VII. Barbarismby Albrecht Haushofer
In Syracuse, in times more barbarous,
The practice was to let the inmates go,
Because, to free themselves from prison's woe,
They sang the choral songs of Aeschylus.
And even bloody Genghis Khan declared
To all the soldiers gathered in his halls,
That as they built their pyramids of skulls
The thinkers and the artists should be spared.
The time's long gone for such a fond decree.
Who dares to be a Genghis Khan today?
Who lets the choral singers go their way?
So let us celebrate barbarity.
For now all skulls we equally appraise,
And skulls are so abundant nowadays!
XIX. Playing the Violinby Albrecht Haushofer
A sentry, with his rough, untutored fingers
And halting movements, bows a violin.
Up in my cell, I sometimes hear the din,
And yet it somehow in my spirit lingers.
I know the noble Stradivarius,
It's master, too, I count him as a friend.
My cultivated taste it does offend,
To hear the artless fiddler's awkwardness.
But still, it's music that his clumsy hand
Elicits from the lowly instrument,
It's music, though the rhythm may be bent.
It's music, in this gloomy prison-land.
That last one was a Mozart melody --
Would Mozart have objected? Never, he!
XX. Beethoven by Albrecht Haushofer
At age sixteen a scolding came my way,
When I, instead of choosing to review
The thumping triplets of the Opus Two,
The Opus One Eleven dared to play.
My teacher, with white hair about her ears,
She let me play, then pondered to herself.
"The man who could compose this piece was deaf.
You'll understand it in your later years."
She paused, then said, "Your heart will break one day,
And yet it will beat on, despite your sighs."
And kindness filled my teacher's big, bright eyes.
She sat at the piano and she played.
These days I often have that memory
Of how my long-dead teacher played for me.
XXXVIII. My Fatherby Albrecht Haushofer
(note: the poet's father was Karl Haushofer, who popularized the doctrine of geopolitics in Germany during the 1920s, and taught it to Adolf Hitler and Rudolf Hess in prison.)
A deep and mystic fable from abroad
Explains that evil spirits, sealed up tight,
Are kept imprisoned in the ocean's night,
Sequestered by the cautious hand of God.
Until, just once in every thousand years,
Blind luck will let a fisherman decide.
He'll either free the one that lurks inside,
Or back into the sea it disappears.
And so unto my father fell this fate.
The prison-vessel he could either keep,
Or cast the demon back into the deep.
My father broke the seal. It was too late.
He did not see the wicked breath that swirled.
He let the demon loose into the world.
LXVIII. Albert Schweitzerby Albrecht Haushofer
Don't know the Lambaréné doctor who
Can play the organ, who can fathom Bach,
The meaning of the life of Christ unlock,
Can bring the Hindu's thought to brilliant view.
For years now, he has lived a life apart
In darkest Congo. Gladly, if I could,
I'd ask him why he left the Western world
To heal black folk and purify his heart.
I'd hope that he is free from strife and rage...
Perhaps he would explain his heart to me,
That makes him live for modest charity.
Perhaps he'd speak of this demented age,
Or smile and say, "Thou fool, who cannot see!"
And then he'd play the "Art of the Fugue" to me.
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