Poem
Ulrike Draesner
POEM UNFINISHED, FINAL VERSION
do you know what it’s like when yougo into a spin (the falling leaves) he asks
with gentle polish calm: wulkan.
the lay of the edges the porcelain
all the things in the house he said
put them in mind of their own needs: photos
of christenings, initials on linen
the plumped eiderdowns the blue
dream of a dresser with prancing
peacock the wine from the wedding year –
theirs that is, still warm their german lips
on the glasses by the sink. we were ashamed
not of taking but of looking
that is how we arrived.
wulkan. ancient figure for life.
the human piling up in layersknotted utterly gray prolific
and hot, hardened – sitting on packed bags
in new homes for 30 years: fleeing
to what others have fled. they sawed up
the bed the others for fuel the only
salvaged sack the wooden leg
of a dead brother, i can see
their hands, grandma, granddad, father,
their nails, they had not lost
everything had kept almost all
their body parts kept something
of the soul – perhaps
some of us lie down and make love
on european grass, a tower rises
it is only of iron and reconstructed
which is normal, a tram
passes and the heart, wulkan
beats its hooves softly against the walls
in a bygone polish
stable
© Translation: 2012, Iain Galbraith
POEM UNFINISHED, FINAL VERSION
weet je hoe het is als jeslingert (het vallend blad) vroeg hij
met zachte poolse rust: wulkan.
de ligging van hoeken en zijden het porselein
zei hij alle voorwerpen van het huis
herinnerden aan eigen behoeften: foto’s
van kinderdoop, monogrammen in linnen
de donsdekens op de bedden een blauw
dromende commode met paraderende
emaille pauw de wijn van het bruiloftsjaar –
van de anderen, nog warm hun duitse lippen
nog op de glazen op het aanrecht. we schaamden ons
niet over het nemen maar over het zien
zo kwamen we aan.
wulkan. oud levensbeeld.
lagen van mens die zich opstapelen
aan elkaar geknoopt grijzer dan grijs vruchtbaar
en heet, verstijfd – in het eigene dertig jaar lang
op gepakte koffers gezeten: wat vluchten
in het gevlogene betekent. verzaagden
het bed de anderen om te verstoken
die ene geredde zak het houten been
van de dode broer, ik kan hun handen
zien, grootmama, grootpapa, vader,
hun nagels, ze hadden niet alles
verloren nog vrijwel alle
lichaamsdelen bij zich
nog een klein stukje
ziel – misschien
je gaat liggen liefkoost elkaar
in europees gras, een toren rijst op
hij is maar van ijzer en reconstructie
dat is normaal, er rijdt
een tram en het hart, wulkan
schopt zacht tegen het beschot
in een voorbije poolse
stal
© Vertaling: 2012, Ard Posthuma
POEM UNFINISHED, FINAL VERSION
weißt du wie es ist wenn manschleudert (das fallende laub) fragte er
mit weicher polnischer ruhe: wulkan.
die lage der kanten das porzellan
sagte er alle gegenstände des hauses
erinnerten an eigene bedürfnisse: fotos
von kindstaufen, monogramme im leinen
die federbetten aufgelegt eine blau
träumende kommode mit stolzierendem
emailpfau der wein vom hochzeitsjahr –
der anderen, noch warm ihre deutschen lippen
noch auf den gläsern der spüle. wir schämten uns
nicht des nehmens aber des sehens
so kamen wir an.
wulkan. altes lebensbild.
schichten aus mensch die sich stapelnverknotet übergrau fruchtbar
und heiß, erstarrt – im eigenen 30 jahre
auf gepackten koffern gesessen: was fliehen
in geflohenes heißt. zersägten
das bett die anderen um zu heizen
den einen geretteten sack das holzbein
des toten bruders, ich kann ihre hände
sehen, großmutter, großvater, vater,
ihre nägel, sie hatten nicht alles
verloren fast noch alle teile
des körpers bei sich noch
etwas seele – vielleicht
man legt sich nieder und liebt sich
in europäischem gras, ein turm ragt auf
er ist nur aus eisen und rekonstruktion
das ist normal, eine straßenbahn
fährt und das herz, wulkan
huft weich gegen die wände
in einem vergangenen polnischen
stall
© 2012, Ulrike Draesner
Poems
Poems of Ulrike Draesner
Close
POEM UNFINISHED, FINAL VERSION
do you know what it’s like when yougo into a spin (the falling leaves) he asks
with gentle polish calm: wulkan.
the lay of the edges the porcelain
all the things in the house he said
put them in mind of their own needs: photos
of christenings, initials on linen
the plumped eiderdowns the blue
dream of a dresser with prancing
peacock the wine from the wedding year –
theirs that is, still warm their german lips
on the glasses by the sink. we were ashamed
not of taking but of looking
that is how we arrived.
wulkan. ancient figure for life.
the human piling up in layersknotted utterly gray prolific
and hot, hardened – sitting on packed bags
in new homes for 30 years: fleeing
to what others have fled. they sawed up
the bed the others for fuel the only
salvaged sack the wooden leg
of a dead brother, i can see
their hands, grandma, granddad, father,
their nails, they had not lost
everything had kept almost all
their body parts kept something
of the soul – perhaps
some of us lie down and make love
on european grass, a tower rises
it is only of iron and reconstructed
which is normal, a tram
passes and the heart, wulkan
beats its hooves softly against the walls
in a bygone polish
stable
© 2012, Iain Galbraith
POEM UNFINISHED, FINAL VERSION
do you know what it’s like when yougo into a spin (the falling leaves) he asks
with gentle polish calm: wulkan.
the lay of the edges the porcelain
all the things in the house he said
put them in mind of their own needs: photos
of christenings, initials on linen
the plumped eiderdowns the blue
dream of a dresser with prancing
peacock the wine from the wedding year –
theirs that is, still warm their german lips
on the glasses by the sink. we were ashamed
not of taking but of looking
that is how we arrived.
wulkan. ancient figure for life.
the human piling up in layersknotted utterly gray prolific
and hot, hardened – sitting on packed bags
in new homes for 30 years: fleeing
to what others have fled. they sawed up
the bed the others for fuel the only
salvaged sack the wooden leg
of a dead brother, i can see
their hands, grandma, granddad, father,
their nails, they had not lost
everything had kept almost all
their body parts kept something
of the soul – perhaps
some of us lie down and make love
on european grass, a tower rises
it is only of iron and reconstructed
which is normal, a tram
passes and the heart, wulkan
beats its hooves softly against the walls
in a bygone polish
stable
© 2012, Iain Galbraith
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