{"id":87,"date":"2021-11-13T14:03:02","date_gmt":"2021-11-13T12:03:02","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/frogcup.org\/wp\/?page_id=87"},"modified":"2022-01-04T08:45:04","modified_gmt":"2022-01-04T06:45:04","slug":"poems_of_england_and_nepal","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/frogcup.org\/wp\/dominic_sasse\/poems_of_england_and_nepal\/","title":{"rendered":"Poems of England and Nepal"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

\n\t\tDominic Sasse\n\t<\/h1>\n

\n\t\t11th July 1955 Crawley Down, England – 28th September 1992 Kathmandu, Nepal\n\t<\/h3>\n

\n\t\tII. Poems of England and Nepal\n\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\"dominic_sasse\"\n\t\t\t\t<\/a>\n

\n\t\tThe Ripening Kingdom1994\n\t<\/h1>\n

\n\t\tEnglish\n\t<\/h1>\n

\n\t\t\n\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\tI. Self Portrait<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

My hands are blocks of coarse wood,<\/p>\n

I cannot play the piano.<\/p>\n

My physique is that of a wrestler,<\/p>\n

not what you might call pretty.<\/p>\n

Yet within this improbable chassis<\/p>\n

resides the better part of me,<\/p>\n

a brave heart trained to loyalty,<\/p>\n

not to betray those I favour<\/p>\n

nor court fair weather or pander<\/p>\n

to a false show of feeling<\/p>\n

and<\/p>\n

I shall not lay claim to<\/p>\n

or slander those I do not know,<\/p>\n

for the love I retain is sufficient<\/p>\n

to sustain my particular shadow.<\/p>\n\t\t\tII. The Gurung Girls<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

What more can the cicadas have to say?<\/p>\n

in the static noon of breathless day,<\/p>\n

when even the citrus trees hang limp,<\/p>\n

tired from standing up<\/p>\n

and the river like a cheap tin sheet<\/p>\n

reflects the torrid hour.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

What stories should the cicadas repeat?<\/p>\n

when only dogs frequent the open street<\/p>\n

and old men seek the ornate shade<\/p>\n

of narrow carved verandahs,<\/p>\n

as the Gurung girls with almond eyes<\/p>\n

raise buttoned bodices to fan their breasts<\/p>\n

and reimpose the mysteries of their sex.<\/p>\n\t\t\tIII. Another Face<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Between the partition and the railway line,<\/p>\n

is another face, rarely seen, in bas-relief,<\/p>\n

a statue hung with marigolds<\/p>\n

and the memory of our father’s voice.<\/p>\n

His words suggest the afterlife, the solo flight,<\/p>\n

beyond a suffocating heart that left us all competing<\/p>\n

with the embarrassed sound of sorrow,<\/p>\n

like oleanders bound inside a terracotta pot,<\/p>\n

tapping for the wealth of rain,<\/p>\n

searching for the mineral seam, the moist soil<\/p>\n

that might thus transform the budding future,<\/p>\n

allowing us time for the light humour<\/p>\n

of being and knowing it shall not last.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Between the cafe tables and the sea, convulsive,<\/p>\n

is another face, often glimpsed, in disbelief,<\/p>\n

behind the wineracked counter<\/p>\n

and the memory of our father’s voice.<\/p>\n

His words suggest the zest if limes, the cocktail hour<\/p>\n

and a wartime copy of Macniece’s ‘Autumn Journal’,<\/p>\n

a cadence that reminds and reinvents inherited mime,<\/p>\n

the immortality of mannerisms we fulfil,<\/p>\n

the hybrid vigour of his blood inside our veins<\/p>\n

as we cross piazzas into crenellated stations,<\/p>\n

his voice haunts our suitcases on the platform,<\/p>\n

packed for journeys we shall now never make<\/p>\n

because of previous obligations.<\/p>\n\t\t\tIV. In Birethanti<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

In Birethanti I lay down<\/p>\n

like a sadhu<\/p>\n

beneath the taut limb of the simal tree,<\/p>\n

yet still not arrested<\/p>\n

by artless sleep<\/p>\n

I pondered instead,<\/p>\n

suspecting paradise<\/p>\n

as the sovereign river’s symphonic cascade<\/p>\n

holds sway<\/p>\n

over my poor mind’s reflection,<\/p>\n

prompting mournful echoes to remind<\/p>\n

of love’s glorious failure to provide<\/p>\n

and<\/p>\n

how often it is a common business,<\/p>\n

comprised of petty transactions,<\/p>\n

avaricious alliances and deliberate deceits<\/p>\n

designed to avoid surrender,<\/p>\n

to block, ignore and not explore<\/p>\n

the internal core,<\/p>\n

the famous mystery,<\/p>\n

for we are too frightened of joy,<\/p>\n

too false to deserve its favour.<\/p>\n\t\t\tV. Down by the River<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Two Tibetan ponies graze neglected terraces,<\/p>\n

one is brown, the other white,<\/p>\n

seeking fresh shoots of bamboo grass<\/p>\n

down by the rapid water’s edge<\/p>\n

where the river bends away and often floods<\/p>\n

during the monsoon, after the snowmelt.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There is also a burnt-out tree,<\/p>\n

standing like a sculpture,<\/p>\n

with a ragged crown of charcoal<\/p>\n

where lightning once struck<\/p>\n

and a local adonis sits,<\/p>\n

with the grave face of an Aztec,<\/p>\n

hunched upon a limestone boulder,<\/p>\n

casting the shallow pools below,<\/p>\n

which the distracted current empties and refills,<\/p>\n

empties and refills forever.<\/p>\n\t\t\tVI. Yellow Leaves<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Beyond the clipped laurel hedge<\/p>\n

and the idle kissing-gate,<\/p>\n

I lay in a plantation of saplings,<\/p>\n

my innocence torn like linen,<\/p>\n

for I could hear their voices<\/p>\n

discussing me,<\/p>\n

as I were a child.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When I awoke,<\/p>\n

the window was open<\/p>\n

and on the boards beneath the bed,<\/p>\n

a drift of yellow leaves.<\/p>\n\t\t\tVII. The Return of the Prodigal<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Alone, I shall re-enter Albion,<\/p>\n

that chill convent of mists<\/p>\n

which conspire with the monochrome sky<\/p>\n

to provide a sodden tarpaulin<\/p>\n

that denies the eye an apt horizon.<\/p>\n

I shall suit my pace to winter<\/p>\n

and the sullen passage of the Thames<\/p>\n

to pass the sedentary barges becalmed<\/p>\n

on the reeking sludge of the tidal floor.<\/p>\n

I shall turn down the defiant avenues<\/p>\n

of pollarded limes,<\/p>\n

with their gaunt statuary that reminds of Rodin,<\/p>\n

to cross the genteel environs of Chiswick<\/p>\n

into the partisan terraces of Hammersmith<\/p>\n

and the drab exile of the Irish quarter.<\/p>\n

Rain blurs impatient headlamps,<\/p>\n

sulphurous flares which briefly expose<\/p>\n

the tart, the tinker and the tobacconist,<\/p>\n

all representative of the rank and file,<\/p>\n

their amorphous faces unforthcoming<\/p>\n

like the reserved British smile.<\/p>\n\t\t\tVIII. For F. Scott Fitzgerald<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

There is only so much reading<\/p>\n

that one man can do,<\/p>\n

before doubting his own mind<\/p>\n

and paradise too.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

All those clever words<\/p>\n

start to dissipate his former purpose<\/p>\n

and if left alone with certain quotations,<\/p>\n

he can but hang his head and sigh.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

At times such as this it is wise to order<\/p>\n

two fingers of Scotch and half the soda,<\/p>\n

thus to opiate sorrow’s appetite<\/p>\n

and forget that tender is the night.<\/p>\n\t\t\tIX. Into the Margin<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Close your modern eyes to see<\/p>\n

the signposts of tranquillity<\/p>\n

for God is in the branches<\/p>\n

and the thin wind off the mountains<\/p>\n

that shivers the bamboo ceiling<\/p>\n

to the sound of a skin tambourine.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

With hindsight consider the other world<\/p>\n

where all is in anger and alarm,<\/p>\n

without time for ceremony or courtesy,<\/p>\n

nor compassion for the lesser breeds,<\/p>\n

only the multitude in pursuit of money,<\/p>\n

such a species is beyond consolation.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Awake again into the margin<\/p>\n

which houses all manner of subtle fancies<\/p>\n

yet still knowing awhile the enchanted deep<\/p>\n

before night’s ink shall fade and morning admit<\/p>\n

to let your ears renew charmed acquaintance<\/p>\n

with the archaic melody of songbirds.<\/p>\n\t\t\tX. The Remedy<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Love is a dangerous condition<\/p>\n

which one should hesitate to advise,<\/p>\n

for it makes you feel wretched<\/p>\n

and reddens your eyes.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It acts like an irritant<\/p>\n

to get under the skin,<\/p>\n

once contracted,<\/p>\n

the heartaches begin,<\/p>\n

the palpitations you cannot disguise,<\/p>\n

the hot flush, the little white lies.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

All these are symptoms of a disease<\/p>\n

for which there is no proven remedy,<\/p>\n

unless you are able to mock yourself<\/p>\n

and appreciate the comedy.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXI. Out of the Blue<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

That we should meet out of the blue<\/p>\n

to want each other’s eyes<\/p>\n

had before been prophesied,<\/p>\n

but should our souls engage in recognition<\/p>\n

of previous lives,<\/p>\n

this was for the inscrutable fates to devise<\/p>\n

an appropriate hunger,<\/p>\n

to let our bodies advise passion<\/p>\n

even as I quoted that love does not last,<\/p>\n

for the example of others suggested such.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Thus we spend our golden days<\/p>\n

not without the pangs of apprehension,<\/p>\n

waiting for the axe to fall,<\/p>\n

to sever the lover’s knot we had tied<\/p>\n

from the bedstead to the orchard wall<\/p>\n

wherein our mutual blossom fructified<\/p>\n

according to Adam’s original design<\/p>\n

until your skin shone like beeswax<\/p>\n

from love’s sweat which lay<\/p>\n

like dew upon your narrow shoulders<\/p>\n

and the words we said in whispers<\/p>\n

were meant to be true,<\/p>\n

with the devotion of ancient promises,<\/p>\n

your mouth tasted of fennel<\/p>\n

as you leant across the dogrose summer<\/p>\n

to share the final sacrament<\/p>\n

of postcoital tristesse.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n\t\t\tXII. Under the Banyan Tree<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Why do you never notice me?<\/p>\n

I am here,<\/p>\n

within the sanctuary of leaves,<\/p>\n

under the wings of the banyan tree,<\/p>\n

inside a monsoon pavilion.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

If you were to cross the rushing gulley,<\/p>\n

run with the rain, diagonal,<\/p>\n

to share the nomadic shelter<\/p>\n

behind the curtain of hanging roots,<\/p>\n

then we could speak of love.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I would employ my tongue with tenderness<\/p>\n

to enrol your ears with persuasion.<\/p>\n

I would paint your eyes with praise,<\/p>\n

your cheeks would blush from my intention,<\/p>\n

with a single kiss I could convince.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We would be as butter in the lamp<\/p>\n

or water in the well.<\/p>\n

I would fly a kite with your name on it,<\/p>\n

for you I would shave my head.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXIII. The Trumpet Vine<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

In hushed voices we strap on armour,<\/p>\n

raise high the heraldic banner,<\/p>\n

linking our painted shields together<\/p>\n

we stand to face the music of Time’s quick march<\/p>\n

and the unrelinquished past,<\/p>\n

for like the trumpet vine we are entwined,<\/p>\n

playing host to our own human bondage.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

No longer divisible, we are now associates,<\/p>\n

to lick the salt tears and dress the wounds<\/p>\n

which we inflict without a valid purpose,<\/p>\n

except love’s mercurial temperature,<\/p>\n

that must feed its internal fever or go blind,<\/p>\n

for without the heat there can be no passion,<\/p>\n

only the shallow kiss of habit<\/p>\n

as a duty to perform.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXIV. Of You<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

In the warmth of the night<\/p>\n

I lie flat,<\/p>\n

a stone enclosed in white cotton.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Unseen,<\/p>\n

away from the eyes of the village,<\/p>\n

my frozen heart expands,<\/p>\n

the outside edges unfurl.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In the familiar position of furniture<\/p>\n

and the shuttered windows,<\/p>\n

I can take comfort,<\/p>\n

my breath becomes even.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

At last I ascend the ladder<\/p>\n

of dreams.<\/p>\n

Of course I dream of you.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You are walking towards me,<\/p>\n

your face is serene,<\/p>\n

you are offering me something<\/p>\n

but when you reach me, you do not stop,<\/p>\n

we pass without touching.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXV. For Mary Macauley that was<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

If words were paint, perhaps I could paint it<\/p>\n

making good use of the palette<\/p>\n

and all the contrasting shades of blue<\/p>\n

or if I were more skilful with words<\/p>\n

perhaps I could word it for you<\/p>\n

the poignancy of time passing<\/p>\n

with the knowledge that an end awaits<\/p>\n

to snuff all our cherished regrets<\/p>\n

and the companionship of our faults<\/p>\n

to each other in secret confessed.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXVI. It could do with More Ice<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

I have saved myself for this,<\/p>\n

always longing, the blue of loving,<\/p>\n

all I never said before.<\/p>\n

A strange cocktail,<\/p>\n

not shaken but stirred,<\/p>\n

bitter and strong but true<\/p>\n

yet it could do with more ice,<\/p>\n

it could do with you.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

For how can man describe his heart,<\/p>\n

the yearning song of solitude,<\/p>\n

the constant bleeding and the loss,<\/p>\n

the recharging of cheap batteries,<\/p>\n

the despair to come through.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I have saved myself for this,<\/p>\n

finally giving, the blue of loving,<\/p>\n

all I never could before.<\/p>\n

A strange mystery,<\/p>\n

imposed by previous defeat,<\/p>\n

bitter and strong but true<\/p>\n

yet it could do with more ice,<\/p>\n

it could do with you.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXVII. The Ripening Kingdom<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Let us climb the switchback summer<\/p>\n

and look down into the wishing-well<\/p>\n

where we used to keep our secrets,<\/p>\n

unrevealed to others who might offer<\/p>\n

the common kiss of traitors.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Let us walk into the ripening kingdom<\/p>\n

until our two rivers merge<\/p>\n

beneath the ragged prayer flags,<\/p>\n

until our voices are left behind<\/p>\n

as there is no more need for questions.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXVIII. A Song for Deirdre <\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

In royal progress we returned<\/p>\n

from the dandelion pasture<\/p>\n

and the dappled skin of the frogspawn pool,<\/p>\n

carrying home the first lemon catkins<\/p>\n

as the plaintive cuckoo called<\/p>\n

away down the rutted farmyard track,<\/p>\n

until our disparate feet demand we stop<\/p>\n

where the foreign quince tree grew,<\/p>\n

orphaned amongst the hawthorn fences,<\/p>\n

her slender boughs festooned<\/p>\n

like a lady’s Sunday parasol,<\/p>\n

under which His praises we would sing,<\/p>\n

for you were the immaculate mother<\/p>\n

and I, the awakening child,<\/p>\n

the last born lamb of your Spring.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXIX. A Proper Fashion<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

His Majesty’s Government formally announce<\/p>\n

the end of this year’s monsoon,<\/p>\n

yet still it rains every day,<\/p>\n

just to prove the frailty of words<\/p>\n

and all human intention.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In the lee of Mount Macchapucchare,<\/p>\n

swagged in bolts of ermine cloud,<\/p>\n

it rains in a proper fashion<\/p>\n

unlike Tuesday in Trafalgar Square.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It falls like a casting net,<\/p>\n

the riven slate roofs glisten<\/p>\n

as if smeared with rubbing oil,<\/p>\n

the agitated earth opens every pore<\/p>\n

like a supplicant awaiting absolution.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXX. On Lonely Street<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

I, too, have literary heroes<\/p>\n

like George Seferis on lonely street,<\/p>\n

viewed from above,<\/p>\n

from a balcony with white oleanders,<\/p>\n

dreaming of Bathsheba<\/p>\n

and the turquoise sea translated<\/p>\n

from the classic tense<\/p>\n

into an agony of modern quartets.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I, too, have targets<\/p>\n

as I draw his poetry through my nose<\/p>\n

like an unfiltered cigarette.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXXI. Vishnu and the Post Impressionists<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Released from a labyrinth of dreams<\/p>\n

to the plain chant of mule bells,<\/p>\n

the drum of hooves on the wooden bridge,<\/p>\n

I open my blue door<\/p>\n

to the deciduous dawn in blush<\/p>\n

and Vishnu standing on the lawn<\/p>\n

like a daemon of the dew,<\/p>\n

cutting marigold crowns to sew<\/p>\n

into necklaces for attendant Brahmans,<\/p>\n

who wait in white by the river<\/p>\n

to intercede with the appropriate deities,<\/p>\n

whose proper names only they know.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Vishnu leaves through the wrought-iron gate,<\/p>\n

she turns to recreate the formal greeting,<\/p>\n

her bracelets clash like cymbals,<\/p>\n

her flat nose and high cheekplates<\/p>\n

cast a mauve and copper portrait<\/p>\n

perhaps only Gaugin could paint.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

As for the marigolds,<\/p>\n

Van Gogh must be the one to capture that,<\/p>\n

then I could sell it to the Japanese<\/p>\n

to hang on the clubhouse wall<\/p>\n

of some neo-palladian golf resort<\/p>\n

on the oriental outskirts of Hokaido.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXXII. A Divine Malady<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

From a foreign window I worship,<\/p>\n

trembling with the almighty loneliness<\/p>\n

of being,<\/p>\n

as the eternal river disputes,<\/p>\n

I am uncertain,<\/p>\n

of Christ, the Devil and Buddha between.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I send this report,<\/p>\n

cast like a message in a bottle,<\/p>\n

addressed care of the Ganges,<\/p>\n

for a quick delivery to heaven.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Imperfect, impure, suitably abashed,<\/p>\n

my illiterate heart still responds,<\/p>\n

inexplicably.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Without illumination I can only suppose<\/p>\n

at my own small purpose.<\/p>\n

I continue to dream without morals or meaning,<\/p>\n

to love without sustenance from loving.<\/p>\n

Exposed as merely mortal,<\/p>\n

I must repeat this self-inflicted routine.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I send this report<\/p>\n

from quixotic remoteness,<\/p>\n

a kingdom of unsurpassed rock<\/p>\n

upon which I have built.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Like a mongrel<\/p>\n

I howl at the stars in the evening,<\/p>\n

for the magnitude of infinity defies all logic.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I send this report<\/p>\n

only to remind those who may follow<\/p>\n

that here there is no doubt of death,<\/p>\n

it is a point to welcome.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

And love is just sheer emotion,<\/p>\n

a divine malady,<\/p>\n

the classic tragedy.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXXIII. A Reason To Be<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Is it enough this studied existence,<\/p>\n

our mortal ennui?<\/p>\n

I would rather god shook me<\/p>\n

and gave me reason to be<\/p>\n

as a table, a column or a corner stone,<\/p>\n

asking nothing, no explanation<\/p>\n

nor cause for clever conversation,<\/p>\n

I would not object.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXXIV. The Valley of Death<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Listen to the cinnamon sparrow sing<\/p>\n

within the pink fruiting guava tree,<\/p>\n

bowed down in admiration,<\/p>\n

in anticipation of the cooling breeze.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Listen to the conch shell trumpet blow<\/p>\n

which the menthol river will repeat,<\/p>\n

echoed in consolation,<\/p>\n

in anticipation of the scented ashes.<\/p>\n

\n\t\tDeutsch\n\t<\/h1>\n

\n\t\tDas reifende K\u00f6nigreich\n\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\tI. Selbstportr\u00e4t<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Meine H\u00e4nde sind grobe Holzbl\u00f6cke,<\/p>\n

Klavier kann ich gar nicht spielen.<\/p>\n

Mein K\u00f6rperbau ist der eines Ringers,<\/p>\n

nicht der, was du h\u00fcbsch nennen w\u00fcrdest.<\/p>\n

Doch in diesem unwahrscheinlichen Chassis<\/p>\n

wohnt der bessere Teil von mir,<\/p>\n

ein tapferes Herz, auf Treue geschult,<\/p>\n

um die, die ich lieb habe, nicht zu verraten,<\/p>\n

weder Freunde im Gl\u00fccke erstreben<\/p>\n

noch einer falschen Gef\u00fchlenschau fr\u00f6nen,<\/p>\n

und<\/p>\n

ich werde diejenigen, die ich nicht kenne,<\/p>\n

weder beanspruchen noch verleumden,<\/p>\n

denn die Liebe, die ich behalte, reicht aus,<\/p>\n

um meinen besonderen Schatten zu unterhalten.<\/p>\n\t\t\tII. Die Gurung-M\u00e4dchen<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Was k\u00f6nnen die Zikaden noch zu sagen haben?<\/p>\n

in der statischen Mitte eines atemlosen Tages<\/p>\n

wenn selbst die Zitronen schlaff h\u00e4ngen,<\/p>\n

m\u00fcde vom Aufstehen<\/p>\n

und der Flu\u00df, wie ein billiges Eisenblech,<\/p>\n

spiegelt die hei\u00dfe Stunde wider.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Welche Geschichten sollen die Zikaden wiederholen?<\/p>\n

wenn nur Hunde auf der offenen Stra\u00dfe unterwegs sind<\/p>\n

und alte M\u00e4nner suchen den kunstvollen Schatten<\/p>\n

von schmalen geschnitzten Balkonen,<\/p>\n

wie die Gurung-M\u00e4dchen mit Mandelaugen<\/p>\n

zugekn\u00f6pfte Mieder hochziehen, um ihre Br\u00fcste zu f\u00e4chern,<\/p>\n

die Geheimnisse ihres Geschlechtes wieder aufzuerlegen.<\/p>\n\t\t\tIII. Ein anderes Gesicht [X]<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t\tIV. In Birethanti [X]<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t\tV. Unten am Flu\u00df [X]<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t\tVI. Gelbe Bl\u00e4tter [X]<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t\tVII. Die Heimkehr des Verlorenen<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Allein werde ich Albion wieder betreten,<\/p>\n

dieses k\u00fchle Kloster der Nebel,<\/p>\n

die sich mit dem monochromen Himmel verschw\u00f6ren,<\/p>\n

eine durchn\u00e4sste Plane zur Verf\u00fcgung stellen,<\/p>\n

die dem Auge einen passenden Horizont verweigert.<\/p>\n

Ich werde mein Tempo dem Winter anpassen,<\/p>\n

sowie der tr\u00fcben Passage der Themse,<\/p>\n

um die sesshaften, auf dem stinkenden Schlamm des Gezeitenbodens beruhigten,<\/p>\n

Lastk\u00e4hne zu passieren.<\/p>\n

Ich werde die trotzigen Alleen von polardierten Lindenb\u00e4umen,<\/p>\n

mit ihrer hageren Bildhauerei, die an Rodin erinnert,<\/p>\n

abbiegen,<\/p>\n

um die vornehme Umgebung von Chiswick,<\/p>\n

in die Partisanenterrassen von Hammersmith<\/p>\n

und das triste Exil des irischen Viertels, zu durchqueren.<\/p>\n

Regen verwischt ungeduldige Scheinwerfer,<\/p>\n

schwefelhaltige Fackeln, die kurzzeitig<\/p>\n

die Dirne, den Kesselflicker, den Tabakwarenh\u00e4ndler,<\/p>\n

zwar alle Vertreter der Basis, freilegen.<\/p>\n

Ihre amorphen Gesichter sich nicht \u00e4u\u00dfern wollen,<\/p>\n

wie das zur\u00fcckhaltende britische L\u00e4cheln.<\/p>\n\t\t\tVIII. F\u00fcr F. Scott Fitzgerald<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Es gibt nur so viel zu lesen,<\/p>\n

was ein Mann tun kann,<\/p>\n

bevor er an seinem Verstand zweifelt –<\/p>\n

an dem Himmel dazu.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

All diese klugen Worte<\/p>\n

beginnen, seinen fr\u00fcheren Zweck aufzul\u00f6sen,<\/p>\n

und wenn man mit bestimmten Zitaten allein gelassen wird,<\/p>\n

er kann nur den Kopf h\u00e4ngen, sich dem Seufzen hingeben.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In Zeiten wie diesen ist es ratsam,<\/p>\n

zwei Finger Scotch zu bestellen, die Soda zu halbieren,<\/p>\n

so den Appetit des Kummers zu stillen,<\/p>\n

so zu vergessen, da\u00df “Z\u00e4rtlich ist die Nacht”.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXVII. Das reifende K\u00f6nigreich<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

La\u00df uns den Zickzacksommer erklimmen<\/p>\n

und in den Wunschbrunnen zur\u00fcckblicken,<\/p>\n

wo wir fr\u00fcher unsere Geheimnisse bewahrten,<\/p>\n

verborgen vor anderen, die<\/p>\n

den gemeinsamen Ku\u00df von Verr\u00e4tern anbieten k\u00f6nnten.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

La\u00df uns ins reifende K\u00f6nigreich fortmachen,<\/p>\n

bis unsere beiden Fl\u00fcsse ineinander verschmelzen,<\/p>\n

wo die zerrissene Gebetsfahnen flattern,<\/p>\n

bis unsere Stimmen zur\u00fcckbleiben, weil<\/p>\n

es nicht mehr n\u00f6tig ist, Fragen zu stellen.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXIX. Eine richtige Art und Weise<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Die Regierung Seiner Majest\u00e4t gibt das Ende<\/p>\n

des diesj\u00e4hrigen Monsuns offiziell bekannt,<\/p>\n

dennoch regnet es jeden Tag,<\/p>\n

nur um die Zerbrechlichkeit der Worte und<\/p>\n

alle menschliche Absicht zu beweisen.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Im Windschatten des Machapuchare,<\/p>\n

mit seinem Mantel von Hermelinwolken,<\/p>\n

regnet es richtig – anders als<\/p>\n

an einem Dienstag auf dem Trafalgarplatz.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Es f\u00e4llt wie ein Wurfnetz,<\/p>\n

die zerrissenen Schieferd\u00e4cher gl\u00e4nzen,<\/p>\n

wie mit Reibe\u00f6l beschmiert,<\/p>\n

die aufgew\u00fchlte Erde \u00f6ffnet jede Pore<\/p>\n

wie ein Schutzflehender, der auf die Lossprechung wartet.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXXIII. Ein Lebensgrund<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Gen\u00fcgt dieses einstudierte Dasein,<\/p>\n

unsere sterbliche Langeweile?<\/p>\n

Ich m\u00f6chte lieber, da\u00df Gott mich sch\u00fcttelt,<\/p>\n

mir einen Lebensgrund,<\/p>\n

als Tisch, S\u00e4ule, Eckstein, gibt,<\/p>\n

was nichts, weder Erkl\u00e4rung noch Anla\u00df<\/p>\n

f\u00fcr ein kluges Gespr\u00e4ch, verlangt.<\/p>\n

Ich w\u00fcrde nichts dagegen haben.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXXIV. Das Todestal<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

H\u00f6r dem Gesang des Zimtsperlings zu, der<\/p>\n

sich, im rosa-fruchtenden Guavenbaum,<\/p>\n

vor Bewunderung, in Erwartung<\/p>\n

der k\u00fchlenden Brise, verneigt.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

H\u00f6r dem Trompetenschlag der Muschel zu, die<\/p>\n

der Mentholflu\u00df wiederholen wird, die<\/p>\n

zum Trost, in Erwartung<\/p>\n

der duftenden Asche, nachhallt.<\/p>\n

\n\t\tPending\n\t<\/h3>\n

\n\t\tFran\u00e7ais\n\t<\/h1>\n

\n\t\tLe royaume m\u00fbrissant\n\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\tI. Autoportrait<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Mes mains sont des blocs de bois grossier,<\/p>\n

je ne peux pas jouer du piano.<\/p>\n

Mon physique est celui d’un lutteur,<\/p>\n

pas ce qu’on pourrait appeler joli.<\/p>\n

Mais dans ce ch\u00e2ssis improbable<\/p>\n

r\u00e9side la meilleure partie de moi,<\/p>\n

un c\u0153ur courageux form\u00e9 \u00e0 la loyaut\u00e9,<\/p>\n

\u00e0 ne pas trahir ceux que je ch\u00e9ris,<\/p>\n

\u00e0 ne pas chercher des amis peu fiables ou \u00e0 se plier<\/p>\n

\u00e0 une fausse d\u00e9monstration de sentiment,<\/p>\n

et<\/p>\n

je ne revendiquerai ni<\/p>\n

ne calomnierai ceux que je ne connais pas,<\/p>\n

parce que l’amour que je retiens suffit<\/p>\n

pour soutenir mon ombre particuli\u00e8re.<\/p>\n\t\t\tII. Les filles gurung<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Que peuvent dire de plus les cigales?<\/p>\n

dans le midi statique du jour essouffl\u00e9,<\/p>\n

quand m\u00eame les citronniers pendent mollement,<\/p>\n

fatigu\u00e9s de se lever<\/p>\n

et la rivi\u00e8re comme une feuille de fer pas ch\u00e8re<\/p>\n

refl\u00e8te l’heure torride.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Quelles histoires les cigales doivent-elles r\u00e9p\u00e9ter?<\/p>\n

quand seuls les chiens fr\u00e9quentent la rue ouverte<\/p>\n

et les vieillards cherchent l’ombre orn\u00e9e<\/p>\n

d’\u00e9troits balcons sculpt\u00e9s,<\/p>\n

comme les filles gurung aux yeux en amande<\/p>\n

soul\u00e8vent les corsages boutonn\u00e9s pour ventiler leurs seins<\/p>\n

et r\u00e9imposer les myst\u00e8res de leur sexe.<\/p>\n\t\t\tIII. Un autre visage [X]<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t\tIV. \u00c0 Birethanti [X]<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t\tV. Au bord de la rivi\u00e8re [X]<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t\tVI. Les feuilles jaunes [X]<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t\tVII. Le retour du prodigue<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Tout seul, je rentrerai en Albion,<\/p>\n

ce couvent glacial de brumes<\/p>\n

qui conspirent avec le ciel monochrome<\/p>\n

pour fournir une b\u00e2che d\u00e9tremp\u00e9e<\/p>\n

qui prive l’\u0153il d’un horizon propice.<\/p>\n

J’adapterai mon rythme \u00e0 l’hiver,<\/p>\n

au passage maussade de la Tamise,<\/p>\n

pour passer les p\u00e9niches s\u00e9dentaires, encalmin\u00e9es<\/p>\n

sur la boue puante du fond de mar\u00e9e.<\/p>\n

Je vais descendre les avenues provocantes<\/p>\n

de tilleuls t\u00eatards,<\/p>\n

avec leur statuaire d\u00e9charn\u00e9e qui rappelle Rodin,<\/p>\n

pour traverser les environs distingu\u00e9s de Chiswick<\/p>\n

aux terrasses partisanes de Hammersmith<\/p>\n

et l’exil terne du quartier irlandais.<\/p>\n

La pluie brouille les phares impatients,<\/p>\n

torch\u00e8res sulfureuses qui exposent bri\u00e8vement<\/p>\n

la pute, le bricoleur et le buraliste,<\/p>\n

tous repr\u00e9sentatifs de la base.<\/p>\n

Leurs visages amorphes sont imp\u00e9n\u00e9trables<\/p>\n

comme le sourire britannique r\u00e9serv\u00e9.<\/p>\n\t\t\tVIII. Pour F. Scott Fitzgerald<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Il n’y a que tant de lecture<\/p>\n

qu’un seul homme peut faire,<\/p>\n

avant de douter de son propre esprit,<\/p>\n

du paradis aussi.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tous ces mots intelligents<\/p>\n

commencent \u00e0 dissiper son ancien but,<\/p>\n

et si laiss\u00e9 seul avec certaines citations,<\/p>\n

il ne peut que baisser la t\u00eate et soupirer.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dans un tel moment il est sage<\/p>\n

de commander deux doigts de scotch, la moiti\u00e9 du soda,<\/p>\n

ainsi pour opacifier l’app\u00e9tit du chagrin,<\/p>\n

ainsi pour oublier que “Tendre est la nuit”.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXVII. Le royaume m\u00fbrissant<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Montons l’\u00e9t\u00e9 qui chemine en \u00e9pingle \u00e0 cheveux,<\/p>\n

et regardons en bas dans le puits \u00e0 souhaits<\/p>\n

o\u00f9 nous gardions nos secrets,<\/p>\n

cach\u00e9s des autres, qui pourraient offrir<\/p>\n

le baiser commun des tra\u00eetres.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Entrons dans le royaume qui m\u00fbrit,<\/p>\n

jusqu’\u00e0 ce que nos deux rivi\u00e8res se confondent<\/p>\n

sous les drapeaux de pri\u00e8re en lambeaux,<\/p>\n

jusqu’\u00e0 ce que nos voix soient abandonn\u00e9es, car<\/p>\n

il n’y a plus besoin de questions.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXIX. Comme il faut<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Le gouvernement de Sa Majest\u00e9 a officiellement annonc\u00e9<\/p>\n

la fin de la mousson de cette ann\u00e9e,<\/p>\n

mais il pleut tous les jours,<\/p>\n

juste pour prouver la fragilit\u00e9 des mots<\/p>\n

et toute intention humaine.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sous le vent du Machapuchare,<\/p>\n

affubl\u00e9 de nuages \u200b\u200bd’hermine,<\/p>\n

il pleut comme il faut – diff\u00e9rent<\/p>\n

d’un mardi \u00e0 la Place de Trafalgar.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Il tombe comme un filet de coul\u00e9e,<\/p>\n

les toits d’ardoise d\u00e9chir\u00e9s scintillent<\/p>\n

comme enduit d’huile de friction,<\/p>\n

la terre agit\u00e9e ouvre tous les pores<\/p>\n

comme un suppliant qui attende l’absolution.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXXIII. Une raison d’\u00eatre<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

 <\/p>\n

Suffit-elle cette existence \u00e9tudi\u00e9e,<\/p>\n

notre ennui mortel?<\/p>\n

Je pr\u00e9f\u00e9rerais que Dieu me secoue<\/p>\n

et me donne raison d’\u00eatre<\/p>\n

comme une table, une colonne ou une pierre angulaire,<\/p>\n

qui ne demande rien, aucune explication<\/p>\n

ni cause de conversation intelligente.<\/p>\n

Je ne m’y opposerais pas.<\/p>\n\t\t\tXXIV. La vall\u00e9e de la mort<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tExpand<\/i><\/a>\n\t\t

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00c9coutez le moineau cannelle chanter<\/p>\n

dans le goyavier \u00e0 fruits roses,<\/p>\n

courb\u00e9 en admiration,<\/p>\n

en pr\u00e9vision de la brise refra\u00eechissante.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00c9coutez le coup de trompette de conque,<\/p>\n

que la rivi\u00e8re menthol\u00e9e r\u00e9p\u00e9tera,<\/p>\n

en \u00e9cho de consolation,<\/p>\n

en pr\u00e9vision des cendres perfum\u00e9es.<\/p>\n

\n\t\tPending\n\t<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tI. “Into the Margin”\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/a>\n

\n\t\tDominic SasseII. Poems of England and Nepal\n\t<\/h4>\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tIII. Poems of England and Greece\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/a>\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Dominic Sasse 11th July 1955 Crawley Down, England – 28th September 1992 Kathmandu, Nepal II. Poems of England and Nepal The Ripening Kingdom1994 English I. Self Portrait Expand   My hands are blocks of coarse wood, I cannot play the piano. My physique is that of a wrestler, not what you might call pretty. Yet…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":91,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-87","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/frogcup.org\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/87","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/frogcup.org\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/frogcup.org\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/frogcup.org\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/frogcup.org\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=87"}],"version-history":[{"count":62,"href":"https:\/\/frogcup.org\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/87\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":386,"href":"https:\/\/frogcup.org\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/87\/revisions\/386"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/frogcup.org\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/91"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/frogcup.org\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=87"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}