Heute ist in meinem Elternhaus dieses Frühwerk aufgetaucht. Leider undatiert - ich habe mir erst später angewöhnt, jedes Stück Papier, und sei es nur ein Einkaufszettel, mit einem Datum zu versehen. Was Gehalt und Gestalt angeht, fällt mir neben den noch etwas holprigen vierhebigen Jamben auf, dass mich das Thema über die Jahrzehnte nicht losgelassen hat. Auch heute noch trauere ich dem Sommer schon hinterher, wenn er noch gar nicht vorbei ist.
Gestern auf dem Weg zur Arbeit: Meine Sfera meldet, dass sie demnächst etwas Kraftstoff benötigen wird. Ich beobachte die orangefarbene Benzinwarnleuchte, die noch unentschlossen flackert und sich nicht entscheiden kann, ob es wirklich schon an der Zeit ist, einen Niedrigstand im Tank zu melden. Lange wird das aber nicht mehr gut gehen. Das weiß ich aus Erfahrung.
Das Meer ist weg und hat nur Matsch zurückgelassen
Sogar mit einem Fernglas kann man es nicht sehen
Vom Himmel stürzen täglich neue Wassermassen
und ausgerechnet dann wenn wir am Strand spazierengehen
Der Deich besteht aus einem schrägen grünen Rasen
wo Hannes nach dem blauen Handschuh jagen kann
Der Sturm hat einen weißen Strandkorb umgeblasen
besinnt sich kurz und fängt dann mit dem nächsten an
Im Hafen kümmert man sich um die Seehundkinder
und denen ist das Wetter sowas von egal
Gleich gegenüber wohnt ein reicher alter Inder
sein Heim befindet sich in einem grauen Wal
Es hatte tagsüber immer wieder heftig geregnet. Die Straße schimmerte noch feucht im Licht der Straßenlaterne, als Heddy an einem viel zu warmen Dezemberabend in den Bus stieg, um nach Hause zu fahren. Wie so oft war die Zahl der anderen Fahrgäste überschaubar. Heddy suchte zwei freie Plätze für sich und seinen Rucksack, setzte sich bequem hin und überlegte. Wie sollte er sich diesmal die Zeit vertreiben? Die Buslektüre hatte er schon morgens erledigt, so dass er mit gutem Gewissen faulzenzen konnte. Heddy überlegte, ob er einfach aus dem Fenster blicken und sich in seinen Gedanken verlieren sollte. Er befürchtete aber, dabei einzuschlafen und die Haltestelle zu verpassen, an der er aussteigen musste. Das war schon mehrmals vorgekommen.
There was a young lass of cologne
every evening she started to moan
till the day that she hopped
off the roof then she stopped
now her poor lover moans on his own
In the beginning there was only the melody
Elgars melody, without those words marching
with it and rightly so
Since this tune is one of the rare things
of overwhelming beauty
it lets your soul swing
Singing along you feel
that people could be united
by the beauty of music
Be it in the land where they dare
to sing of unity
even adding freedom and justice
Be it in the land of hope and glory
be it in the land of the free
or in the home of the brave
Oh would it span the whole world
this sound bridge which is not stable
but weak for the length of a short tune
A little boy is standing in the dark. The darkness that surrounds him does not feed on a lack of light. It is the darkness of the past feeding on a lack of memory. A faint ray of light that is growing steadily and with increasing speed illuminates the vision more and more and the boy comes slowly into view. This is no fiction but genuine childhood remembrances. But can we call it reality? Memory, as it seems, always fuses fact and fiction - but be that as it may, it is little Hendrik we can see clearly now as the darkness lifts.Apparently he is not listening too carefully to what the kindergarten teacher is saying. Standing in front of a wall that is covered with feathers and drums, the only thing he understands perfectly well is that each child will get its own ribbon with real feathers and its own drum to perform at the kindergarten's summer party. After the Indian dance - and that's the thing that really makes Hendrik's excitement explode - he will be allowed to take one of the drums home.Hendrik has been bravest of the Sioux in his imagination many times before. He doesn't really care about the feathers, and his rubber tomahawk at home is all he needs for a weapon, but boy - the drum. So he is standing there again, not for the first and not for the last time, mouth open, staring at the drum he must not touch for many weeks to come. The drum has been sitting up there on the wall for so long now, he just wants to touch the leather once to shorten the time of waiting, knowing there's no way, he is too small and the teacher is too vigilant, but his time will come. (The drum is not made of real leather, of course, but in his imagination the fiercest of buffaloes has been slain to build it).Indians never use drumsticks on their drums, do they? But this doesn't matter to Hendrik who is still dancing the Indian dance on his way home, he likes the sticks especially, he who will be bravest of the Sioux again when he reaches his room. There are wide plains, wild horses, mighty rivers and great battles in his room when his imagination sets to work, and from now on his drum will call out over hills and valleys time and time again.There seems to be a problem in the wild wild west: Little sister who unfortunately shares the room with Hendrik doesn't fit into the scene. The drum may be played but will not sound right as long as reality remains in the room.What's happening now? Alright, alright, as far as reality is concerned, the drum is the perfect thing to boast with, look, little sister, what I've got, little sister looks, little sister takes the drum, big brother's beaming with pride, little sister beats and one of the drumsticks is broken in an instant.Here is someone who's learning one of life's many lessons: When anger has got such a hold on you that you could hate the person causing your pain but you cannot because you love her, there's nothing left to do but cry. Of course Hendrik is not able to formulate such an insight: that will take another twenty years and his first creative writing course, and even then he might not be so sure. For the time being, the almost bravest of the Sioux is crying away as darkness slowly settles.
Leno's men are hard at work sawing timber under the direction of their foreman, many of them standing up to their waists in - alright, here we go again. He is just sitting there, just came in, he doesn't say a word. But I know his thoughts, I know that he's not interested but nevertheless feels he has to know what I am reading, they all want to know, it happens everytime, and at the moment he is preparing the first subtle assault because I am not reacting, I keep my eyes on the text although it has lost all of its meaning the very moment he sat down, could be chinese really, but I pretend to read although it is impossible. There now, he is slowly leaning over to me, deliberately crossing the border to attract my attention but I won't capitulate, Leno's men are hard at work, Leno's men are hard at work, Leno's men are hard at work, his eyes are focussing on the text now, I am not looking at him but I know, I can see the two spotlights scanning the pages, chasing words and phrases devoid of real meaning because in his mind he is already planning the final attack, and there it is, you are hedged in, throw away your guns, hands up - no, he's not saying that, I'm getting weird now, he's just asking the inevitable question which has been circling above my head like an air scout for so long, the end is near now and I close the book to show him the cover, awaiting his final remark which as I knew from the start could only be (a) or (b), (a) being accompanied by shrugging shoulders and a polite inquiry after the quality of the text, (b) showing signs of recognition while providing detailed information about his experiences with my book. It being (a) this time I try to think of an answer that could be of any use for him and would do justice to the text, but finding none as always because there is none I finally give him what he wants, nodding my head and it's over and Leno's men are still hard at work sawing timber.