KARL POPPER VISITS BANKS’ PENINSULA
Culture, I suppose is
something you take with you,
like Samuel Butler
dragging his piano up the Rangitata
or the Paradise Lost
that Joseph Banks
pressed alien leaves
in, like slips of faded silk.
I, Hitler’s gift to
the Antipodeans,
am here less Odysseus
in Phaeacia than
Ovid in exile among
deceptively pale barbarians;
hence I have run out
of things to say.
Here I am cut off, abgeschnitten
from Europe,
searching for the kabalistic key
to unlock all
landscapes. Finis Austriae
as Freud says; the
old world’s Gethsemane –
which is an odd
metaphor for a Viennese Jew’s
use, but this is a
gentile land made new.
The good ice cream
makes the distance bearable.
But no man is an
island, not quite an island Sirmio...
A peninsula, a
disappointed island.
Halbinsel. Kultur and Heimat:
Heidegger’s
Nazi ghost whispers Dasein in my ear.
Comments
Post a Comment