A Conversation with Martin Heidegger
After a decade when your thought drew
Europe's best--Sartre, Arendt (your own Jewess)
among them--you gave your voice to the dregs
of your crucible in their crucial year,
then nurtured an endless silence
having led sheep for wolves sheep need,
you thought, to create new folds for sheep
lest sheep bleat and are eaten--
bleats rising already in your alpine air.
Yet you must have been comfortable when you said
poets name gods and all things as what they are,
not merely tagging those already known--
a conversation in the chambers and corridors
of the word. In speaking the necessary word,
we name things, and the named becomes known--or hidden:
you censored your earlier mentions of Husserl.
We give birth to being through the word,
our silences stretching catholic wastes around it.
We are comfortable, with many fine poets, too.
But in some situations, I want to say,
Beautiful bullshit, Martin.
Truth can lie.
God's sakes, Spit it out!
Poor Hölderlin, mad,
foreseeing his sublime made wormy, Kierkegaard
gasping at our stripped age, Nietzsche
trying to shake us awake
our poets in asylums
and jails. Lobotomies, lost connections.
Van K. Brock
A Conversation 4 | Ein Gespräch 3
Contents | Mudlark No. 4