Threading sleep
letter by letter
comes a language
you do not understand
The exhausted eyes
of the writer the fingers
of one hand on the
keys of her machine
Darkness lifts
from the earth in the morning
leaving no difference
between lake & air
Along the shore
is a row of poplars
behind them a lone boat
at a buoy
Beyond the gray
water invisible
through swaths of mist
the village of Sutz
a few lights
going out &
a column of snow —
white smoke

All Hallows
nineteen hundred
and ninety-seven at
Schiphol Airport
among globetrotters
from Seoul & Saõ Paulo
Singapore & Seattle.
There they sit
with neon-blue
faces slumped
down on the benches
rummaging now
and then distractedly
in their luggage not
one of them uttering
a spoken word. With
the witching hour
past they lie
stretched out under
blue blankets
asleep while outside
the fog gradually
shifts revealing
once again
through the darkness
the runways & lit
steps the enormous
bodies & tail
fins of the vessels
lying at anchor
at their quays. Not
a single movement
around me now
only the sparrows
who have survived
for years in this
part of the terminal
whirr back &
forth across the hall
& up & down
the arcade settling
in the green palms
& ficus trees
jerking their little
heads this way &
that looking out
between the artificial
leaves with their shiny
black eyes &
chattering raucously among
themselves as if something
were not quite right.

of the younger Brueghel
on a surface roughly
thirty by forty
centimeters in size
before which I stood
for a time at the Städel
Museum all manner
of beasts & birds
have come together
in peace an eagle
owl with horned
ears an ostrich
with button eyes &
a strangely flat
beak a billy
goat & a few sheep
two polecats or martens
a wolf a horse
a peacock a turkey
& in the foreground
at the bottom edge
two spectacled
monkeys one of which
is gingerly plucking
strawberries from a little
shrub while on the right
roses climb
an apple or pomegranate
tree & tulips
in full blossom
& spring stars &
lilies & hyacinths
& somewhat in the background
in a choice act
of man-manly
procreation our Lord
& Creator a tiny
& obscure figure
barely visible
to the naked eye
bends over
Adam sleeping
on a grassy bank
& cuts from his side
his bride to be.