Nach Auschwitz ein Gedicht zu schreiben, ist barbarisch.
Theodor Adorno
To write poetry Post-Auschwitz
is more necessary than ever
It was necessary before, to be sure
in fact, it was necessary
from the beginning of Time
because poetry is
the beginning of Time
and it is necessary now, here
in the wilderness of these cities
that speak many languages
but listen to none
In truth, poetry will be necessary
as long as life is brief
as a candle between darknesses
a blossoming in the wind
a scent of rain
If poetry makes us barbarians
then so be it –
let us be the Barbarians!
Things could be worse
we could have been dead already
and lost like tears in the rain
we could have been aborted
in our mothers womb –
and the light would have remained
invisible, a mystery
of clarity and warmth
never experienced in the flesh
like the wind in the willows, whistling
like the wind in the lungs, breathing
like the snow
falling like petals in the spring
And the Sun, yes
the great wheel of Sun
would forever be a stranger
rolling nameless
from destruction to destruction
without end…
It was not us barbarians
that killed the jews in Auschwitz
(you know I’m telling the truth)
it was not us barbarians that murdered
all those hundreds of millions of people
that died for ideological reasons
in the age of progress and modernity
No, what killed them was the lack
of human dignity and courage
the lack of faith and fear
in something higher than man himself
To recognize nothings above man
is to belive in nothing
is to allow oneself everything –
in the heart of this freedom
there is darkness and confusion
a loss of purpose and direction
a center that will not hold
The illusion of absolute freedom
is the reality of nothingness
A barbarian is always on his way
he does not stop
to round up six million jews
and kill them
Why should he?
He neither has the time nor the desire
What is a Jew, anyway?
Why Jew and why Gentile?
A jew is either a brave man or a coward
he is either truthful or a liar
his handshake either firm
or limp like a wet rag –
and that is all that matters
Perhaps you have to be a barbarian
to understand the truth of that?
The barbarian is not the nicest guy
but he is not the worst either
far from it, actually
True, he wants to crush his enemies
drive them before his horses
and hear the lamentation of their women
but there are other things too in life
that he praises
and the falcon soaring towards the sky
the plains that stretch limitless
the wind that blows wherever it pleases
fills his heart with joy
as does the roads through the yellow woods
when they diverge
and force him to choose
To the barbarian
life is an adventure
and if the hero turns out to be
the man next to himself
he wants to be his brother
Violence for the barbarian
is a deeply personal matter
he does not kill or go to war
without personal reasons
but when he does
he does not hesitate
and his fierceness is great
his discipline strong
The barbarian knows
that the anemia of Rococo
prepares the ground
for the bloodbath of revolutions
and revolutions destroy
indiscriminately
To him life is not an instrument
for higher purposes
or a utilitarian calculation
No one but he himself
can tell the true worth of things
Does the barbarian not desire
his name to live for ever?
Does he not want tales to be told
of high adventures?
Does he not wish for the Pindaric ode?
Yes, but it should be tales
of what happened here
on this earth under this sky
while the mystery of light
still filled his heart
The barbarian has no ideology
of supremacy
he knows his strength
he has proven it in deeds
and needs no one to tell him
who he is
The barbarian respects
only his equals
he does not care for the weak
and he despises the coward
he passes them by
like soulless things by the road
When in the mood
he may play the coward a trick
just to see him shudder and shrink
he thinks it’s strange
how small and insignificant
man can make himself
to escape danger
like a mouse
and how much fuss
he can make in the meantime
as if he were a bagpipe
squeezed by strong hands
The barbarian praises the strong
and the honest
whoever he is
wherever he comes from –
he is the salt of the earth
When condemned by civilized man
for his harshness and lack
of compassion
the barbarian laughs out loud
civilized man ceased to be an enigma
when he settled in big cities
with many languages
and more than many lies
he is a pawn in the game of others
and knows it
the barbarian sees him through
he sees the secret desire
in the heart of civilized man
to be the barbarians equal
to be true
No, the barbarian is not the nicest guy
but he is the bravest
and the most honest
when he speaks he speaks the truth
and nothing but the truth
lies leave a bitter taste in the mouth
the taste of a slave or a sycophant
his strongest and most truthful words
are the works of his hands
his enemies have often complained
about these truths
his beloved never
Poetry is truth
poetry is the highest form of truth
Poetry fills the barbarian
with purity and light
like the Sun itself
Thus fulfilled he calls himself
by his true name
He sings the song to Brother Sun
bright and warm
He sings the song to Sister Death
dark and cold, but true
And the wheel of Sun rolls
the wheel of Life
the wheel of the World
the great wheel
that crushes everything
that restores all…
Om skribenten: Jonas Åberg
