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Trakl - The True Fate of the Bremen Town Musicians as Told by Georg Trakl
Monika Zobel
The True Fate of the Bremen Town Musicians as Told by Georg Trakl
They haul the donkey, the largest, to the mill first. They haul
him like a potato sack--one million eyes bound.
They haul the oldest
to the mill first.
The mill grinds with a grin through grains.
How else should we sort the grains?
They tie the dog to the tree--a large plant whose roots grind
the burnt earth.
The wind hauls wheelbarrows of dirt.
This dog's too old too common among the millions
of animals. The wind forgets what to mill first.
The woods mumble rot, grin through strong sailor knots.
The oldest oak builds a large
mansion in the sky.
How else should we haul the stars? They grind
their teeth in the dark.
They grind
the dark.
One cat, scrubbed in the mill's sink, stink of last week's stew.
They haul her to the lake. Grin
at the rag in the mouth of one large cat.
The filthy old
animal grips her bones.
Century-old water ties her throat, grinds
the boulders.
A large
harvest yields a million
strong children, they sing.
The grains are fattest when we haul
the moon in buckets.
They haul
the rooster by his neck, the oldest miller ends with his head, grins
at the sight of his neck.
Grind, grind, the gallows gallop. One million feathers make one large
pillow for our gallows.
Their grins--
an orchestra of plucked skin and a million strings.
Hands applaud, the mill looms large.
Monica Zobel
| 85
Copyright of West Branch is the property of West Branch and its content may not be copied or emailed to multiple sites or posted to a listserv without the copyright holder's express written permission. However, users may print, download, or email articles for individual use.
However, users may print, download, or email articles for individual use.
The True Fate of the Bremen Town Musicians as Told by Georg Trakl
They haul the donkey, the largest, to the mill first. They haul
him like a potato sack--one million eyes bound.
They haul the oldest
to the mill first.
The mill grinds with a grin through grains.
How else should we sort the grains?
They tie the dog to the tree--a large plant whose roots grind
the burnt earth.
The wind hauls wheelbarrows of dirt.
This dog's too old too common among the millions
of animals. The wind forgets what to mill first.
The woods mumble rot, grin through strong sailor knots.
The oldest oak builds a large
mansion in the sky.
How else should we haul the stars? They grind
their teeth in the dark.
They grind
the dark.
One cat, scrubbed in the mill's sink, stink of last week's stew.
They haul her to the lake. Grin
at the rag in the mouth of one large cat.
The filthy old
animal grips her bones.
Century-old water ties her throat, grinds
the boulders.
A large
harvest yields a million
strong children, they sing.
The grains are fattest when we haul
the moon in buckets.
They haul
the rooster by his neck, the oldest miller ends with his head, grins
at the sight of his neck.
Grind, grind, the gallows gallop. One million feathers make one large
pillow for our gallows.
Their grins--
an orchestra of plucked skin and a million strings.
Hands applaud, the mill looms large.
Monica Zobel
| 85
Copyright of West Branch is the property of West Branch and its content may not be copied or emailed to multiple sites or posted to a listserv without the copyright holder's express written permission. However, users may print, download, or email articles for individual use.
However, users may print, download, or email articles for individual use.
