Poem

Uljana Wolf

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L

in my throat there sits a lump that clumps every lay into a lie. if i cry out: it's he who lies, not i, he gleefully loads a log upon my tongue, young man, i grumble, i grow weary of this fun, whereupon he: as do i. falling silent then, i know he'll go on laying snares, taking every last clearing of the throat as a start—and should he not?—that'll end a poem.

© Translation: 2011, Susan Bernofsky
From: False Friends
Publisher: Ugly Duckling Presse, New York, 2011

last – lied – list – lump – log

last – lied – list – lump – log

in meiner kehle sitzt ein lump, der jedes lied zu einer lüge um-verklumpt. wenn ich ruf: er wars, nicht ich, der log, rollt er mir grollend einen holzklotz auf die zunge. junge, brumm ich, du bist eine last, dann er: und du das letzte. darauf schweig ich, doch weiß ich, er bleibt dran, legt arge listen an, für jeden räusper, den er, und warum auch nicht, als einen anschlag auslegt, ein gedicht.

© 2009, kookbooks
From: falsche freunde
Publisher: kookbooks, Idstein

Uljana Wolf

Uljana Wolf

(Germany, 1979)

The German poet and translator Uljana Wolf was born in East Berlin, and studied German literature, English, and Cultural Studies, in Berlin and Krakow. Her poems have appeared in journals and anthologies in Germany and all over Europe. Given the ease with which Uljana Wolf’s poems appear to be written – with her playful use of language and sense of rhythm – one might think that writing poetry...

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translating

postscript to the kreisau dogs

to the dogs of kreisau

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L

in my throat there sits a lump that clumps every lay into a lie. if i cry out: it's he who lies, not i, he gleefully loads a log upon my tongue, young man, i grumble, i grow weary of this fun, whereupon he: as do i. falling silent then, i know he'll go on laying snares, taking every last clearing of the throat as a start—and should he not?—that'll end a poem.

© 2011, Susan Bernofsky
From: False Friends
Publisher: 2011, Ugly Duckling Presse, New York

L

in my throat there sits a lump that clumps every lay into a lie. if i cry out: it's he who lies, not i, he gleefully loads a log upon my tongue, young man, i grumble, i grow weary of this fun, whereupon he: as do i. falling silent then, i know he'll go on laying snares, taking every last clearing of the throat as a start—and should he not?—that'll end a poem.

© 2011, Susan Bernofsky
From: False Friends
Publisher: 2011, Ugly Duckling Presse, New York

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