Max Beckmann Poems

Yuko Otomo
December 2016

GENESIS 

Max Beckmann Poems

JOURNEY ON THE FISH (MAN AND WOMAN)

we are tied
together
by an eternal fate

I, holding your darkened mask
you, mine

your silenced flesh
become mine
when I bury my face
into the palm of the sea

MORALS 

with his hollowed eyes stuffed
by a vortex of seer’s contradictions
he is determined to try to piece the darkness of his times

contemplating ideas of race & species
a man, (un)knowingly pushes
his elbows against the picture frame
which is set to secure his position & status

feet bleeding
he acts the fatal role of Christ
just to return to the original sight
of the passion play

on a barren hill
he sees nothing
but a vast melancholic void
shared by both torture & sweet prayers

“Oh, Eros! Oh, Lord!”

he shouts
his last words

TREES & HOUSES

a balloon,
an umbrella,
a lamp post,
one of them
argues with the sky
where weightlessness is
always ready to morph itself
on anyone’s request
for any possible idiom & identity

GENESIS

he & she stood
by a slow blooming yellow iris
for the first time together

the earth was insistently naïve,
simply flat & round,
under their feet.

since words
such as “pessimism” or “optimism”
were not yet invented,

they had no reason
to pay attention to the call of evil
disguised as a snake

for the same reason,
they had no way of anticipating
a passion play, the mockery of a burning heart

they were just born

they had no need of discussing
“what is pure” & “what is not” 

IDEOLOGY OF HELL

no one cries
but screams, sobs & moans
in Hell

forced to carry a cross & gun powder on his shoulders
the one who breathes thick faultless air
becomes instantaneously patriotic

& praises the various intentions
of socio-political metaphysics
invented by picknickers

IDEOLOGY OF HEAVEN

sunflowers & chimneys
share the same afternoon shade

electric lines
run through the sky
pretending to create
a clean image
on an unused music sheet

a dog sleeps,
content,
in an empty lot
in Frankfurt

35/35

hands to grasp
every raw element
of the picture book perfection
of being (hu)man

reoccurring dreams
to examine
thin ironies
our piety has created

shoe laces
to tie

numbers to
count

& then deny
later

ACTOR  

wearing a costume of blue/grey,
I throw myself thoroughly
toward an exotic desire
to swim against the stream
in front of the crowd
just to show them
that my poor vocabulary to deliver
what’s on my mind
has nothing to do
with the intense silence
I am enveloped in

I fish by the lake.
I hunt in the woods.
I mine in the quarry.
like two fallen candles,
I rest my legs down in bed
by the red curtain at night

interrupted by the crowd’s eager appetite for disguises,
I often walk away
from the familiar stage, swiftly & proudly,
as I give them back
the first line I ever learned to memorize,

“ I am not a still life”

 FEMALE DANCER

as she performs
a Russian split,
her soft-hard spine
curves naturally in a right angle

religious emotions
are nothing but a desperate yearning
to touch
anything that reflects
a perfectly balanced form,
a body myth

 BIRTH

when hot water
was poured
into the moment of day break
I, a new born, tragically
fell into night

DEATH

hanging upside down
in the fragile architecture of Time
I long to make love to a fish

.   .   .

in light,
scents of flowers & voices of the choir in ritual costumes
peacefully ripple a similar sense of anonymity
manifested by the modest & cruel horror of our species

.   .   .

a woman
contemplates
the glow
of a new born
she has just delivered

VEGETABLE

names of vegetables
are much easier

to remember
than those of fish

THE PRODIGAL SON: A GAME OF TITLING WORK 

among swine
among courtesans
feasting on
disillusionment
together
with beggars

the chimney sweep
never makes up his mind over
what to sing
when drunk

all he cares about
is to drink up what he has
fall asleep soundly
& dream of resurrection
which hopefully takes place
in some flower-blooming season

ALLEGORICAL MORALS

caged,
we discuss
our sense of guilt
over history

rarely,
does an artist
paint our sphere
as it is

in fragile air
between the end of one bridge
& the beginning of another,
we dream-walk armored
by our allegorical senses of morals
& the vivid images
of our earlier selves

 IN GRAY

we gradually lose ourselves
in our own footsteps
as we get closer
to the mountain top.

my wife in gray,
I in blue/black,
we keep talking of the image

of the run down station we passed
on some rainy afternoon

“Where we reach the top,
Where can we go?” she asks half-jokingly

forced to be orphans in eternity,
just to break the monotony of our daily routines,
we switch roles & costumes
occasionally

These poems have previously been published in

Genesis (Sisyphus Press 2004)
STUDY & Other Poems on Art (Ugly Duckling Presse  2013)

Images courtesy of Arteidolia

Max Beckmann in New York @ the MET thru February 20, 2017