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You told me when you were young
you had wanted to study medicine
but your hands were too clumsy
to hold a scalpel.
My fellow students
thought you odd, even unpleasant.
They could not imagine
why I spent time with you.
One evening you werent’ there.
They said you were in hospital —
a nervous breakdown.
It was autumn.
That weekend I took the train
half way to London
to the mental hospital.
The large gothic building was in dark grounds
its arched entrance hall
encrusted with grotesque murals —
Hyronimous Bosch meets Edgar Alan Poe.
You were in an upstairs ward
with all the lonely people,
sadder and slower than ever.
Your bed was near a big window.
„I need to move downstairs“ you said
„ This height terrifies me“.
We walked down to the garden
» [hey encourage me to do basket weaving“
you told me despairingly
»l cant do it“ holding out your pudgy hands.
» Lhese always stopped me“ sighing.
It was like ‚Last Year at Marienbad‘.
Before I left I beseeched a nurse
to let you move downstairs.
Waiting in the grey afternoon
for the train home through pretty country
I smoked too many cigarettes
and considered... madness...
I never told my parents
where I had been.
My father was pretty cross with Jews
because of all that Jesus stuff.
We were expected to let our heads rule our hearts
and not make a fuss.
Big boys don't cry.
Later — you were let out —
back to your lodgings
Ina quiet suburban house.
I visited you there.
Your drawn curtains
glowed in the afternoon light.
A few shrivelled apples lay in a dish;
russet, edible but sad.
That was the last time I saw you
I moved to London.
T heard friends were helping you to go home.
That book of your poems;
slim, with a deep red matt cover
in an odd sort of plastic,
in German, printed in Germany,
was one of the books,
with Bertrand Russell,
Sartre, Camus
and Robert Graves,
that got lost when my tea-chest library
was stolen as I moved
from bed-sit to bed-sit.
Later (much later) in another room
I got a black-edged letter with a German stamp.
You were dead.
I am sorry
I did not get over
for your funeral.
Later still — you won't believe this —
You — who only ever shook my hand —
Made my lover jealous
(even though you had left before he arrived)
even though you were dead.
Dezember 2001
Mein erster Dichter
Du warst eine dunkle Lithographie
zwischen lieblichen englischen Aquarellen
schwermiitig und schwerfallig
dunkles Haar (Koteletten)
dunkle Augen (Hornbrille)
Hängebacken, dicke Lippen, dicke Finger
dunkler Serge-Anzug (ausgebeulte Hose, Weste).
Ich bin sicher, du trugst schwarze Schnürstiefel
in einer Zeit als sie nicht ‚cool‘ waren.
Einmal sah ich dich in der Stadt
mit einem dunklen breitkrempigen Hut.
Du lebtest in einer Bücherwelt.
Dort begegneten wir uns. Dort war unsere Zuflucht.
Obwohl deine Stimme schwer und deutsch klang
war dein Englisch wunderbar.
Du zeigtest mir meine Kultur
Rattigan nicht Rilke.
Auskosten von Feinheiten und Nuancen
englischer Literatur.
Wie du sprachst, wie ich zuhörte.
Du füttertest mich mit Büchern, meine Ambrosia.
Immer sehr förmlich immer sehr höflich.
Ich war Kunststudentin lebensfroh
verzaubert von Licht, Liebe und schönen Männern
malte, ging aus, ging auf Parties.
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