Michael Palmer

Idem 3

For to stemmer der taler hurtigt og simultant.

Træ og bog og bog og træ og bog. Musik vi afviser at glemme. En rejse. Et par af dem taler, synker tungt, skilles så. Hun ledsager sne, observerer vandet i dets bane, et par af os taler. Hun ledsager dem begge, forsøger at gå fra "A" til "B" i knædyb sne og ender fortabt. Vi lyttede til musik hele vinteren derovre Mozart men herovre Corelli og Bach, derovre Landini men her Couperin og Rameau. Og jeg taler i min stemme fordi den er varm, fordi den er varm og vender mod nord. Han taler i sin stemme fordi han må: Ruby min kære, lille Rootie Tootie, Pannonica, Jeg overgiver mig, min kære, Der er Fare i Dit Blik Cherie, April i Paris; I Min Ensomhed, Jeg Bliver Sentimental når Jeg tænker på Dig. Alting Sker for Mig; Jeg Skulle Bekymre Mig, Husk, Erindringer af Dig. Han kanter hendes stemme i blåt lys med almindelig hvid kant, er det dig, Harry, George jeg tror at der står nogen ved døren, vær forsigtig med den pakke hr. Kupčak den er fyldt med sarte edderkopper. New York og London-vinter og en kvarttomme toskansk vinter, kigger på lithium blå, øjnene står ikke stille, holder en vejrtrækningspause her men fortsætter så mod det angivne rum. Hendes stemme trådte frem i form af en kvindes krop, musik strømmer ud af venstre hånd, grøn fløjlskappe som når ned til gulvet trak et spor efter hende, da hun gik. Så et nyt kort, hund og ulv hyler mod månen, to tårne, floden, og et andet, tre mønter omvendt, middelmådighed og svaghed, og tilslut seks sværd, en rejse over vandet. Musik som vi husker at glemme, og rummet selv, sengen til højre som du tråder ind, træfyret komfur i det fjerne hjørne til venstre på den ene side af vinduet, håndvask med spejl og porcelænskrukke og skål på den anden. Tænkte på det som et sprogrum, kun navneord, en hovedpine der varede i seks dage, følelsesløshed ned langs venstre side, smuk røgsnoning. Lys fra fiskerbådene og fra bilerne og lastbilerne på bjergvejen. Lys der strømmer fra håndfladen på hendes venstre hånd. Han ville sidde i timer i en tilsyneladende døs ved et af bordene i skjul fra vejen. Begyndelser er det hun viste mig, duft af timian og mynte i juliluften, Fjolset et nul som holder en hvid rose. I flere år vågnede han rystende klokken fire om morgenen fordi han troede han havde hørt et skrig.

- Oversættelse HMT.

Charles Bernstein - No hiding place

I thought language poetry was against emotion in the name of
sensation

I thought language poetry was against theory in favor of praxis

I thought language poetry was lots of words making the most of
meaning

I thought language poetry was the diehard foe of the massed mediocracy

I thought language poetry was a big tent without roof or floor

I thought language poetry was sympathy without tea

I thought language poetry was ambient sound in serial locomotion

I thought language poetry has branches in Paris, New York, Toronto,
and Palm Springs

I thought language poetry was Marxist

I thought language poetry was anarchist

I thought language poetry was the antichrist

I thought language poetry was bourgeois aestheticism

I thought language poetry hated the voice

I thought language poetry was all voicing and never content

I thought language poetry was against realism

I thought language poetry was a new form of realism

I thought language poetry was against dogma

I thought language poetry refused its commissars

I thought language poetry was against closed groups

I thought language poetry was all thought in pursuit of potential
action

I thought language poetry was Gertrude Stein all over again

I thought language poetry was trying to make the reader feel
smart

I thought language poetry was wary of proclamations of sincere
expression

I thought language poetry was a lot of nonsense packaged to look
important

I thought language poetry was the possibility for freedom

I thought language poetry was the major precursor to word-salad
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I thought language poetry was short for L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry

I thought language poetry favored style over manner

I thought language poetry was too intellectual

I thought language poetry was too difficult to ignore

I thought language poetry was the cat’s scratch

I thought language poetry was neither a school nor a movement
but a transient moment

I thought language poetry was a chimerical constellation

I thought language poetry was tendencies and investments not
rules or orders

I thought language poetry was minor literature with a vengeance

I thought language poetry was a collective figment of a collective
imagination

I thought language poetry was an illusion

I thought language poetry was over

I thought language poetry resists the authority of language poetry

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