Poem
Ann Cotten
CONDENSATION, BEHEST
Take me. Take me well. And not enough,withal, take others. Take my soul
and beat it soft upon a window pane,
that it might kool my face. It comes
and gathers silently, audacious, fat, shining
and falling, globule one and all. And ever guiding
eels o, aches a the truth and binds
points, weeping. Weeping more wildly,
worse, and blind, he sees he’s water, runs away
from what is left of wind. He sees he is insane.
First was the first, heavy, and then the case of strings
he shoves in laughter, pulls to drink and cheers,
works a small load, rutting, what gutter-fine series,
and, being light, remains high. The loser knows who wins.
If, so he, one looks, so he, below,
there is the same, a horizontal tear
eying the heights with not a trace, no fear,
laughing what’s left. Now alone,
concentrated and distinct, quite lost
the old soul now, defected spirit,
open and close and slay, say eyes, not boring
into no world, merely in facets crying.
He would have to stay here, it would have to, and she
become opaque only because of him, today,
his hit binding her temperature to change,
with terrible deference, so she would ask him, how
can one be so and be such flighty, heavy show,
if one is nothing but a disc in disarray.
© Translation: 2011, Ann Cotten
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2011
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2011
CONDENSATIE, AANSLAG
Neem me. Neem me goed. Maar dat volstaatniet, neem anderen. Neem mijn geest
en sla hem zacht tegen een vensterruit,
sla, koelte, mijn gezicht. Zo onbevreesd
zacht komt het bijeen. Zo komt en vet
en sijpelt, rond en zo bijeen, altijd
waar de o peurt, a samenvat en ketent
punten, huilend. Luider huilend, erger
ziet hij niet, speurt water, ontkomt de rest van wind
terug en traag, wanneer hij het vloeien ziet.
Ervoor het eerste, zwaar, en dan als spoor
rijdt lachend, trekt wauw om op te lossen, wikt
en weegt in minimale zin, hoe te winnen dankzij
de hoogte van zijn zwakheid. Wie verliest, weet wie het lukt.
Als, zo zegt hij, je kijkt, zegt hij, omlaag,
eronder eenzelfde, traant horizontaal
op hoogtes lachend zonder spoor, omlaag
wat niet overbleef. Nu slechts alleen,
geconcentreerd, begrensd, verloren
de oude geest och, om ogen open te
doen enerzijds noch borend
meer verruimen vliegenogen de wereld niet.
Hij zou hier, het zou moeten blijven, zij
en ondoorzichtig vanwege hem alleen
de aanslag door haar temperatuur
verbonden met het verschil dat zij hem vroeg, en hoe
kan iemand zo en hoe zo vluchtig zijn,
want je bent de wirwar van een ruit slechts puur.
© Vertaling: 2011, Erik de Smedt
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW,
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW,
KONDENSATION, BESCHLAG
Nimm mich. Nimm mich gut. Doch nicht genugdamit, nimm andere. Nimm meinen Geist
und schlag ihn weich an einer Fensterscheibe,
schlag Kühle mein Gesicht. So dreist
leise kommt zusammen es. So kommt und fett
und rieselt, rund und so zusammen, immer
wo das o aalt, a zusammenfasst und kettet
Punkte, weinend. Wilder weinend, schlimmer
sieht er nicht, schaut Wasser, läuft dem Rest von Wind
davon zurück er träge, wenn er sieht, er rinnt.
Davor das erste, schwer, und dann als Spur
fährt lachend, zieht prost aufzulösen, fuhr
werkt im minimalen Sinn, wie er gewinne kraft
seiner Schwäche Höhe. Wer verliert, weiß, wer es schafft.
Wenn, so er, man sieht, so er, hinunter,
drunter ein Gleiches, tränt horizontal
in Höhen lachend ohne Spur, hinunter
was weder übrigblieb. Nun mehr alleine,
konzentriert, distinkt, verloren
den alten Geist ach, Augen auf zu
schlagen weder einerseits noch bohrend
mehr erweitern Fliegenaugen keine Welt.
Er müsste hier, es müsste bleiben, sie
und undurchsichtig wegen ihm allein
den Anschlag bindend ihre Temperatur
dem Unterschied, dass sie ihn frage, und wie
kann jemand so und wie so flüchtig sein,
wenn was man ist das Durcheinander einer Scheibe nur.
© 2007, Ann Cotten
From: Fremdwörterbuchsonette
Publisher: Suhrkamp, Frankfurt am Main
From: Fremdwörterbuchsonette
Publisher: Suhrkamp, Frankfurt am Main
Poems
Poems of Ann Cotten
Close
CONDENSATION, BEHEST
Take me. Take me well. And not enough,withal, take others. Take my soul
and beat it soft upon a window pane,
that it might kool my face. It comes
and gathers silently, audacious, fat, shining
and falling, globule one and all. And ever guiding
eels o, aches a the truth and binds
points, weeping. Weeping more wildly,
worse, and blind, he sees he’s water, runs away
from what is left of wind. He sees he is insane.
First was the first, heavy, and then the case of strings
he shoves in laughter, pulls to drink and cheers,
works a small load, rutting, what gutter-fine series,
and, being light, remains high. The loser knows who wins.
If, so he, one looks, so he, below,
there is the same, a horizontal tear
eying the heights with not a trace, no fear,
laughing what’s left. Now alone,
concentrated and distinct, quite lost
the old soul now, defected spirit,
open and close and slay, say eyes, not boring
into no world, merely in facets crying.
He would have to stay here, it would have to, and she
become opaque only because of him, today,
his hit binding her temperature to change,
with terrible deference, so she would ask him, how
can one be so and be such flighty, heavy show,
if one is nothing but a disc in disarray.
© 2011, Ann Cotten
From: Fremdwörterbuchsonette
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW, Frankfurt am Main
From: Fremdwörterbuchsonette
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW, Frankfurt am Main
CONDENSATION, BEHEST
Take me. Take me well. And not enough,withal, take others. Take my soul
and beat it soft upon a window pane,
that it might kool my face. It comes
and gathers silently, audacious, fat, shining
and falling, globule one and all. And ever guiding
eels o, aches a the truth and binds
points, weeping. Weeping more wildly,
worse, and blind, he sees he’s water, runs away
from what is left of wind. He sees he is insane.
First was the first, heavy, and then the case of strings
he shoves in laughter, pulls to drink and cheers,
works a small load, rutting, what gutter-fine series,
and, being light, remains high. The loser knows who wins.
If, so he, one looks, so he, below,
there is the same, a horizontal tear
eying the heights with not a trace, no fear,
laughing what’s left. Now alone,
concentrated and distinct, quite lost
the old soul now, defected spirit,
open and close and slay, say eyes, not boring
into no world, merely in facets crying.
He would have to stay here, it would have to, and she
become opaque only because of him, today,
his hit binding her temperature to change,
with terrible deference, so she would ask him, how
can one be so and be such flighty, heavy show,
if one is nothing but a disc in disarray.
© 2011, Ann Cotten
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW,
Publisher: 2011, First published on PIW,
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