Can’t help but feeling fragile these days. Guess, it is the mellowing effects of recent events, that make me that raw inside.

Thus, I took out some books of poetry this morning, to browse the way, we used to at pre-computerised times: leafing through words, recognising bits and rediscovering others.

Until I stopped at this:

reis s ausse dei heazz dei bluadex

und haus s owe iwa r a bruknglanda!

fomiaraus auf d fabindunxbaun

en otagring…

daun woat a wäu

bis s da wida zuaqoxn is des loch

des bluadeche untan schilee

und sog:

es woa nix! oda: gemma koed is s ned!

waun s d amoe so weid bist

daun eascht schreib dei gedicht

und ned eea!

I am full aware, no English speaker can make any sense of this. Neither will German speakers. I doubt, even many Austrians will be able to decipher it, as it is written as spoken Viennese dialect. A poem by H.C. Artman, whom I like a lot. I’ll try and translate, first to German, then to English.

Reiß dein Herz heraus, dein blutiges | und wirf es hinunter über ein Brückengeländer! | meinetwegen an der Verbindungsbahn in Ottakring… | dann warte eine Weile | bis es wieder zugewachsen ist, das Loch | das blutige, unterm Gilet | und sage: | es war nichts! oder: Geh, kalt ist es nicht | wenn du einmal so weit bist | dann erst schreib dein Gedicht | und nicht eher!

Tear your heart out, the bloody | and throw it down over a balustrade! | for all I care on the railtrack in Ottakring… (part of town in Vienna) | then wait a while | until it has coalesced again, the hole | the bloody, under the vest | and say: | it was nothing! or: Gee, it ain’t cold outside | once you have come that far | only then write your poem | none earlier!