This one’s a castle; that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Liszt, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
A Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
going nowhere, has never carried traffic.
With a boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreude or Schloss.
Self-portrait, this? What features may we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Hardly. A disarmingly awful suit,
and most revealingly of all – he has no face.
This one’s a castle, that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Lizst, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
and then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
a Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates from long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
that goes nowhere, has never carried traffic,
bears one boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreud or Schloss:
self-portrait, this. What features might we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Well, hardly. An endearing, awful suit,
and – most revealingly of all – he has no face.
I want a new interest
to heal,
My heart's weariness,
Someone to live for
and work for;
The one to wait for
and long for.
This my unfulfilled
longing,
Makes my want of
strength,
my listlessness
brings my languidness.
I need to encounter
this healing interest,
to cure my festering,
wandering mind;
Setting its thinking
at rest,
By your loving kindness
O my God.
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