Colon
Homework. After the genitive immediately a pointing follows. The colon. Nazar sent email from Lwow. No letter. In the well-known poetic Verkürzung. Without point. „Thanks for the autumn improvement”. German. And Polish: „Dziękuję za uświetnienie jesieni”. The thoughts turn back into old times. Autumn sheets. And God. In Nazars the poems an indefinite Fürwort is. With me, I would be a Dichterin, he at the most one comma would earn. The eyes however sink in the snow. Before the window. In air. On the roof. Directly it will cover everything. More warmly, more closely, fresh, damp snow. And I will see nothing more. Still feel. After midnight I call Wolfgang in Guangzhou for the last time in this year. Wake it. Because with it is the night already past. I want that he does not miss his airplane. It finally also. Then I lie down. And over-sleep the last pain of the isolation. Today I survived one poetry evening with Wisława Szymborska. In Krakau, in the center of the Japanese art manggha. In May I survived a reading with Tadeusz Konwicki. In Warsaw, in the Café of the publishing house Czytelnik. One does not have to do with the other anything. As like that is. Except the fact that it rained in both cases. That is, today it stopped evenly. And directly a thick layer of soft snow puts here over everything. Except the fact that heue Szymborska and Konwicki explained at that time itself ready to mark their books. The complaisance of earned writers transforms the quantity of the Bewunderer into a gefrässige Meute. Wrong does to me, but I know for it no other word. That did not experience Canetti its living day. A mass of Verehrern in the center of the Japanese art before the table of the Literaturnobelpreisträgerin. A mass of Verehrern in the Café Czytelnik before the table of the master. The Mrs. Verlegerin today always asked understanding. Quietly and politely. That, ask, so not. Absolutely incomprehensibly. This crowding. My ladies, my gentlemen. They may not crush the Dichterin. Not the Preisträgerin. The Mr. Verleger regarded a doing without a word. In its suit blackness. It secured its colleague from the rear. I know, what proceeds in its head. Because I know it. I read off it its eyes. Its high forehead. A poem develops. The next. And I, which is not I Dichterin, envy it. Around the talent. The gift. The handicraft. The short form. The concise formulation. The male words. I am long-winded. Pleonastic. Need enormous amounts of words. And the authorities from the library in the dwelling with the ore gel. Me only Elias Canetti comes into the sense. Its books. From the shelf in the corridor. Mass and power. The Jagdmeute. The conscience of the words. Canetti experienced time life no Polish queue. I already for the second time. So one. Post office-socialist. Queue. Savage of animals. In that it no more behaviour gives. With leaves. I do not read poems. I admit that openly. But gladly I listen to them. From the mouth from poet inside. The modesty of Mrs. Szymborskas words. Went fast under in the greedy Polish post office-communist Hetzmeute. But I can do now really nothing. A woman walk desperately „where is the mainstream direction of the queue here? ”, because you seem, she would stand on the side of the auditorium in manggha, on which the queue moves around no Jota forward. Therefore it pushes with all forces. And elbow. In my backs. Another beside me complains about the lack of logistics. And I snatch at air. I survived. Thanked you me the publisher. More easily around at least two Kilos of body fluid. Lebendgewicht. Weldingbathed. At the stop I waited for the bus and felt the cooling. At the night. In the bus. Home. I read all poems. That volume ends with a colon. And is open. Approximately. Closed. Again I will never ask a Polish Dichterin or a Polish writer after a reading in Poland for an autograph. Harm around the words. After midnight I call Wolfgang in Guangzhou for the last time in this year. Wake it. Because with it is the night already past. Until tomorrow all snow innocent with a thick layer will be covered. And I will see nothing more. Still feel. Still hear. I want that he does not miss his airplane. And over-sleep the last pain of the isolation. After the genitive in each case the colon follows.
