> kummerang

kummerang

Par | 2018-02-25T22:46:52+00:00 13 mars 2014|Catégories : Blog|

 

krum­mer als ein pisang,

pest du den hang lang,

                        gehst weg

und kehrst wie­der,

     flugs klan­glos

wi’im krebs­gang,

so lang wie mein fuß lang ist,

komm­st du

immer wie­der,

doch lässt dich kaum

ein­fan­gen

      und kreist und kreist so lang,     

bis du

allein­gangs,

von mit­ten­mang baum­gangs,

                      mer­len­fang, pfau­fang,

von dei­nem luft­gang,

                   grenz

-gang und tal­hang

zu mir

zurü­ck­komm­st.

dein drall

zurück –                                           

drang nach

dem anfang :

zwar zwang nur,

wenn ‘s ziel ver­fehlt ;

komm­st immer

zurück.

 

 

 

und wäre es pjöng­jang,

käm­st du

zurück,

käm­st du mit yinyang,

dugong und oolong­duft,

     umge­ben von lin­sangs,

                 in see­tang getauft.

wärs kanaan,

     käm­st du

zurück,

käm­st dia­phan

als ein rühr­mich­nich­tan,

     eskor­tiert von zehn

xys­tus­van­da­len

mit khans­kur­ti­sa­nen,

von schne­cken­mi­la­nen

aus grün­cel­lo­phan.

     viel­leicht käm­st dann

   tobog­gans

zu mei­nem wig­wam,

mit pavia­ne­lan

und als trick­schuft,

als mez­zo­het­man

      mit tuka­nun­ter­ta­nen

– die mer­lu­sch­kamähne

stünde dir gut.

käm­st

zurück wie ein mus­tang,

     käm­st

trab­gangs, ganz frank

ohne gruß,

zwang, zug- oder zungz­wang,

doch mit recht arti­gem

jubel­ge­sang – kein kapp­zaum

zurück, kum­me­rang,

von gim­pel­fang

und von kul­men

zurück.

 

 

alle kum­me­rang­snü­cken

(kum­me­rang­snu­cken),

kum­me­rang­sgu­cker, dumpf,

die can­ca­nie­ren­den kum­me­rang­stü­cken ;

all das kum­mer­krummbü­cken –

kum­me­rangs rücken­krüm­mung näm­lich

ist krüm­mer,

als mein nasen­hang krumm ist.

so käm­st du

mit stets krüm­me­rem rücken

zurück, kum­me­rang, zu mir,

krüm­mer, verküm­mert

und immer viel schlim­mer

         als noch beim letz­ten mal,

da du mich sahst.

 

– doch wer warf dich,

kum­me­rang,

ganz sicher mein arm nicht,

     bes­timmt diese hand nicht,

sie ver­mochte es nicht,

dich so zu wer­fen, dass du

zurü­ck­komm­st.

 

darf ich mal ?

würf ich näm­lich,

käm­st du nie mehr

zurück,

schös­sest ziel­haft

aufs ziel zu,

ins schlu­ck­loch des schum­mers,

und ver­schwän­dest für immer darin :

 

kein schlu­ck­loch des kum­mers bliebe hier mehr zurück.

 

 

aber du pest

und zim­perst nicht ;

aber du säst

und pim­perst nicht ;

aber du äst

und klim­perst nicht ;

aber du mähst

und wim­perst nicht

ein­mal.

 

aber du schläf­st nicht.

 

der schlum­me­rang kann dem kum­me­rang nichts anha­ben.

 

 

 

 

wie bang ist mein fang­drang :

 

fang ! fang ! fang ! fang ! fang ! fang !

 

ihn, der kimm­lang den him­mel belangt,

mal sei­ger,

im wind­fang

des kumu­lus kumu­lo­nim­bus :

du bist der ver­seh­gang,

das kum­mer­ko­ma des flü­gel­schim­mels.

 

so lang kreist er

und kreist schon,

der kum­me­rang –

stun­den-, tage-, näch­te­lang

kreist die­ser kum­me­rang

um den kopf

und im kopf rum

              und kommt immer

wie­der zurück.

ging rum,

um den kum­mer

beim mor­gens­pa­zier­gang

abzu­fan­gen,

zu befra­gen,

fing

aber nichts

und­so­wei­ter

und rang mit dem kum­mer,

rang mit dem kum­mer,

dem grabs­kum­me­ran­drang,

kum­me­rang­san­drang

                                  bis son­nun­ter­gang

seit mon­dauf­gang.

 

der kum­me­ran­gef­fekt

unter­schei­det sich also

von jedem andern :

 

er färbt wel­len

in das kleid­grau

der kla­ge­wei­ber ;

er zerrt welt

durch den blau­bau

der sage­lei­der ;

er lehrt, bellt

das chał­chał

der wid­der­mei­der,

behrt die welt aus dem pfau. –

 

 

 

 

pomu­chel der kopf,

der glaubt, er mäan­dert :

 

denn er pest

und zim­pert nicht.

denn er sät

und pim­pert nicht.

denn er äst

und klim­pert nicht.

denn er mäht

und wim­pert nicht

zwei­mal.

 

dies jedoch vor allem :

 

er schläft nicht.

 

 

(spin­ner­lied, auf eine melo­die aus mary pop­pins)

 

                       kumm­kum­me­rang, kumm­kum­me­rang, bum­sk­len­gu­ruh,

     der kum­me­rang hüpft nicht, hat kein blut, kei­nen schuh ;

kumm­kum­me­rang, kumm­kum­me­rang, bum­sk­len­gu­ruh,

           der kum­me­rang kennt nur den schnell­wen­de­flug ;

          kumm­kum­me­rang, kumm­kum­me­rang, bum­sk­len­gu­ruh,

den kum­me­rang nennt kein spe­zialwör­ter­buch ;

kumm­kum­me­rang, kumm­kum­me­rang, bum­sk­len­gu­ruh,

der kum­me­rang hockt am pis­to­le­nab­zug.

 

 

tor­na­da

 

enlai­diert enziane ;

fern sprei­zen

       geköpfte

vul­kan­pe­li­kane

speiend die rie­si­schen

feuers­schnä­bel.

du lieg­st neben mir, wach, kum­me­rang

– die sum­ma viel­leicht etwa wäre :

verrückt, wie gut wir doch

in löf­fel­chens­tel­lung inei­nan­der­pas­sen,

ich und mein buhle, der kum­mer­sa­tan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fakul­ta­tive bes­chwö­rung

 

 

 

komm, kum­mer­com­brus, komm, kum­mer­com­brus,

kumm­kum­mer, komm. kumm­kum­mer, komm :

komm, kum­mer­com­brus.

kum­mer­cum­brus.

kumm­com­bo­ros. kum­mers oro­bo­ros

(uro­bo­ros), kumm­ri­ger boris, komm, kum­mer­bo­los.

kum­mers küm­mer­ling, o komm, kum­merk­loß, -joch,

-last,

-see,

-los.

hab nur paar

kum­mer­kru­men –

o kum­mer­krume, komm ;

                  hab einen kub­ben­krü­mel,

ach kum­mer­kubbe, komm ;

     komm krü­meln,

so him­mele, komm.

und wenn ?

warum in dieses

kum­mer­kruch ver­krü­meln ?

 

     die kum­mer­ru­nen. kum­mer­line.

dagi­nias kum­mer­nun.

dagi­nia­krü­mel­krumm.

mit kump­fets kum­merkamm (das nur für den frank), klamm,

     kump kum­mer­mann und hier die gal­gen­miene,

klumpk­lar, klein­lamm.

 

     die kum­ber­muhme.

mein fie­ber­kum­ber­muh­men­bann.

ne muh­men­kumpe flammt und fumpt den kum­mer­mann.

 

da : dies ist seine bum­sal.

 

kum­bers cum­brus – cum­ber­sam­ba – kum­ber­cum­brus – kum­mer­rum­ba

kum­mer­tan­go – ummen mam­ba – kum­mer­mam­bo – warum das ?

   kum­bers cum­brus – cum­ber­sam­ba – kum­ber­cum­brus – kum­mer­rum­ba

   kum­mer­tan­go – ummen mam­ba – kum­mer­mam­bo – warum hast ?

      kum­bers cum­brus – cum­ber­sam­ba – kum­ber­cum­brus – kum­mer­rum­ba

kum­mer­numb­fuß – kum­mer­lamb­da – dum­mer cum­brus – KUMMKARAMBA –

 

 

 

 

auf kum­me­run. ins umbad – schnell, schnell,

aber geht das ?

 

kum­mers­kunde

kün­det pfunde.

 

doch hier vom kum­mer­gan.

kurz­fuß, arme­kurz, kratz­fuß :

da kommt der kum­me­rang mit sei­nem kum­mersk­lan.

(tak, tak : szk­la­ny.)

(sind fah­rende.)

 

post­karte

 

kumm’rang heut

in sankt kum­mer

und como

(pagane verans­tal­tung)

 

                                                           kara­wa­nen kom­men herum.

                                                                von maka­ras kara­ka­ras

besetzt ganz kara­man ;

     und kommt dag­ma­ra,

     kommt auch kumm’rang

                                                                       klags auf den kara­gan.

                                   (immer will sie

                                                    dann zu ihm sagen :

                                                      huste mal.

                                              yychu. yychu, yychu.)

 

ich komm wohl nicht

da kum­mer­rum,

ums kum­mer­garn,

ums kum­mer­nun,

     und kara­kum­sch­warz,

hum­me­rhun­grig,

komm ich tumb,

komm lum­mer­lun­gig,

     komme, komme,

komm ich, komm ich,

            kumm’rang, komich komm ich

um.

 

 

 

gloo­me­rang

 

Translated from the German by Joshua Daniel Edwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

you race along the fur­long,

croo­ke­der than a barong,

                                                                                                          you go away,

                                                                       u-bend again,

                        in side­long zip­per­song 

            as in crab­walk ;

                                                           so long as my foot is long, 

                                   you’ll always

come again,

                                                                                              but you can’t be

                        snag­ged

                                               cir­cling and cir­cling, so long,

            till you come,

                                                                                                          alone all along,

sprung from the oak-rungs,

                                                           you fan out, fangs out,

                                                                                  from your flight­path,

                                                                                                          (car­ving head­long

down the val­leys­lope),

                                                                       you return

                                               to me.

                                                                                              your spin

            returns—

                                                                                  (oblong) a cra­ving to

begin—

                                   it des­cends

                                                                                  when you miss a tar­get ;

                                                                                                          that’s when the gong

gets rung.                   

 

 

 

 

 

    and were it pyon­gyang,

                                                                                  you’d come back,

                                                                                              you’d come with yin-yang,

                                                                                      dugong, and oolong-scent,

                                                                                         sur­roun­ded by lin­sangs,

                                                                                                chris­te­ned in kelp.

                                                                                              were it canaan,

                                                                                  you’d come back,

                                                                                              you’d come dia­pha­nous

                                                                                      as pale touch-me-not,

                                                                                      escor­ted by ten

                                                                                              san­da­led van­dals,

                                                                                      gen­ghis khan’s cour­te­sans,

                                                                                              their pri­vate scan­dals

                                                                          ban­da­ged in green cel­lo­phane.

                                                                                     per­haps you’d come

                                                                                                                      by tobog­gan

                                                                                      to my slack-wal­led wig­wam,

                                                                                                          with baboon-elan

                                                                          and leger­de­main, 

                                                                                              as mez­zo-het­man

                                                                                      with a tou­can-right-hand-man

—the astra­khan mane

                                                                                              would suit you well.

                                                                                  you’d come back

like a mus­tang,

                                                                                              you’d come trot­ting,

                                                                                      com­ple­te­ly frank

                                                                                  without salute or stink,

                                                                                      sturm und drang or harangue,

                                                                                              but with quite cor­rect

                                                                                        obe­rek-step,

you’d come back

                                                                                        as bridle, from scam­ming            

                                                                                       and sum­mits. gloo­me­rang,

                                                                       wel­come back.

 

all this gloo­me­rang-caprice

                                   (gloo­me­rang, capiche ?),

     —oh gloo­me­rang-gazer, book-nosed schnook—

the can­can-ing gloo­me­rang-beats,

                                   all the gloom­croo­ked­stoop :

                        gloomerang’s hunch­back, hoo­ked as a scythe,

will outhunch

my nose­bump (plumb out of line).    

                                                                                  then you would come,

                                                                       with your ever-bent back,

                                                                       back to me, gloo­me­rang, bent

                                                                                  on return, ves­ti­gial,

                                                                       and always much worse than you were

                                                                                  the last time you bent

your flat gaze back to mine.

                                   but who threw you,

                                                           gloo­me­rang,

                                   not my arm, cer­tain­ly,

                                       not this hand, there’s no doubt

 it’s in no condi­tion

to throw you so that you’d

                        come ben­ding back.

 

                                                           so may i, this time ?

                                                           i’d toss you, some­how,

                                                                       so that you’d never

                                               come win­ding back :

                                                           you’d shoot tar­get-wise,

                                                                                  to your tar­get be tethe­red,

                                   in its bull’s-eye gul­phole        

                                                           you’d vanish fore­ver,

                        your bull’s-eye of gloom bani­shed into the ether.     

                                                          

but you pes­ter                                  

                        and never relent

but you blus­ter

                        and never recant

but you rup­ture

                        and never repent

but you hec­tor

                        and never relax

even once

                                   into some­thing resem­bling sleep.

 

                        the snoo­ze­rang can­not bring down the gloo­me­rang.

                       

how wret­ched, my catch-stress,                                                       

                                   catch ! catch ! catch ! catch ! catch ! catch !

                                                                       you, that gashed heaven’s latch,                                                                                once match-straight

                                   in the wind­breach 

                        of cumu­lous cumu­lo­nim­bus :

you are the mis­take-hatch,

            the gloom-coma of win­grash.                        

                                                          

so long, you circle,

                                               have cir­cled alrea­dy,  

                                   you, gloo­me­rang—

                        hours-, days-, over­nights­long            

                              in gloo­me­rang circles

                                   over my head,

                                               in my head, and around,

                                                           and always you come

back round again.

                                               i went round

                             in the gloom                                                                                

on a mor­ning consti­tu­tio­nal,                                                

ambu­shed

            and ques­tio­ned,

                        col­la­red,

                                   but not—

                                               and so then fur­ther on,

                                   i grap­pled with gloom,           

                                   i wrest­led with gloom,                       

                                   with the gra­ve­gloom­crush                             

                                               and the gloo­me­rang­boom                  

                                                                                  from sun­down

until moon­rise.

 

                        the gloo­me­rang-effect

                                   dif­fers thus­ly

                                               from all others :

                                               it colors waves

                                   in the dress­gray

                                               of mour­ners ;

                        it tugs earth

                                   through the blue­weave

                        of wee­pies ;

                                                           it teaches or barks

                                                                       the cha cha

                                   of cros­sed stars.

it sands cor­ners away.   

only a fea­ther­brain                           

                                                                       believes it mean­ders :             

                                               though it pes­ters                                

                                                                       it doesn’t relent

though it blus­ters

                                                                       it doesn’t recant

though it rup­tures

                                                                       it doesn’t repent

though it hec­tors

                                                                       it doesn’t relax

                                               twice over.

 

                                   this above all :

                                                                                  it does not sleep.

 

 

                                   (spin­ning­song, to a melo­dy from mary pop­pins)            

 

                                               boom­gloo­me­rang, boom­gloo­me­rang, boom­boom­che­roo,

                                                           gloom never skips, has no blood and no shoes,

                                               boom­gloo­me­rang, boom­gloo­me­rang, boom­boom­che­right,

                                                       gloo­me­rang knows only quick­tur­ning­flight,

                                   boom­gloo­me­rang, boom­gloo­me­rang, boom­boom­che­ree,

                                                       gloo­me­rang slips from your dic­tio­na­ry,

                                               boom­gloo­me­rang, boom­gloo­me­rang, boom­boo­mand­big­ger,

                                                                       gloo­me­rang lands on a pistol’s hair­trig­ger.

                       

                                                                                             

                                               TORNADA

 

 

                                                                       bat­te­red gen­tians

                                                                                              scat­te­red far

                                                                                                          and behea­ded.

                                                                                              gar­gan­tuan

                                                                        vol­ca­nic peli­cans

                                   spou­ting fire­beaks.

                                                           you sprawl next to me. wake, gloo­me­rang—

                                                                       the facts were, per­haps, somew­hat

                                                                                              demen­ted. how cozi­ly

we fit, spoo­ning into each other,

                                   me and my beau, the gloo­me­rang-temp­ter.

 

 

 

optio­nal : incantation/​invocation

                                                                                                                                

 

come, gloo­mer glowmbe, come gloo­mer glowmbe

gloom­gloo­mer, come. gloom­gloo­mer, come :

come gloo­mer glowmbe.

gloom glú­mian aura.

gloom­com­bo­ros. gloom oro­bo­ros

(ouro­bo­ros), gloo­my­gus boris, come (in gloo­mer­bo­lo).        

suf­fer glum solo, o come, gloo­my­puss, gloom-lump, -yoke,

-load,

-rake,

-drum.

 

so, have a couple

gloo­mer­crumbs—

            o gloom­crumb, come ;

                 have a rugel­crumb,

                        yes, gloom­ru­gel, come ;

                             come crumble,

thur­der­lette, come.

                                              what then ?

                                                                       why crumble into this

                                                           gloo­mer­nook ?            

 

     the gloom­runes. gloo­me­ri­na.

daginia’s new­gloom.                                     

dagi­nia­croo­ked­crumb.

gloom came in troughs (that one’s for frank), clam­my,                      

     in font gloo­my­man—and here the gal­lows­mien                 

clump-clear, lit­tle­lamb.

 

     the muu­muu­tune.                                                  

my fever­tu­ne­muu­muus­pell.  

a muu­muu­trom­bone booms and flames up the gloo­my­man.                        

 

there : that is his gloom­stare.

 

lumber’sglú­mian—cum­ber­sam­ba — cum­berglú­mian—gloo­mer­rum­ba

gloo­mer­tan­go — mama­mam­ba — gloo­mer­mam­bo — watch your waist

   lumber’sglú­mian—cum­ber­sam­ba — cum­berglú­mian—gloo­mer­rum­ba

   gloo­mer­tan­go — mama­mam­ba — gloo­mer­mam­bo — watch your haste                   

      lumber’sglú­mian—cum­ber­sam­ba — cum­berglú­mian—gloo­mer­rum­ba

        gloo­mer­numb­foot — gloo­mer­lamb­da — dum­ben­cum­be­red — GLOOMCARAMBA—

 

pool­side in kum­ba, camer­gloon—wait, wait,

­ — does that work ?     

 

            moo­ning gloo­my

like a loun­ging loon.

 

                        slog­ging through toxic glumes,                  

                        club­foo­ted, bow­leg­ged, arms cur­tai­led :     

here comes gloo­me­rang with the whole gloom­clan.

(tak, tak : szk­la­ny.)

(car­ni­val hands.)

 

                                                                                  post­card

 

                                                                       gloom’rang here

                                                                       in old st. gloom

                                                                       and como

                                                                                  (for the pagan jubi­lee)           

 

                        cara­vans come round here.

     karaman’s been full besie­ged

by makara’s cara­ca­ras ;                                                          

     and when comes dag­ma­ra,

     then comes, too, the gloo­me­rang

har­ping on the kara­ghan.                                                                  

 (then she wants

     to tell him :

       turn your head ; cough.          

chuyh.)                                             

 

                                               most like­ly i’ll come

in loo­ming turns,

fate’s gloo­myarn                                                       

           its ever­new­gloom,

and kara­kum­sand­black,                                                                   

caviars­tar­ved,

i come dumb, 

come bar­ge­hear­ted,

     come, come,

i come, i come,

            gloom’rang, crum­bling i suc-

cumb.