Brand New Ancients / Brandneue Klassiker E-Book

Kae Tempest

• Herausgeber: Suhrkamp Verlag
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Deutsch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 101

Beschreibung

Die antiken Götter von heute leben im Südosten Londons. Sie heißen Kevin und Jane, Mary und Brian, Thomas und Clive – zwei Familien in benachbarten Häusern, Eheleute, die einander betrügen, Halbbrüder, die nichts voneinander wissen. Ihre Nöte, Hoffnungen und Enttäuschungen bringt Kae Tempest in dem preisgekrönten Langgedicht Brand New Ancients / Brandneue Klassiker zu Gehör. In den kleinen, prekären Leben findet Tempest die Kraft der alten Mythen wieder. Dem Zynismus und der Gleichgültigkeit der kapitalistischen Gesellschaft setzt Tempest Humanismus und Einfühlungsvermögen entgegen und die Wucht der literarischen Sprache.

Leseprobe

Die antiken Götter von heute leben im Südosten Londons. Sie heißen Kevin und Jane, Mary und Brian, Thomas und Clive – zwei Familien in benachbarten Häusern, Eheleute, die einander betrügen, Halbbrüder, die nichts voneinander wissen. Ihre Nöte, Hoffnungen und Enttäuschungen bringt Kae Tempest in ihrem preisgekrönten Langgedicht Brand New Ancients/Brandneue Klassiker zu Gehör. In den kleinen, prekären Leben findet sie die Kraft der alten Mythen wieder. Dem Zynismus und der Gleichgültigkeit der kapitalistischen Gesellschaft setzt sie Humanismus und Einfühlungsvermögen entgegen und die Wucht ihrer Sprache.

Kae Tempest, geboren 1985 in Süd-London, ist Rapperin, Lyrikerin, Theater- und Romanautorin. Für ihren ersten Gedichtband, Brand New Ancients, wurde sie 2013 mit dem Ted Hughes Award for New Work in Poetry ausgezeichnet, einem der wichtigsten Lyrikpreise Großbritanniens. Ihr zweiter Gedichtband, Hold Your Own (edition suhrkamp 2706), zählte in der Übersetzung von Johanna Wange zu den Lyrik-Empfehlungen 2016.

Kae Tempest

Brand New AncientsBrandneue Klassiker

Lyrik

Englisch und deutsch

Übersetzt von Johanna Wange

Die Originalausgabe dieses Buches erschien 2013 unter dem Titel Brand New Ancients bei Picador, einem Imprint von Pan Macmillan

eBook Suhrkamp Verlag Berlin 2017

Der vorliegende Text folgt der 1. Auflage der edition suhrkamp 2733.

© Kae Tempest 2013

© der deutschen Ausgabe Suhrkamp Verlag Berlin 2017

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Umschlag gestaltet nach einem Konzept

von Willy Fleckhaus: Rolf Staudt

Brand New Ancients is dedicated to Camberwell, Lewisham, Brockley, New Cross, Peckham, Brixton, Blackheath, Greenwich, Charlton, Kidbrooke and Deptford, and all the gods from all those places who taught me everything I know.

Brand New Ancients ist Camberwell, Lewisham, Brockley, New Cross, Peckham, Brixton, Blackheath, Greenwich, Charlton, Kidbrooke und Deptford gewidmet und all den Göttern an all diesen Orten, die mich alles lehrten, was ich weiß.

Among the so-called neurotics of our day there are a good many who in other ages would not have been neurotic – that is, divided against themselves. If they had lived in a period and in a milieu in which man was still linked by myth with the world of the ancestors, and thus with nature truly experienced and not merely seen from outside, they would have been spared this division within themselves. I am speaking of those who cannot tolerate the loss of myth and who can neither find a way to a merely exterior world, to the world as seen by science, nor rest satisfied with an intellectual juggling with words, which has nothing whatsoever to do with wisdom.

C. ‌G. Jung: Memories, Dreams, Reflections

All deities reside in the human breast.

William Blake

Unter den sogenannten neurotischen Patienten unserer Tage gibt es nicht wenige, die in früheren Zeiten nicht neurotisch, d. ‌h. entzweit mit sich selber, geworden wären. Hätten sie in einer Zeit und in einem Milieu gelebt, wo der Mensch noch durch den Mythus mit der Ahnenwelt und dadurch mit der erlebten und nicht bloß von außen gesehenen Natur verbunden war, so wäre ihnen das Uneinswerden mit sich selber erspart geblieben. Es handelt sich um Menschen, die den Verlust des Mythus nicht ertragen und weder den Weg zu einer nur äußeren Welt, d. ‌h. zum Weltbild der Naturwissenschaft, finden, noch sich am intellektuellen Phantasiespiel mit Wörtern, das mit Weisheit nicht das Geringste zu tun hat, sättigen können.

C. ‌G. Jung: Erinnerungen, Träume, Gedanken

So vergaßen die Menschen, daß Alle Götter in der menschlichen Brust wohnen.

William Blake

Brand New Ancients

This poem was written to be read aloud

In the old days

the myths were the stories we used to explain ourselves.

But how can we explain the way we hate ourselves,

the things we've made ourselves into,

the way we break ourselves in two,

the way we overcomplicate ourselves?

But we are still mythical.

We are still permanently trapped somewhere between the heroic and the pitiful.

We are still godly;

that's what makes us so monstrous.

But it feels like we've forgotten we're much more than the sum of all

the things that belong to us.

The empty skies rise

over the benches where the old men sit –

they are desolate

and friendless

and the young men spit;

inside they're delicate, but outside they're reckless and I reckon

that these are our heroes,

these are our legends.

That face on the street you walk past without looking at,

or that face on the street that walks past you without looking back

or the man in the supermarket trying to keep his kids out of his trolley,

or the woman by the postbox fighting with her brolly,

every single person has a purpose in them burning.

Look again, and allow yourself to see them.

Millions of characters,

each with their own epic narratives

singing it's hard to be an angel

until you've been a demon.

The sky is so perfect it looks like a painting

but the air is so thick that we feel like we're fainting.

Still

the myths in this city have always said the same thing –

about how all we need is a place to belong;

how all we need is to know what's right from what's wrong and

how we all need to struggle to find out for ourselves

which side we are on.

We all need to love

and be loved

and keep going.

There may be no monsters to kill,

no dragons' teeth left for the sowing,

but what there is, is the flowing

of rain down the gutters,

what there is is the muttering nutters.

What we have here

is a brand new mythic palette:

the parable of the mate you had who could have been anything

but he turned out an addict.

Or the parable of the prodigal father

returned after years in the wilderness.

Our morality is still learned through experience

gained in these cities in all of their rage and their tedium and yes –

our colours are muted and greyed

but our battles are staged all the same

and we are still mythical:

call us by our names.

We are perfect because of our imperfections.

We must stay hopeful;

We must stay patient –

because when they excavate the modern day

they'll find us: the Brand New Ancients.

See – all that we have here is all that we've always had.

We have jealousy

and tenderness and curses and gifts.

But the plight of a people who have forgotten their myths

and imagine that somehow now is all that there is

is a sorry plight,

all isolation and worry –

but the life in your veins

it is godly, heroic.

You were born for greatness;

believe it. Know it.

Take it from the tears of the poets.

There's always been heroes

and there's always been villains

and the stakes may have changed

but really there's no difference.

There's always been greed and heartbreak and ambition

and bravery and love and trespass and contrition –

we're the same beings that began, still living

in all of our fury and foulness and friction,

everyday odysseys, dreams and decisions …

The stories are there if you listen.

The stories are here,

the stories are you,

and your fear

and your hope

is as old

as the language of smoke,

the language of blood,

the language of

languishing love.

The Gods are all here.

Because the gods are in us.

The gods are in the betting shops

the gods are in the caff

the gods are smoking fags out the back

the gods are in the office blocks

the gods are at their desks

the gods are sick of always giving more and getting less

the gods are at the rave –

two pills deep into dancing –

the gods are in the alleyway laughing

the gods are at the doctor's

they need a little something for the stress

the gods are in the toilets having unprotected sex

the gods are in the supermarket

the gods are walking home,

the gods can't stop checking Facebook on their phones

the gods are in a traffic jam

the gods are on the train

the gods are watching adverts

the gods are not to blame –

they are working for the council

now they're on the dole

now they're getting drunk pissing their wages down a hole

the gods are in their gardens

with their decking and their plants

the gods are in the classrooms

the poor things don't stand a chance

they are trying to tell the truth

but the truth is hard to say

the gods are born, they live a while

and then they pass away.

They lose themselves in crowds, their guts are full of rot.

They hope there's something more to life but can't imagine what.

These gods have got no oracles to translate their requests,

these gods have got a headache and a payment plan and stress about

when next they'll see their kids,

they are not fighting over favourites –

they're just getting on with it.

We are the Brand New Ancients.

So choose one.

Choose any of these Gods watching telly on their own

feeling bored but not knowing what the more is to want it.

Choose one. Look again

and you will see the Gods rise

in the most human and unassuming of eyes.

Now, focus.

It's dusk on a weekday night,

kids scream and fight

in the road, cars slow at the lights

and the young men whistle at the girls, get sworn at.

Pan out slowly, draw back.

Here, this street, this road, this house,

Kevin slowly moves about,

plate down on the table, pours a stout

slow from the bottle, sits, about to eat,

we see him eye the empty chair.

Where is she? She's not there.

He checks the clock, he shrugs his shoulders,

looks down at his egg and soldiers.

The photo on the mantelpiece shows them both,

romantic beach excursion from the hazy past;

Jane is beaming, Kevin clasps her hand in his

and smiles out gently.

My wife and I, he sighs, feels empty.

So here we have them, Kevin and Jane,

Jane is bored now, ready for change,

Kevin don't see it, he's steady and plain,

the get-on-and-get-by type, don't mention your pain.

And now meet their neighbours Mary and Brian,

she's sick of his lies and he's sick of her crying

they're sick of the sight of each other, no point in trying,

they haven't been happy for years.

Well, Jane – never knew she had a body like a forest in the rain

but she felt herself change when she heard Brian say her name.

Shame ripping though her belly and her brain

leaving her in pieces with a secret to contain.

Lust, heavy in her belly, in her guts –

trust, once there, now gone, all crushed,

her marriage, robust

to the point it was gathering dust,

then her blood got hot at the thought of his touch,

but it's no big thing, it's just a crush,

right? Just

one night – it can't be love, but nights … weeks … months,

it's good, she's such a fool she hates the things she does.

She tried to call a stop to it, then woke up in a fever

sick for loving, she cannot sit still,

she's getting changed, the panic, thrill, the chill

she's lipstick in the cab, she's at the hotel bar,

she's had a couple now, she's smiling, touching, tonight

we are not wives or husbands, tonight

just us just this just crush me, finish me,

tonight man love me.

Poor Kevin – see him, dignified, steadfast, head down,

a monument to the cavalry of men who would never let down

a friend. His eyes strained from staring too long

at the empty chair while she gives herself away,

and he knows it, he feels it all day, but can't say,