english

Sphärenmusik – Music of the Spheres – Ceol na Sféar

Matthias Politycki is one of the most important German-language writers of today, in the realm of fiction as well as poetry. As a self-confessed ‚postmodern romantic’, he deals with the adventures of everyday life, love and travel – death constantly in the background. Critics praise his lyrical output for its formal variety (from the sonnet to free verse to concrete poetry), for its artistry, playfulness, humour and wit. A combination of light-footed irony and serene melancholy makes his poems very accessible. Politycki’s passion for the absurd echoes the works of well-known poets such as Christian Morgenstern, Kurt Tucholsky, Erich Kästner, Peter Rühmkorf and Robert Gernhardt, and yet this very male author, by coupling the lofty and the low, cheekiness and tenderness, respect for tradition and modish jargon, reflection and experience, succeeds in producing a sound all of his own.

What may we hope for? What shall we believe? What can we do?

What profits (♀)

Early up, out and about,
look over the water,
sniff at coffee beans,
paint your toenails,
go to the hairdresser,
and otherwise: tears, hot-water bottles and rebirth.

Somewhat helpful:
talk about it lots,
change your GP,
pull up your stockings,
finish off those chocolate Nicholasses from the year before,
and according to your whim these parting words: And please
never phone me again.

Not at all helpful:
encouraging words,
power shopping,
camomile tea, fennel tea, green tea,
least of all: your firm resolution
to flirt with complete strangers.

In the end, however, maybe
everything is of some profit,
though paltry
and only for a while.

What profits (♂)

Put on your finest suit,
think of some truly horrific fate,
draw up a list,
take a running jump,
don’t get out of the sun
and otherwise: keep silent, with the right kind of people.

Somewhat helpful:
don’t shave,
don’t read the newspaper,
listen to loud music,
let others cook for you,
and according to your whim tell a beautiful woman: Sorry,
simply haven’t got the time.

Not at all helpful:
to stay in bed,
avoid the gargle,
take up a hobby or
look for a colour-coordinated pocket square,
least of all: no hard feelings,
just grope them.

Ultimately nothing
profits.

Closing balance

There finally remain but smallish things
and smallish words, a gesture, a half-look,
the memories of mishaps that life brings
or of a friend too early brought to book,

nothing remains but that grey bathing strand
without a setting sun, there just remain
a train you missed, a broken window pane,
a hand-carved animal from some strange land,

that shell for you which once a girl had found,
there finally remains … And all that blurred
and mediocre, however much your mind

might wangle it – just save yourself the blather,
don’t make the mess of life still more absurd!
For that was it. There will not be another.

Wild rhubarb

Wild rhubarb,
its leaves as large as shields,
tightly packed at the roadside,
the phalanx of the victors,
tautly funnelled, deep green pride,
not the slightest gap,
not a patch of ground unroofed

Wild rhubarb,
man-high right next to tarred tracks through the jungle,
at loggerheads, unrelenting thirst
so that not a single raindrop be lost,
not a single nettle on the ground,
least of all a daisy,
a marsh-marigold or dandelion
could survive here
amongst all the rank erectness of those stalks

Wild rhubarb,
the stems beneath engorged with water,
you almost feel like bending over and –
better not. In the shade of the leaves
in all likelihood there’s a bloodbath under way,
the stems are crackling and
sap drips heavily into those thirsty throats

The seconds before

Those final images I see: a jog
along the coast where once I ran, through groves,
then on the dike or past some little coves,
on sand, on shingle and where seaweeds clog,

a field of wheat, some poppies on the right,
hardly a farm but fences painted white
round empty paddocks, then a yelping cur,
red barn, the quiet sea, no breeze astir

to cool me on my way down to the reeds,
before I finally stumble with a whack –
a last quick glance: a net, a wooden rack,

the rotten jetty (to a boat it leads),
a brightly coloured butterfly – a spark!
It folds its wings, and suddenly the dark.

The Authenticity of Digital Media

It’s a curious thing that when I finish writing an article for a newspaper, the last thing I do is take a look at the online edition. I only believe in the publication when I can see and hold the printed copy in my hand, and this is despite my progress with the Internet since 1997. It all started when I had to be ‘networked’ for ZDF’s “Aspekte” news programme for their “Novel in Progress” project. The training was an existential shock – my fountain pen never recovered. Elsewhere, I have written in detail about what happened as a result, whether I wanted this or not. Here, I briefly wish to mention that my website, domain name and homepage were gifts from my wife for Christmas 2003. The experience of receiving her gift was a cathartic shock. In the days that followed, I fell into a lengthy process of contemplating what owning my own website might set in motion. Surely, the rest of my life would only bring the burden of maintaining, updating and achieving total digitalization? I reflected on how this could be reconciled with my idea of a writer’s life. When I was at school, I could never have dreamt of the notion of an author as eyewitness to present-day events. Yet, nor was the thought of having my own website – as a digital gravestone – exactly what I wanted to become involved in as “work in progress” for the rest of my life.
Meanwhile, to keep up with the self-perpetuating need to update the website, I have gradually purchased more web space. Each new book publication came with the requirement for something new – from flash animations, music and film clips for the novel “Herr der Hörner” to interactive maps for “In 180 Tagen um die Welt” to a short film, which adopts all the conventions of a Hollywood trailer, and is now the latest addition for the “Jenseitsnovelle”. I live on tenterhooks to see where this will all end; and indeed, if it will ever end? Of course, these developments mean that I have lost touch with some old, die-hard habits – the powerful and special aura of the handwritten, original text, which is surrounded by numerous rituals (…)

Whoosh

It’s already more than a year
since you died on us, just like that.
A little later they swept you,
a small heap of ash, into a black tin box and,
whoosh, lowered you down, an urnful of you,
topped off with a rosary, job done.

They tell me that in your final days
you selected that spot yourself,
chanting and talking nonsense,
joking with anyone who came to help you die,
they say that one as firmly rooted in belief as you
could even console the living in the end.

I, the non-believer,
unconsoled, only saw you later
not ascend to heaven
but descend into the earth
and with clenched fists trembled for you
that with your firm belief you’d be proven right,

first in that small black box and, whoosh,
in all that darkness which
swallowed it up in a flash.

Never again Germany

Never again freshly plucked oysters,
never again strawberries with gold leaf glaze (and the day after
having to shit impure gold), never again!
Never again star or event gastronomy
without lighting,
without cutlery,
but with merry midgets as waiters!
Never again having to fight residual alcohol with oxygen drinks,
never again those breathing underpants,
walk-in suitcases, fridges, washbags (Kulturbeutel!)
or hand-made loo-brushes of high-grade steel!
Never again fur-trimmed cups (“The main thing, love, is
it’s soft to the touch”) and then, to top it all,
aroma pearls in one’s tea,
never again inflatable tiepins
or hand-painted wellingtons,
never again clockwise-
or anti-clockwise-cut whiskey tumblers
or remote controls that work around the corner!
Never again the gaiety of TV weathermen,
the social acceptability of brylcreamed chancellors,
late-night confessions of all those victims
(and having to nibble carcinogenic crisps to go with it),
never again!
And no more paw cream for the dog (2.04 euro),
no dog video for the dog,
no Ayurvedic drinking water for the dog,
(preferably a fully electronic cuddly alien from the Far East!)
Never again feng shui living and still to suffer from cold feet,
never again having to plan one’s own home, with thoughts to spare
for gutters and doormats that are heated,
never again to debate the air resistance of the S class,
brake boosters in sexual encounters,
books where not even the title arouses curiosity
or paintings where no one knows what’s up
or down!
Enough of all those cute text messages,
those regulated allotments of happiness,
those formulaic sequences of ecstasy!
Never again the “Day of the Sandwich”,
of “Open Flies” or “The Single Mother”,
never again Cooking against the Right, scented candles and direct juice!
Never again designer coffins,
never again Germany!