Poem
Monika Rinck
peonies
in all phases of the nesting fold the tuft,balled-up packages, dense, tight and mute
crouched in buds the press to fat
muddled centres in purple and/or white
back to back living flowers bent over
on planted stalks and bloom themselves round.
When it started to rain, in my huge hand
I held the heavy head at the stalk,
childhood drifted into the humid air,
sharp screams, wanting to have, pente-lured
to the slope. longing ways got on
and got off again. how i heard the whisper
of their many thousand blossoms, i wanted
to tousle the rain-wet rose, hit and flutter it,
wanted to pluck its blossoms, throw them around,
and crush them with my feet, calling friends, come and look
the fat big blossom thing, what i have here
cat’s head round white and without eyes, i, i,
i want to drive the cat head, that is no cat
through the lunatic herd of my wish
made broken and handled, no uninjured,
I let the roses stand, great, motionless and still
in the middle of the way through which childhood flies.
© Translation: 2004, Donald Berger
pfingstrosen
pfingstrosen
in allen phasen der faltung nisten die büschel,geballte pakete, dicht, eng und stumm
hockt in knospen das drängen nach fetten
vermoddelten zentren in purpur und/oder weiß
wohnen rücken an rücken hinübergebogene blüten
auf krautigen stengeln und blühen sich rund.
als es zu regnen angefangen hat, ich am halm
in meiner großen hand den schweren kopf
gehalten habe, zog kindheit in die feuchte luft,
spitze schreie, habenwollen, pfingstgelockt
zum hang geworden. sehnsuchtsarten stiegen auf
und tauchten wieder ab. wie ich das flüstern
ihrer vielen tausend blüten hörte, wollte ich
die regennasse rose strubbeln, knüllen, fleddern
wollte ihr die blüten rupfen, um mich werfen,
und zertreten, freunde rufen, kommt und schaut
das fette große blütending, was ich da hab
katzenkopfrund weiß und ohne augen, ich, ich,
ich will den katzenkopf, der keine katze ist
durch’s irre rudel meiner wünsche treiben
kaputtgemacht und angefaßt, nein unversehrt
lass ich die hehren rosen reglos starr inmitten
jener bahnen stehn durch welche kindheit schnellt.
© 2004, zu Klampen! Verlag
From: Monika Rinck: Verzückte Distanzen. Gedichte
Publisher: Zu Klampen! Verlag. Edition Postskriptum: Springe, Germany 2004.
From: Monika Rinck: Verzückte Distanzen. Gedichte
Publisher: Zu Klampen! Verlag. Edition Postskriptum: Springe, Germany 2004.
Poems
Poems of Monika Rinck
Close
peonies
in all phases of the nesting fold the tuft,balled-up packages, dense, tight and mute
crouched in buds the press to fat
muddled centres in purple and/or white
back to back living flowers bent over
on planted stalks and bloom themselves round.
When it started to rain, in my huge hand
I held the heavy head at the stalk,
childhood drifted into the humid air,
sharp screams, wanting to have, pente-lured
to the slope. longing ways got on
and got off again. how i heard the whisper
of their many thousand blossoms, i wanted
to tousle the rain-wet rose, hit and flutter it,
wanted to pluck its blossoms, throw them around,
and crush them with my feet, calling friends, come and look
the fat big blossom thing, what i have here
cat’s head round white and without eyes, i, i,
i want to drive the cat head, that is no cat
through the lunatic herd of my wish
made broken and handled, no uninjured,
I let the roses stand, great, motionless and still
in the middle of the way through which childhood flies.
© 2004, Donald Berger
From: Monika Rinck: Verzückte Distanzen. Gedichte
From: Monika Rinck: Verzückte Distanzen. Gedichte
peonies
in all phases of the nesting fold the tuft,balled-up packages, dense, tight and mute
crouched in buds the press to fat
muddled centres in purple and/or white
back to back living flowers bent over
on planted stalks and bloom themselves round.
When it started to rain, in my huge hand
I held the heavy head at the stalk,
childhood drifted into the humid air,
sharp screams, wanting to have, pente-lured
to the slope. longing ways got on
and got off again. how i heard the whisper
of their many thousand blossoms, i wanted
to tousle the rain-wet rose, hit and flutter it,
wanted to pluck its blossoms, throw them around,
and crush them with my feet, calling friends, come and look
the fat big blossom thing, what i have here
cat’s head round white and without eyes, i, i,
i want to drive the cat head, that is no cat
through the lunatic herd of my wish
made broken and handled, no uninjured,
I let the roses stand, great, motionless and still
in the middle of the way through which childhood flies.
© 2004, Donald Berger
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