He wrote for his Habilitation
on Kierkegaard's interiorization.
That post-doctoral thesis
and its exegesis
fell smack on the death of his nation.
But Theodor fought the good fight.
He stirred up the wrath of the right.
When troubles first started,
they called him Entartet,
and he used his head and took flight.
Adorno grew clearer, not rowdier
as Europe's horizons grew cloudier.
When irrationality
swelled nationality
his summa to Oxford went laudier.
New music? Adorno adored it.
Pop culture? My dear, he abhorred it.
One hundred eleven
ascended to Heaven
when Faustus revered and restored it.
As Theo Adorno grew older,
his writing grew brasher, yet colder.
He cried, "Sisyphus
never had it like this
for no one cast doubt on his boulder."
Adorno had plans for Berg's Lulu,
that opera free of all frou-frou:
of lust without passion
in serial fashion,
he'd conjure the voodoo of woo-woo.
In the Heaven that doesn't exist,
Adorno is there—with a twist:
his infallibility
threatens tranquility.
But, God, thank God, doesn't insist.
by Karen Greenbaum-Maya
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Karen Greenbaum-Maya is a closet German Lit major and a retired clinical psychologist, and not a moment too soon. She likes ducks, also duck, a conflict leading to her tragic view of life. She has a history with sheep. She can recite the value of pi to twenty places, but who cares? She may or may not outweigh all the Stones rolled together. She believes that if you want to hit someone with a fish, you should just hit them with a fish. She takes life very very very seriously. cloudslikemountains.blogspot.com