Musings of a Performance Poet - reading between the airlines
one day one of us might become so famous she'd be able to retire.
It was interesting hearing my Aboriginal poems read in German. Most of the audience understood English, but for those who didn't Rudi read translations. I'd read, then he'd read the translated text in German. Afterwards, about a half a dozen people hung around wanting to talk about Australia and Australian poetry. It was kind of weird. The irnoy of it. Here we were: two Australian poets - one, Austrian, the other American (I grew up in the States). But then this really is what Australian poetry is!
On the train to Salzburg, Rudi told me he thought he was suffering from "Salzheimer's Disease" - a condition which, according to friend, can strike anyone who stays in Salzburg longer than a week. And he'd been there three months!
It wasn't long before I started noticing the symptoms. Like strolling along the street late at night with a group of acquaintances, only to look up and discover yourself in the company of strangers, having blindly crossed at the lights when everyone else in your party had turned left at the corner. Rudi says it's a common malady because the town is so damn orderly. Everything is so well-regulated, trim, tidy and comfortable, you end up falling into patterns of behavior and abandon thought altogether. I wondered if this had anything to do with why Hitler, who came from a little town not far from Salzburg, had such success with his ideas and followers.
The highlight of my stay in Salzburg was my meeting with Gerhard Amanshauser, the 70-year-old Salzburg writer best known for his poems, and for his novel, Castle With Late Guests, who invited us to visit him at his home.
One gets there by the most circuitous of routes. We climbed what seemed a thousand steps until we reached a cliff-side track made famous by the poet, Georg Trakl. From there we wound our way along the edge of a precipice, into a forest, over archaic stone bridges, round the towering fortress that watches over the town, and into the shadow of the battlements until, breaking through into a clearing, we came upon Amanshauser's enchanted cottage. And there was the poet himself, coming to greet us, by turns humble, ironic and grand.
The conversation over wine and a light lunch ranged from Parmenides to Aborigines to China. Rudi persuaded me to do my
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