Hanebüchner. Meine Gedichte und Fotos: 70 Jahre Klaus Büchner - Mitbegründer und Sänger von Torfrock
Wenn das Gas nich’ funktioniert und dein Haus dir explodiert, denn is’ egal, wie laut du schreist. Du kriegst bloß noch den Grundstückspreis.
Wenn es um Weisheiten geht, kennt Klaus Büchner (Sänger und Mitbegründer von „Torfrock“ sowie die Stimme von „Werner“) kein Pardon. Auf langen Spaziergängen mit Hündin Fienchen denkt er tief nach, über die allerletzten Wahrheiten des Lebens, und schon reimt und fotografiert er wieder. Fienchen ist dabei eine sehr gute Kritikerin, denn sie findet alles spitze. Als er sie fragte, ob er vielleicht einen Gedichtband mit 50 Reimen und Fotografien veröffentlichen soll, hat sie gewedelt. Derart im Selbstbewusstsein gestärkt, kann er nun sagen: „Da isser.“
Auf den Einwand, ob es nötig ist, dauernd lustig zu sein, meint er: „Nein, man kann sich das Leben auch durch dauerhaften Ernst verscherzen.“
Büchner charakterisiert seine Reime als eine brisante Mischung aus Satire, Klamauk, Tatsachen und Falschmeldungen. Illustriert werden die 50 Gedichte von selbstgeknipsten Fotos.
In Schleswig war er durchgehend in verschiedenen Bands aktiv und arbeitete nebenbei in ca. 25 gut bezahlten „Knüppeljobs“, wie Dachdeckerhelfer oder Messgehilfe.
1975 zog er wieder nach Hamburg, wo er Raymond Voß begegnete. Sie begannen, in Clubs und Kneipen Musik zu machen und vertonten englischsprachige Lyrik. Sein letzter Job in der freien Wirtschaft war Bühnenarbeiter im Ernst-Deutsch-Theater. Dadurch kamen Raymond Voß und er an den lukrativen Auftrag für die Theatermusik in dem Shakespeare-Stück „Wie es euch gefällt“.
Eine Schnapsidee aus Schleswig führte erst langsam, dann rasant zum Projekt „Torfrock“. Während einer Party sang Büchner „Hey Joe“ von Jimi Hendrix auf Plattdeutsch. Die Publikumsreaktionen waren derart, dass Büchner und Voß mit drei weiteren Gründungsmitgliedern „Torfrock“ entwickelten.
1977 erschien das erste Album, vier weitere folgten. 1983 bis 1988 legten sie eine Pause ein, in der Büchner das Projekt „Klaus & Klaus“ verfolgte. „Klaus & Klaus“ erhielten eine monatliche Musiksendung beim NDR 2 und nannten sie „Das Ohrenkino“. Dort entstanden die ersten Reime. Später führte er immer zwei oder drei dieser Reime während der Auftritte auf; später auch bei Torfrock.
1997 entschied er sich ausschließlich für Torfrock.
Seit 1990 spricht er in den Zeichentrickfilmen „Werner“ denselben.
Ab 2015 hat er sich intensiver mit Kurzgedichten beschäftigt, woraus der vorliegende Band entstand.
Klaus Büchner lebt heute in Dithmarschen.
| | |
Agony is the first in a trilogy of long confessional poems. It uses semi-rigorous mathematical and logical constraints to view the author's life and body, telescopically, as little bits of time and space. Everything written here is as true as possible - that is to say, pretty true. It attempts autobiography as a refutation of autobiography, and an elevation of the self as self-effacement. Love pops up as a theme quite a bit. So does self-mutilation, etc. There are a lot of numbers, but don't worry, it's more about politics and fantasy than numbers, even though, as usual, they show up everywhere. Just like pieces of your body after you've cut them off and scattered them all over the world, and then go out looking for them again, for some reason.
Praise for Agony:
Steven Zultanski’s Agony is a guide to making millions with a startup that puts human faces (literally) on the windows of suburban homes. The key word here is "literally:” the literal is Zultanski’s most important discovery, a reinvention of Shklovsky’s "making strange” for a tertiary age, a time when the language of metaphor has been zombified (after first being deadened and then deconstructed). In a manner that parodies and surpasses the lunacy of American pundits, Zultanski leads us on a mathematical journey into the volume of humanity’s tears and saliva exchange in kisses, and the square-footage of breasts and pet-intestines to explore the Markson-esqe, Mobius sociality of the solipsistic self. This unabashed autobiography, told through a hyperbolic argot of tax-code and quantum physics, is a sacrifice that atones for the banality it is born of (QED). Using the body as a literal yard-stick - its intimate history of inspirations and exhalations, excretions and accretions, pressed flat against the world, as a face against a window - this book leads the advance attack on the insipid dehumanization performed by standards of measure, statistics, and self-help. Call it conceptualism, lyricism, the new literality, or agonic financial planning - whatever it is, Agony is not for the faint of heart.
— Matvei Yankelevich
The best way to enjoy Steven Zultanski’s Agony is to remove your skin, including your facial skin, and spill into the mathematical calculations of how many cubic inches of human tears it takes to fill a fountain. When you put your skin back on and go outside for a walk, you'll realize that the lyric poem has just endured a substantial 21st century upgrade.
— Robert Fitterman
Secession / Insecession is a homage to the acts of reading, writing and translating poetry. In it, Chus Pato’s Galician biopoetics of poet and nation, Secession - translated by Erín Moure - joins Moure’s Canadian translational biopoetics, Insecession. To Pato, the poem is an insurrection against normalized language; to Moure, translation itself disrupts and reforms poetics and the possibility of the poem. In solidarity with Pato, Moure echoes Barthes: "A readerly text is something I cannot re-produce (today I cannot write like Atwood); a writerly text is one I can read only if I utterly transform my reading regime. I now recognize a third text alongside the readerly and the writerly: let's call it the untranslatable.”
In Secession / Insecession, a major European poet and a known Canadian poet, born on opposite sides of the Atlantic in the mid twentieth century and with vastly different experiences of political life, forge a 21st century relationship of thinking and creation. The result is a major work of memoir, poetics, trans-ethics and history.
Chus Pato’s Secession was chosen 2009 Book of the Year by the Revista das Letras, literary supplement of Galicia Hoxe (Galicia Today).
In THOU, Aisha Sasha John knows the day - biblically. What if time itself was an object of desire? And the book was a theatre for that? Aisha Sasha John has a crush on time. Which is why she discipled in it. For three years. Also for three months. Also for three months at 33. Ya. Aisha Sasha John has a crush on time and discipled in time, moving it across her body, watching it, um, course the day. She slowed it down and thought along it, she cut it up. She slowed it down and thunk along it and sped it up. She cut it up and spaced it out and rhythmed it down and laid it flat and looked at it hard. Aisha Sasha John has a crush on time. She did it. She did time. It was gross and funny and it was hard and it was good. The result is/was - THOU.
Aisha Sasha John’s THOU re-plays that archaic pronoun as a constantly present movement and rhythm of attention: the suddenness of the interpolative "moment.” These lines of poetry "shake...a little” as the "I” narrates and choreographs a monologue of the self in motion; each page is the dance floor and John’s words break through the "I-as-you” with both the foreignicity of anticipation and the reflection of grace.
- Fred Wah
THOU is physical, fearless in its vulnerabilities, a sensing amid thought’s most succulent folds. THOU is a choreography of irresolute bodies, the insistent shifting of their positions. Aisha Sasha John is a poet of centrifugal energy, of reverberant intimacy.
- Michael Nardone
Shortlisted for the 2010 Griffin Poetry Prize.
Descartes asked, How can I know that I am not now dreaming? The Certainty Dream poses similar questions through poetry, but without the trappings of traditional philosophy. Kate Hall's bracingly immediate, insistently idiosyncratic debut collection lays bare the tricks and tools of her trade: a mynah bird perches in poems but 'stands for nightingale'; the poet’s antelope turns transparent; she dresses up her orange trees with bark and leaves. As the dream world and the waking world blur, the body and the dimensions it inhabits become a series of overlapping circles, all acting as containers for both knowledge and uncertainty. At times disarmingly plainspoken, at others, singing with lyric possibility, these poems make huge associative leaps. Taken together, they present the argument that to truly 'know' something, one must first recognize its traces in something else.
Jonathan Ball's Clock?re is a suite of poetic blueprints for imaginary plays that would be impossible to produce - plays in which, for example, the director burns out the sun, actors murder their audience or the laws of physics are de?led. The poems in a sense replace the need for drama, and are predicated on the idea that modern theatre lacks both 'clocks' and '?re' and thus fails to offer its audiences immediate, violent engagement. They sometimes resemble the scores for Fluxus 'happenings,' but replace the casual aesthetic and DIY simplicity of Fluxus art with something more akin to the brutality of Artaud's theatre of cruelty. Italo Calvino as rewritten by H. P. Lovecraft, Ball's 'plays' break free of the constraints of reality and artistic category to revel in their own dazzling, magni?cent horror.
fur(l) parachute claims as its surrogate the Old English poem "Wulf and Eadwacer.” Declining from a mutant echo of this nineteen-line fragment that appears in the tenth century Exeter manuscript as a text that might be a riddle, or an example of a woman’s lament, or even a broken elegy, the language of fur(l) parachute is further disrupted by such texts as instructions on how to make a parachute lure for fly fishing or the misreading of mathematical knot diagrams. Wryly troubling origins, this poem multiplies its outlawed longing for all that cannot cross.
Via the gentle lurch of familiar unfamiliarity in half-heard syntax and reminderings of fellow wordsmiths, Maguire grapples with poetic heredity in a quest to reconstruct a pastoral lyric from translation and procedure. This extended stochastic murmur-beat thrusts grammar into ecstatic contortion. Fur(l) Parachute dissects self, nature, society in a poetics of sustainability reliant on taught and inherited knowledges - and, throughout, "always this craving for earth.”
- Angela Rawlings
At once scholarly and lyrical, conceptual and embodied, archaic and utterly contemporary, sounded carefully by the tongue and thought out deeply in the vortex of ideas. Desire is "what writes” these poems, running through texts genders localities grammatical cases "peripersonal” space and time itself to tip us into the sounds of our own borderless islands, hungry for "undigested books,” gathering the "kindling of voice” to light the fire where "we, an uninterrupted carnival” are enjoyed as "one mouthful of howl.” Looking around at the landscape of poetry that continues to matter deeply to me, I see in Maguire kin I didn’t know I had. I believe I have found a new favourite poet.
- Stephen Collis
In her astonishing and original fur(l) parachute, Shannon Maguire trans-slants the Old English poem "Wulf and Eadwacer” to offer us our queer, extra-human being still capable of love and mourning. The green world is alive, tender and reproductive in unexpectedly animal and technological ways. In the break between original and translation, all the bodies we thought we’d lost writhe - full of life. Read and feed this shining word whelp to remember your collective difference. The best thing I’ve read in years.
- Larissa Lai
Virtualis: Topologies of the Unreal is a poetic investigation of melancholia and the baroque. As a collaborative reading of writers such as Walter Benjamin, Christine Buci-Glucksmann, Giorgio Agamben, Gilles Deleuze, Charles Baudelaire and Arthur Rimbaud, David Dowker and Christine Stewart have created a series of linguistic interjections that run from the allegorical barricades of the baroque to the topological confound of the modern, incorporating (for example) Medusa and the Sphinx, aestivating snails and the alchemy of bees. Lush and extravagant, this is writing tuned in to the terrestrial spectacle.
...a futuristic present haunted by shades coming into being and vanishing, shape-shifting texts, and cyborgs in the production line of a linguistic factory that manufactures mirages both magical and nightmarish. The atmosphere is suffused with coded signs and electrical currents, the screen inhabited by a hybrid of pixel and gene finding its muse in the common denominator of its nuptials.
- Camille Martin, on Machine Language
Tuft: "A bunch (natural or artificial) of small things, usually soft and flexible,
...fixed or attached at the base." - OED
With Tuft, Kim Minkus takes us on flights of poetic fancy into futures where we "observe the green elite" and "iceplants bloom in the monotony of paved paths." We tangle and climb into language and are swept into the lives of the animals that haunt the shores of our city's waterways. This is a world where worker, lover, animal and poet unite. Minkus brings Venus and Satan into one sentence and in doing so unleashes the "bitter-broken-fallen" of our world. This is a gathering that calls out to the reader to pay attention and look closely. Tuft reminds us that without words our bodies would not exist and that only time makes us secret. We are all attached to something.
Minkus forms impossible compounds to do just what the best poetry must: express the inexpressible.
- The Globe and Mail
Her utterly original voice is unlike any other in poetry.
- Judith Fitzgerald
Read [Minkus] to increase your awareness of the times, in a lyrical, rhythmic way.
- Geist Magazine.
The first word in this new collection by Phil Hall is "raw" and the last word is "blurtip." Between these, many nouns cry faith within a hook-less framework that sings in chorus while undermining such standard forms & tropes as "the memoir," "genealogy" and "the shepherd's calendar." With a rural pen, these poems talk frogs, carrots, local noises, partial words, remnants, dirt roads, deep breath & hope:
my laboratory the moment
is accordion-shaped - cluttered - sopping
& not eternal
[Hall has created] a meditation on the poetic process that stimulates both the intellect and the imagination.
- Barbara Carey, The Toronto Star
Hall manages to rescue the lyrical essay from its recondite excesses and turn it into something that's as adventurous as it is readable. Hall has called himself a "surruralist," and this book charts his development as a writer, but it also demonstrates and furthers that development.
- Paul Vermeersh, The Globe and Mail
Hall is aware that he's aligned with an aesthetic of past decades that may not be fashionable, but he seems determined to keep its spirit alive by understanding what it tells us about our aesthetic today. To him I would give an award for unabashedly keeping an authentic Canadian poetic voice alive.
- The Montreal Gazette
Killdeer is a testament to the creative life as an act of faith and transformation.
- The Griffin Prize Judges
Hall was the 2011 winner of the Governor General’s Literary Award for Poetry in English for his book of essay-poems, Killdeer. In 2012, Killdeer also won Ontario’s Trillium Book Award, an Alcuin Design Award, and was nominated for the Griffin Poetry Prize.
Previously, Trouble Sleeping (2001) was nominated for the Governor General’s Award, and An Oak Hunch (2005) was nominated for the Griffin Poetry Prize.
He has taught writing and literature at York University, Ryerson University, Seneca College, George Brown College and elsewhere. Currently, he offers a manuscript mentoring service for the Toronto New School of Writing.
Hall has recently been writer-in-residence at Queens University & the University of Windsor. In fall 2013 he will be an instructor at the Banff Cenre for the Arts, in the Wired Writing Program.
He lives near Perth, Ontario.