A Conversation with Martin Heidegger


Home again in the speech of her heart's habitat,
surely, Hannah's voice glinted, for all around you--
your wife in and out--had been subtly filmed.

Hannah wove excuses for you one knits a child,
though they can no more untrouble us than her.

You sat with quiet assassins, long, long after
it was clear--clear from the start--they spewed
Hölderlin's high streams from lips soiling
your dreams, rode stolen horses, trampling earth,
nurturing abscessed roots under new-paved roads.

Versailles only a scab on the sore Nietzsche saw
long before Versailles. Narcissus only saw
the sweet surface of the rancid water,
as Wagner, before Versailles, moaned passionately
for the old, pimply, embalmed, smelly darling--
we loved no operas more than his in the Thirties--
blurring Europe's ideas, preparing it for mergers.

What skews your words is the angle they turn away.
You traced roots into us leading nowhere.
Meditation calculating.
           Shush! Don't tell us
we are circled by the beast within; don't say
colleagues will sell us when barbarians come
to awake what lies in the bone hut. Maybe,
the beast will sleep, if we are quiet. Maybe,
we are luckier, not better than you. Yesterday
and today are tomorrow. You are the world.

Van K. Brock
A Conversation 6 | Ein Gespräch 5
Contents | Mudlark No. 4