Mirko Bonné (1965- )



The hand that signed the paper

Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

The hand that signed the paper felled a city;
Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath,
Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country;
These five kings did a king to death.

The mighty hand leads to a sloping shoulder,
The fingers' joints are cramped with chalk;
A goose's quill has put an end to murder
That put an end to talk.

The hand that signed the treaty bred a fever,
And famine grew, and locusts came;
Great is the hand that holds dominion over
Man by a scribbled name.

The five kings count the dead but do not soften
The crusted wound nor stroke the brow;
A hand rules pity as a hand rules heaven;
Hands have no tears to flow.


Notiz zur 68er-Reprise

Peter Engel (1940- )

Ich hebe den Stein auf,
den ich damals
nicht warf,
wiege ihn in der Hand:
Er ist noch gut
für meine Wut.

Aber ich werfe ihn wieder
nur rein gedanklich:
Mitten hinein in die
Gewaltdebatte als ein
widerlegbares Argument
für die Ohnmacht
des Wortes.


The Responsibility

Peter Appleton

I am the man who gives the word,
If it should come, to use the Bomb.

I am the man who spreads the word
From him to them if it should come.

I am the man who gets the word
From him who spreads the word from him.

I am the man who drops the Bomb
If ordered by the one who's heard
From him who merely spreads the word
The first one gives if it should come.

I am the man who loads the Bomb
That he must drop should orders come
From him who gets the word passed on
By one who waits to hear from him.

I am the man who makes the Bomb
That he must load for him to drop
If told by one who gets the word
From one who passes it from him.

I am the man who fills the till,
Who pays the tax, who foots the bill
That guarantees the Bomb he makes
For him to load for him to drop
If orders come from one who gets
The word passed on to him by one
Who waits to hear it from the man
Who gives the word to use the Bomb.

I am the man behind it all;
I am the one responsible.



Ernst Jandl (1925-2000)

manche meinen
lechts und rinks
kann man nicht
werch ein illtum!


A Politician

e. e. cummings (1894-1962)

a politician is an arse upon
which everyone has sat except a man



Dieter P. Meier-Lenz (1930- )

das rote grüne gelbe
und schwarze wetter
der parteien
läßt die fahnen
bunter flattern
ich ziehe sie alle
auf halbmast

der wahlsonntag brütet
über den dächern
und die urnen füllen sich
wie sanduhren

die abgeordneten zittern
um ihre posten
ich lasse sie zittern

das nenne ich


The Last Election

John Haines (1924 -)

Suppose there are no returns,
and the candidates, one
by one, drop off in the polls,
as the voters turn away,
each to his inner persuasion.

The frontrunners, the dark horses,
begin to look elsewhere,
and even the President admits
he has nothing new to say;
it is best to be silent now.

No more conventions, no donors,
no more hats in the ring;
no ghost-written speeches,
no promises we always knew
were never meant to be kept.

And something like the truth,
or what we knew by that name-
that for which no corporate
sponsor was ever offered-
takes hold in the public mind.

Each subdued and thoughtful
citizen closes his door, turns
off the news. He opens a book,
speaks quietly to his children,
begins to live once more.

from many mountains moving



Gerhard C. Krischker (1947- )

nach beseitigung
der monarchie

freute sich
das volk



The World State

G.K. Chesteron (1874-1936)

OH, how I love Humanity,
With love so pure and pringlish,
And how I hate the horrid French,
Who never will be English!

The International Idea,
The largest and the clearest,
Is welding all the nations now,
Except the one that's nearest.

This compromise has long been known,
This scheme of partial pardons,
In ethical societies
And small suburban gardens-

The villas and the chapels where
I learned with little labour
The way to love my fellow-man
And hate my next-door neighbour.


A Dead Statesman

Rudyard Kipling (1865 - 1936)

I could not dig: I dared not to rob:
Therefore I lied to please the mob.
Now all my lies are proved untrue
And I must face the men I slew.
What tale shall server me here among
Mine angry and defrauded young?


Builders of the State

Richard Watson Gilder (1844–1909)

   Who builds the state? Not he whose power
        Rooted in wrong, in gold intrenched,
    Makes him the regent of the hour;
        The eternal light can not be quenched:

    This shall outlive his little span;
        Shine fierce upon each tainted scheme;
    Shall show where shame blots all the plan;
        The treachery in the dazzling dream.

    He builds the state who builds on truth,—
        Not he who, crushing toward his aim,
    Strikes conscience from the throne, and ruth,
        To win a dark unpiteous fame.

    Not he, thou' master among men,
        Empire and ages all his thought—
    Tho' like an eagle be his ken:
        Down to the ground shall all he brought.

    For this I hold, and shall for aye,
        Till Heaven sends death, that they who sow
    Hate, and the blood of brothers, they
        Shall harvest hate and want and woe—

    The curse of Earth's dread agonies
        Whereto they added, in their hour,
    And all the unheeded tears and cries
        They caused in lust of lawless power.

    He builds the state who to that task
        Brings strong, clean hands, and purpose pure;
    Who wears not virtue as a mask;
        He builds the state that shall endure —

    The state wherein each loyal son
        Holds as a birthright from true sires
    Treasures of honor, nobly won,
       And freedom's never-dying fires.