stellst dich vors leben wie juri
vom nordpol als erster ins all ging
dein mädchen, dein mädchen
ist da, kosmonaut. du mann,
dem der spielraum ausgeht.
und die unglückliche verkettung verhängnisvoller umstände
unkorrigiert. stimmt's nicht,
nur zwei mehr stabile sekunden
hätte der vogel gebraucht.
kopf im helm für den überschallknall.
streng glänzt der rote platz
in meinem discozimmer.
you rise before life just like juri
from the north pole rose as first man into space
your girl, your girl
has arrived, cosmonaut. you man
who's losing space.
and the unfortunate concatenation of fateful circumstances
still uncorrected. isn't it right
that that bird would have needed
just two more steady seconds.
head into helmet for the supersonic bang.
sternly gleams the red square
in my disco room.
you'll find a corresponding video to this poem over at the WOAW facebook group.
in today's lyrikmail was an untitled poem written by gëzim hajdari, an albanian poet whose works have been translated from italian into german by stefanie golisch. my italian is very, very basic, so when i translated this poem i translated the german version first, then secondly double-checked it as well as i could with the italian original. as usual, i allowed for a couple of translational liberties.
you know i would have scribed the most beautiful book
i have written with the tip of a knife
into my skin,
remember, that march, the Judas trees blossomed
with terror and joy at those valleys' verges.
perhaps the most beautiful book
emerged from my ashes and attuned to your life,
i wrote it in the vacancy of that room while looking out through that window
witnessing time and the recurrence of seasons
lost by rain's nudity.
i wrote it in penury,
on moonsick, culpable days,
far from you, from your gloamings,
from one waterside to the other i shouldered
books from a country that glorifies tyrants
Ich sagte dir, dass ich mein schönstes Buch
mit der Spitze des Messers
in meine Haut geritzt haben würde,
weißt du noch, März war, der Judasbaum blühte
erschrocken und freudig an den Rändern der Schlucht.
Vielleicht habe ich das schönste Buch,
das aus meiner Asche stieg und deinem Leben gleicht,
in der Verlassenheit jenes Zimmers geschrieben,
als ich aus dem Fenster blickte,
Zeuge der Zeit und der Wiederkehr der Jahreszeiten,
welche die Nacktheit des Regens streifte.
Ich schrieb es in äußerster Armut,
in mondkranken, verzweifelten Tagen,
fern von dir, fern deiner Dämmerungen,
trug ich von einem Ufer zum anderen
Bücher aus einem Land, das Tyrannen vergöttert
Ti avevo detto che il libro più bello
l’avrei scritto con la punta del coltello,
sulla mia pelle,
ricordi, era marzo, fiorivano i siliquastri
con spavento e gioia ai margini dei burroni.
Forse il libro più bello,
sorto dalle mie ceneri e che assomiglia alla tua vita,
l’ho scritto nella stanza sgombra mentre guardavo dalla finestra
il testimone del Tempo e il ritorno delle stagioni
sfiorate dalla nudità delle piogge.
L’ho scritto in povertà estrema,
nei miei giorni di pena e maldiluna,
distante da te, distante dai tuoi crepuscoli,
portando sulle spalle da una sponda all’altra
libri di un paese che adora i tiranni
alexander gumz (picutre source: private) wrote a good poem called WO DIESE RÄNDER ENDEN. and guess what? i translated it. the german original is to be found below, as per usual.
WHERE THESE EDGES END
at the edges of loving you say
stands something annoying that won’t let you
leave here nor stay yet it is
(i can tell from your hands)
more than clear that you’re happy with things
the white signs visible so well
from above move
from under your soles when you
lift the key to the mouth
turn yourself around and say
you’d like to dance with all those who still
stand in the sun (in vast parking lots)
once a week finished off so that
customers leave as fast friends
so that you comprehend
where these edges end
WO DIESE RÄNDER ENDEN
an den rändern des verliebtseins sagst du
steht irgendwas und nervt lässt dich
nicht gehen und nicht bleiben obwohl
(das sehe ich an deinen händen)
mehr als klar ist du willst nichts daran ändern
die weissen anfahrtszeichen aus der luft
so gut zu sehen verziehen sich
unter deinen sohlen wenn du
den schlüssel an den mund hebst
dich um dich drehst und sagst
du willst mit allen tanzen die jetzt noch
in der sonne stehen (auf grossen parkplätzen)
einmal pro woche abgespritzt damit
die kunden auch als freunde gehen
damit dir endlich klar wird
wo diese ränder enden
someone asked me to translate rainer maria rilke's Liebeslied, so here goes:
lovesong
how to hold my soul so that
it won't touch yours? how to
carry it well over you on to what remains?
so much do i long to embed it
in things lost in dark
at a strange silent spot that
won't rock when your downs roll.
it is all that has moved you and i, us,
that sums you and i like a stroke
hums one sound from two strings.
which instrument is it we're strung to?
at what bandsman's hands?
o sweet song.
it sounds a little more modern than the german original i suppose, but rilke was 32 when he wrote it, so i guess that would still count as young and hip. for dustier translations, see here, or here.
okay, so i started translating that poem of 26 july 2008. somehow i can't make it work in english, but here are parts of it in case you're interested in what it's about:
tilts the horizon in front of the scuttle up
down and down up tilts unreasonableness.
[...]
all those first times are in flower still flowering
that valley's bed up and down by that stream and yet
time passed into nothing into just not passing at all
that sheer equatorial problem... [...]
[...]
up down up and down the unreasonableness.
i didn't win that one with my translation (see below), but if you'd like to have a look at ron winkler's german original, the winning translation and other entries, (1) go to no man's land, (2) click on 'Events' to the left, (3) then click on 'no man's land poetry translation contest' to the right. a tad bit complicated, but interesting enough to put up with the hassle, i think.
>and later parabola apples on breath<
low there the garden. that specialised
wood. above it sun's infinite π.
and beauty as kind of uncertainty.
as in clouds. insofar clouds.
inbetween hang the infernal fruit. hangs the
infernal fruit.
were there no grizzly hares?
none there, no? at that fence?
and junglestyle cubes
as birds shrieked to the ground?
someone pushed into this far, so far
departed mood the harrumph button
of his or her Heckler & Koch. wasn't me,
was another intensity group's
one.
i've been working on this translation for a while, and could finally finish it early this morning. mischa had offered his help earlier on in the process, but since i'm a total nerd at heart, i wanted to get this translation done all by myself. below you will find his original, as per usual.
Evening Machine
saline night, the eyes across one
more uncolourful enthusiasm, the enthusiasm
for the uncolourful. Something is on- something else is
offended, turns mute, viz.
burns, clean, surplusless. Of that raise a monument.
And above the right eye everything, and everything
once more pushed forth, the unclasped force
the blonde tongue, massive herein.
Aperture on aperture on forehead
will you break through cheek skin? blink dim
the phrases, two times no idea.
Abendmaschine
salzige Nacht, die Augen gehen über
eine unbunte Begeisterung, die Begeisterung
fürs Unbunte. Etwas ist aus-, etwas anderes
eingeschnappt, setzt an zu schweigen, d. h.
brennt, sauber, überflusslos. Davon ein Denkmal.
Und über dem rechten Auge alles, und alles
dann herausgetrieben, die losgelassene Kraft
die blonde Zunge, schwer hinein.
Blende auf Blende an der Stirn
dringst durch die Wangen du? blinkst ab
zu Sätzen, keine Ahnung, und die zweimal.
to hold you costs me this:
[opens her arms.]
day jumps, night
- ever clumsily -
just falls.
[stands. opens,
closes arms.]
world saw:
[blank space.]
[probe flaw.]
her arms put forth,
flapped shut.
one thought per year
[escapes.]
the others: not.
dich halten kostet mich:/ [öffnet die arme.]/ tag springt, nacht/ - typisch, ungeschickt -/ bricht.// [steht, öffnet,/ schließt die arme.]// welt sieht:/ [nichts.]/ [fühlerfehler.]// ihre arme ausgestreckt,/ verklappt.// ein gedanke jedes jahr/ [entwischt.]/ die andren: nicht.
i found marcus roloff's GÄRTEN & SCHLÖSSER [GARDENS & CASTLES] on hendrik jackson's lyrikkritik page yesterday night, shortly after i complained about not having found anything i liked to translate recently. so i stayed up late and translated it. i have to admit i wasn't sure about the comma placement, so i just left them where he put them in the german version of the poem.
GARDENS & CASTLES
that it's autumn & light out of heaven by
heaven, when years created creator's
breath is essential is out of the question, falls
when he off & on oozes on screens of the gardens
for instance & castles of potsdam, down-
wards, to end titles, the last roll, and home
going walks through glass walls with
sun pillars & blue prints, on grounds of
one's pockets, filled with streets & spaces, jacobi's
fathergod in one's bags, only soaked
cookies, a life long aide
memoire for hereafter.
i wrote this little story when still in berlin a couple of weeks back. i'm thinking of using it for a writing competition, in which case i would have to take it back down again soon - so better read it quickly. an english translation, as usual, you'll find below.
SORRY, DECIDED TO TAKE IT BACK DOWN ALREADY. BOOOOHOOOOOO.
(i drew this around two years ago.)on a short stopover in frankfurt last week, i found joachim sartorius' poetry book In den ägyptischen Filmen, for which cees nooteboom wrote an epilogue. while reading it, i felt the urge to underline certain formulations and expressions. i rarely do that, so i was surprised when i kept on doing so throughout the book. while drawing lines, i thought it would be very interesting to see what these different phrases would look like strung together in chronological order.
weirdly enough, cees nooteboom did the same. joining different lines of various poems in one paragraph while discussing them, he even apologized for doing so. i don't see a reason for apologizing, as i find it rare that someone manages to sprinkle words in a way that a whole mosaic can be forced open and still look good re-worked in a miniature form, so to speak. here, hacked up wanderlust becomes home sickness. but remember, this is my very personal selection of favorite lines written by mr. sartorius' that became a new poem. below you'll find its instant translation as usual:
Ich habe das Licht
vom Licht unterschieden,
drei Papageienarten nach dir
benannt
(ohne Federn zu lassen)
ein[en] Ultramarin
ja ich läge ja sehnlichst
läge ich in dir
früher im Jahr
Ein kleines totes Blatt
Alles verwirrte dich endlich
und
diese Wespe irrt durch diese Uhr,
die Welt ist eine heiße Wiese,
Sansibar,
wo es zu tun gibt.
Zum Ende dann: "Es war
nicht so gemeint."
[I have distinguished light
from light,
named three parrot species after
you
(without casting feathers)
one ultramarine
yes I would lie yearning
would I lie in you
Earlier on in that very same year
one small dead leaf
Finally all things confused you
and
this wasp errs through this clock,
this world is some hot grassland,
Sansibar,
where there is work to do.
Then, in the end: "It wasn't
meant like that."]
The poems used were (in chronological order, as stated above): Diana, Die Lehre des Flügels, Liebe und Arbeit, Umarmung, con affetto, Der Tisch wird kalt, Brinkmann steht, In dieser schwarzen Ruhe.
this monday's post is hans magnus enzensberger's poem befragung zur mitternacht, questioning at midnight. the german original, as usual, you'll find below.
questioning at midnight
where that you hold my hand companioness
do you linger through what vaults
walks when in the towers the bells
dream that they were broken
your heart?
where through what clear-cutting do you scud
that i touch cheektender what
doping nightherb streaks you
dreameress what ford wets
your foot?
where when the hollow sky greys dearest
do you rustle through dreamreeds stroke
doors and vaults with whose boy
trades kisses your quietly trembling
mouth?
where is the flute that you bend your ear towards
where are the howls that soundlessly bulge
your hair and i lie lame
and hark and wake and where
your feathers?
where in what woods entraps you
that holds my hand companioness
your dream?
befragung zur mitternacht
wo, die meine hand hält, gefährtin,
verweilst du, durch welche gewölbe
geht, wenn in den türmen die glocken
träumen daß sie zerbrochen sind
dein herz?
wo, welchen kahlschlag durcheilst du,
die ich berühre wangenzart, welch ein
betäubendes nachtkraut streift dich,
träumerin, welch eine furt benetzt
deinen fuß?
wo, wenn der hohle himmel graut, liebste,
rauschst du durch traumschilf, streichelst
türen und grüfte, mit wessen boten
tauscht küsse, der leise bebt,
dein mund?
wo ist die flöte, der du dein ohr neigst,
wo das geheul das lautlos dein haar
bauscht, und ich liege wie ein gelähmter
und horch und wach und wohin
dein gefieder?
wo, in was für wälder verstrickt dich,
die meine hand hält, gefährtin,
dein traum?
this week's translation isn't quite like the previous ones for various reasons: a) it's a slam text that won felix römer a tv show price, b) it's a very personal and rather long text, c) i won't record it, d) i won't put his german original on here, but the video of his performance instead. his poem is called Ich war einmal ein Kind, I once was a child, and deals with his great-grandfather's war experiences. this poem earned him various prices and even standing ovations (a slam text, remember!). felix is one of four members of the german poetry slam boy band smaat.
should you want to skip the host's drivel, jump to 0:50, the final text then begins after 1:26.
I once was a child, a small boy in a frock, celebrated the emperor's birthday,
offered my flag to the wind, ready to fledge, to grow tall and strong.
I learned how to read, how to write, how to count and to fire.
And then they sent me to war. For the country, the vision,
and I celebrated Hitler's birthday, swung my arm to salute,
the arm then still strong and I, I was ready to fight.
They sent me far, ever farther in in eastward direction,
and i knew how to read, how to write, but no Russian,
that helped with the killing, I think.
The screams, though, they sounded alike,
pierced to the marrow and from the injured poured blood,
red, from all of them. And the corpses smelt rotten.
All of them.
I read the letters from home. "You have a daughter" they said.
"A daughter" I wondered, a child,
I had long forgotten what children smell like,
forever smelt ashes and death,
and i knew how to read how to write how to count and to fire
now i learned how to weep how to suffer and how to be silent.
I celebrated birthdays no longer since all time had absconded,
the feet froze and we ate the bark off the trees.
When the shot hit my shoulder I hoped it were finally over,
but it lived on for some reason, it kept living on inside me.
Heartbeat Gasp Heartbeat Gasp
For weeks on end in the sick bay the sister wiped sweat off my forehead
gave me bread, at last, bread, crawled into my bed
and we warmed our cool hearts in a time long absconded.
At night I dreamt of killing, the dying and of a small daughter,
but in times long absconded hope, too, had dissolved.
The war was lost when they sent me to war once again with a stiff arm
to kill, to suffer, to weep, to be silent.
The one enemy left now was hunger
and i killed a farmer for a fistful of potatoes
and i put my gun to an old woman's head for a pot.
And cooked potatoes and smelt home and wept and smelt and ate.
I once was a child, a small boy in a frock, celebrated the emperor's birthday
offered my flag to the wind, willing to grow, to grow tall and strong...
And I smelt and ate and I wept.
Wept for the boy, the shot farmer, the times long absconded, the screams,
the corpses, the arms and the legs and the guts,
for the fatherless children the motherless fathers.
For every unread book and all unwritten letters.
And it lived on inside me, just kept living on.
Heartbeat Gasp Heartbeat Gasp
The battle was over, I just sat, sat and wept and they found me
and put their guns to my head, pushed me forward.
And I knew hot to read how to write how to count and to fire
and now I learned hatred, despise, to surrender and how to forgive.
Then I was free to go home, as a homeless, to a wife and a child,
smelt the wife smelt the child and cooked my potatoes.
The brother a dead, mother and sisters raped,
the father sunken in sorrow,
the friend deported to a concentration camp.
I cooked my potatoes and smelt the child,
smelt the child right until time recurred
and the souls dreamt my dreams,
the brother and the shot farmer,
the woman, the pot and the gassed friend.
And there was a child.
A small girl in a frock, we celebrated her birthday
and her hair flew in the wind,
and she was willing to grow, to grow tall and strong.
And she learned how to read how to write and to count.
And it lived on inside me, just kept living on.
Heartbeat Gasp Heartbeat Gasp
The recurred time sprawled, spread its blanket over the past,
brought books and letters and cars and washing machines, instant mash.
And it kept living on inside me, ever on.
Birthdays flashed by, the child grew and grew strong
and my eyesight impaired and the ears became deaf and what time hid
ascended once more.
It smells like ashes and death.
And the door of the time long absconded is opening up
and no sister to warm my heart.
What lived on inside me surrenders.
My war never ended.
I learned how to read how to write how to count and to fire.
And now I learn how to pass on and how to pardon.
Pardon me.
Pardon!
I once was a child,
a child,
a child...
here are some pictures of yesterday afternoon's poets' corner in prenzlauer berg. due to the very bad weather, the readings couldn't be held outside as planned. instead julian, the owner of the yes bar, offered his location for free. how nice, and somehow everybody even found us there. although maybe not as big an audience as there would have been outside, a few hardcore poetry fans showed up. the poets, too, dissembled their irritation and it became a cosy afternoon. in the pictures below are (mixed up now, because they disappeared AGAIN): jalal sarfaraz, agnieszka debska, donna stonecipher, hendrik jackson, ulrike draesner and norbert hummelt.
and while i was sitting under some sunshade, waiting for the rain to stop and something poetic to happen, i wrote this:
hoping that all things would dissolve/ somehow, magically/ and they do/ als ich unter dem sonnenschirm/ fallen die flüssigen wolken/ laut neben mich hin.
[in der hoffnung, dass alle dinge sich auflösen würden/ auf eine art, magisch/ und sie tun's/ when i under the sunshade/ fluid clouds fall/ loud by me here.]
an this later, when i was waiting for my friends in front of the kesselhaus, where the weltklang event was about to take place, all this, weird as usual:
die stillen zikaden die/ blondinen ihre hellen/ töne neiden/ peroxide linsen lunsen/ nach kontakt/ ein kurzer sprechversuch/ mit seiden/ spinnern raupt/ den letzten nerv entlang.
[the silent cicadas that/ envy the blondes for their/ bright sounds/ peroxides lenses peeking/ for pin/ a brief talkattempt/ with silk/ idiots larvs/ along the last nerve.]
findelkindcharme/ schamsalam/ allianzachsen/ freuschaft/ freuschaftliche ladung/ zum fest/ festraketenbeschuß/ schlußfreudigkeit.
[foundlingcharme/ shamesalam/ axis of alliance/ frillship/ amicable load/ the feast/ feastrocketfire/ endjoyfulness.]
ich bin die taube/ fluggrau/ die in deinen handzeichen nistet ein/ kehlchen aus gurren/ tiefrot.
[i am the pigeon/ flightgrey/ that nests in your hand signals a/ throatie of curring/ deep red.]
when i was fourteen, a friend of mine gave me günter bruno fuchs' poem Für ein Kind. i put it in my wallet and carried it around with me until i stopped carrying a wallet.
For a Child
I have said prayers. So take from the sun and then go.
The trees will foliate.
I have asked the blossoms to grace you.
Once you get to the current, there waits a ferryman.
In the evenings his heart chimes over the water.
His boat is planked golden, that carries you.
The watersides will foliate.
I have asked the beings to love you.
One you will meet who has heared me.
Für ein Kind
Ich habe gebetet. So nimm von der Sonne und geh.
Die Bäume werden belaubt sein.
Ich habe den Blüten gesagt, sie mögen dich schmücken.
Kommst du zum Strom, da wartet ein Fährmann.
Zur Nacht läutet sein Herz übers Wasser.
Sein Boot hat goldene Planken, das trägt dich.
Die Ufer werden belaubt sein.
Ich habe den Menschen gesagt, sie mögen dich lieben.
Es wird dir einer begegnen, der hat mich gehört.
This week's poem is not exactly a contemporary one, but a rather unknown of Rainer Maria Rilke (1875 - 1929), whom i happen to share my birthday with.
queens are you and prosperous
queens are you and prosperous.
of songs even richer
than prospering trees.
isn't the stranger so sallow?
yet even sallower his dearest dreams
sallow like water lilies.
this you felt instantaneously:
queens are you of prosperity.
Königinnen seid ihr und reich
Königinnen seid ihr und reich.
Um die Lieder noch reicher
als blühende Bäume.
Nicht wahr, der Fremdling ist bleich?
Aber noch viel, viel bleicher
sind seine Lieblingsträume,
sind wie Rosen im Teich.
Das empfandet ihr gleich:
Königinnen seid ihr und reich.
yesterday i forgot to post for real.
so, as compensation, here's the last paragraph of the text i sent to einseitig:
ich in tüll laken lackkleid nag am fensterrahmen bricht licht in triangelstrahlen staub wendet sich blendet und ich urban es urbakterium will unter wasser ober flächen molekül sein mir von dir mit spitzen lippen zeigen lassen wie die fische machen algen mähen zwischen heiligen korallen mit dir fieberpirouetten drehen in tiefsee kissengraben sinken auferstehen als dampf noch einmal durch die nacht als regen wieder niedergehen...
[very roughly translated this would be something like:
i in tulle sheets varnish dress gnaw on the window frame breaks light in triangle rays dust turns blinds and i urban it ur-bacterium wanna be under water over surface molecule wanna be taught by you with lips pursed how the fish make reap algae inbetween holy corals dance fever pirouettes with you sink into deepsea pillow trenches resurge through the night once more as steam once more as rain alight...]
