Example of Poetry of HANS ARP 1887-1966


The Domestic Stones (fragment)


The feet of morning the feet of noon and the feet of evening walk ceaselessly round pickled buttocks on the other hand the feet of midnight remain motionless in their echo-woven baskets


consequently the lion is a diamond



on the sofas made of bread


are seated the dressed and the undressed


the undressed hold leaden swallows between their toes


the dressed hold leaden nests between their fingers


at all hours the undressed get dressed again


and the dressed get undressed


and exchange the leaden swallows .for the leaden nests


consequently the tail is an umbrella


a mouth opens within another mouth


and within this mouth another mouth


and within this mouth another mouth


and so on without end


it is a sad perspective



which adds an I-don't-know-what


to another I-don't-know-what


consequently the grasshopper is a column


the pianos with heads and tails


place pianos with heads and tails


on their heads and their tails


consequently the tongue is a chair ...

And here is another poem by Hans Arp which I wish to share with you.

Kaspar Is Dead (Translated by G P Skratz)

o god our kaspar is dead
& now there's no-one to steal away with the burning flag &
snap it every day in the dark cloud's braided hair.

no-one to crank the coffee-mill in the ancient cask.

no-one to conjure idyllic deer from the petrified grocery bag.

no-one to sniff ships umbrellas bee-keepers udders of wind
spindles of ozone no-one to filet the pyramids.

o god god god our good old kaspar is dead. lord lord
kaspar is dead.

heart-broken shark's teeth rattle with grief in the belfry
when we utter his given name. so i stick to his last,
sighing kaspar kaspar kaspar.

why have you deserted us. what form has your great soul
wandered into now. have you become a star or a chain of
water on a hot whirlwind or a plump breast of black light
or a transparent brick on the groaning drum of the rocks
of existence...

o now the crowns of our heads the soles of our feet wither
away & angels smolder on the funeral pyre.

the dark bowling alley thunders behind the sun & there's
no-one to wind the compasses & the wheels of wheelbarrows.

no-one to dine with the phosphorescent rat at the barefoot
table.

no-one to drive off the wind devil when he tries to seduce
the horses.

no-one to teach us monograms in the stars.

his bust will adorn all truly noble firesides but there is
no snuff & comfort for a dead head.

by Jean Hans Arp


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