both German and English version

Jean Arp
kaspar ist tot (‘aus “die wolkenpumpe”’)
weh unser gutter kaspar ist tot wer trägt nun die brennende fahne im zopf were dreht
die kaffeemühle wer lockt das idyllische reh auf dem meer verwirrte er die schiffe mit
dem wörtchen parapluie und die winde nannte er bienenvater weh weh weh unser
kaspar ist tot heiliger bimbam kaspar ist tot die heufische klappern in den glocken
wenn man seinen vornamen ausspricht darum seufze ich weiter kaspar kaspar kaspar
warum bist du ein stern geworden oder eine kette aus wasser an einem heissen
wirbelwind oder ein euter aus schwarzen licht oder rein durchsichtiger ziegel an der
stöhnenden trommel des felsigen wesens jetzt vertrocknen unsere scheitel und sohlen
und die feen liegen halbverkohlt auf dem scheiterhaufen jetzt donnert hinter der sonne
die schwarze kegelbahn und keiner zieht mehr die kompasse und die räder der
schiebkarren auf wer isst nun mit der ratte am einsamen tisch wer verjagt nun den
teufel wenn er die pferde verführen will wer erklärt uns die monogramme in den
sternen seine büste wird die kamine aller wahrhaft edlen menschen zieren doch das ist
kein trost und schnupftabak für einen totenkopf
woe woe good kaspar is dead who will now wear the burning banner in his pigtail
who will turn the coffee grinder who will entice the idyllic deer he confounded the
ships at sea with that little word parapluie and he called the winds father of bees woe
woe woe our good kaspar is dead hell’s bells kaspar is dead the crayfish clatter in the
bell lofts when one pronounces his given name so I keep on sighing kaspar kaspar
kaspar why have you become a star or a chain of water on a hot whirlwind or an udder
of black light or a transparent brick on the groaning drum of jagged being now the
parts in our hair and the soles of our feet are parched and the fairies lie half-charred
on the funeral pyre now the black bowling alley thunders behind the sun and no-one
winds the compasses or the wheels of the wheel barrows anymore who will eat now
with the rat at the lonely table who will chase off the devil when he tries to mislead
the horses who will explain to us the monograms in the stars his bust will adorn the
mantelpieces of all truly noble people but that’s no consolation that’s snuff to a skull
Arp links words by random association, creating new words, and adopting words,
lines or entire poems from earlier works into new configurations. Text is malleable,
re-usable, and fragments often appear in a different literary genre, sometimes even
changing language in the process. Typically the text has a few (numbered) sections,
all of which contain similar ideas or words in various combinations:
“From 1915 to 1920 I wrote my Wolkenpumpe (Cloud Pump) poems. In these poems I
tore apart sentences, words, syllables. I tried to break down the language into atoms,
in order to approach the creative. At length I rejected art, because it distracts us from
the depths and disturbs the pure dream. Out of the billowy breast of height and depth,
I awaited the figures upon whose brows gleam tiaras of diamond kisses. Chance
opened up perceptions to me, immediate spiritual insights. Intuition led me to revere
th law of chance as the highest and deepest of laws, the law that rises from the
fundament. An insignificant word might become a deadly thunderbolt. One little
sound might destroy the earth. One little sound might create a new universe.”
(from: “Dada was not a farce” 1949)
Words, sayings, sentences which I selected from newspapers and especially from their
advertisements were in 1917 the foundation of my poems. Often I shut my eyes and
chose words and sentences in newspapers by underlining them with a pencil. I called
these poems Arpaden. It was a beautiful Dada time when we hated and reviled the
chiselling of work, the distracted look of the spiritual wrestlers, the titans, from the
depth of our hearts. I twisted and turned easily, improvising words and sentences
from words and sentences chosen from the newspapers. Life is a puzzling puff of
wind, and what comes out of it can be no more than a puff of wind.”
(from “Wegweiser” (Signpost, 1953)