drink

behind high walls
in a quiet garden
under old trees
on the edge of town

where streets run out
hidden deep in the grass
a spring bubbles forth
drink your fill

there is no map
no one knows the way
what's with the spring
wine's the drink

the city's full of fountains
of parks with flowers blue
if you went to the garden
you'd be alone

the birds fly south
children grow up
walls get cracks
rivers turn into canals

you must look for the garden
find the spring in the grass
drink from its water

just this once

new songs

released
from the duty of revolution
we enjoy the later morning
and the grumbling of the ageing
joggers that in former times
everything was better
worse and the youth
did not smile so mildly

we take pleasure in the special reports
on the daily apocalypses of course
we are worried and a little bit indignant
well-behaved rebels
we go and take a shower

we are accused
of accepting everything
and of not being sufficiently discontented
we nod assent and switch off the tremendous music
coming out of the radio we whistle
a little tune
not new but who cares

we are offered
revolutionary soft-drinks
exciting creations and hand-selected
pro-biotic world-cultures
we are amazed
but thank you

granted, a glass of water
is not new
but still quite good

by the river (big change)

the moon swims yellow in the warm wind
the boat swings gently on dark breezes
the summer touches the thick reeds
and water licks your feet
yes we have seen so much
and at the hight of august
november smells far-off and good
yes I dreamed of snow
but the grass stands on the bank
and laughs

all those hard frontiers now have crumbled
the city on the river is getting loud
a pleasant unfamiliar taste to everything
greedily tickles our mouths
the lights over the water
gleam rich and mild
the compass that we followed here
has lost its needle now
and the grass stands on the bank
and laughs

the country where we learned to walk
an vision sunken long ago
now see that sparkling down the riverbed
the bleaching bones of the past
and warm and gentle waves
carry us above
and now already proof is needed
that this was once our life
and the grass stands on the bank
and laughs

the summer grabs us gently by the hair
it knows percisely what we lack
we let it happen and we travel
with eyes wide open through the world
the war is not yet over
but at the hight of august
we're filled by summers silent power
that always returns
and the grass stands on the bank

THE BIG TIREDNESS

BIG SLEEP COME OVER ME
LET ME SINK TO THE GROUND
WASH AWAY THE DIRT OF THE DAYS
CHANGE ME LEAVE ONLY
THE ESSENCE OF ME

STRONG SLEEP COME HEAL ME
TOUCH MY LIMBS LET THEM
COME ALIVE LOADED WITH PRIMAL
DESIRE LET ME FEEL LIQUID HEAT
STREAMING THROUGH MY MAGIC INSIDES
CLEAR COLOURS WEAVE AND DRIFT

BIG SLEEP COME OVER ME
UNTIE ME FROM THE RIGOR OF CONSTANT
MOTION AND ROCK MY TIRED
ENTANGELEMENTS IN THE RHYTHM OF THE
ALL-EMBRACING BREATH YOUR DANCE
BIG SLEEP

GIVE ME BACK THE WARM CAVE
THE TIME OF ONENESS WITHOUT WORDS
BUT NOT THIS DECEPTIVE CALM
OF NOT WANTING TO LIVE

NO DEATHLY RIGOR I WANT FROM YOU
BUT THE GIFT OF POWER
THAT BRINGS LIVE BIG SLEEP
MY HAPPY RETURN

whole for two seconds

the field of wheat somewhere way out there
the paths long overgrown with grass
lost high blue sky
the deep dark green of poplar leaves

a moment like something cut out
(out) of a dream from some old book
warm midday air fills up my lungs
and I am sure that I could fly

the field of wheat rocked by the wind
no pole no cable cuts the sky
only grasses nodding their heads
summer's silence is a big rejoicing

summer's silence is a big rejoicing
the calm run trough with heat and dust alone
how many days and towns I had to cross
to see this field of wheat

the future of poetry

silence please
the poets are talking
the poets are talking inside
the poets are talking inside the building
please silence they are talking about the future of poetry

silence please
the poets are worried
the poets are worried a lot
the poets are worried about poetry
the poets are worried about the future of poetry
but the truth is they are worried about the future of the poets

outside the building no silence at all
the traffic runs through the streets with a roaring
a taxi driver is buying flowers for his girl
an old woman is saying a prayer
a grey bird is praising the sun
and the young man at the sidewalk
is loudly singing his favoured pop song

may be I am not a poet
but I am not worried about the future
of poetry

(Jakarta, 5. Juli 2006)