Poem
Thomas Kling
stratum I (petrarch)
the peak ahead, the slope behind me,yet she is what I always see. wind
wounds that will not heal. protruding
roots, underbrush, cropped sparse grass
amid the hard gravel, thorny in
the northern wind . . . as he wrote
in a letter. then two helicopters,
black and suddenly out of nowhere,
circling over the square. rotors
whir; the jagged escape of the swifts
which dive, shrilly
in the scarce, decap-
itated air. air! each breath a crampon!
by noon, thin air. then distance.
© Translation: 2002, Peter Filkins
From: Poetry Magazine Oct. Nov. 1998
From: Poetry Magazine Oct. Nov. 1998
schicht I (petrarca)
schicht I (petrarca)
aber der kuppe weithinsichtbarkeit!fast immer ist sie im äuge mir. Wind-
wunde. di sich nicht schließt, krumm
holz, kriechholz, kargn flors abbiß,
wo über spitzign schöner, dornicht
im gegnmistral . . . wi er brieflich ver
sichert. gleich zwei hubschrauber,
schwarz, keine brief-perspektive,
eng zirkelnd überm karrée. rotoren
geschrapp; in zackn flucht der
mauersegler. di schrillend unter
tauchn in kurzgehaltner, dekapi
tierter luft. luft!, steigeisn der atem!
mittag der ausdünnt. dann ferne.
© 1996, Suhrkamp Verlag; Veröffentlichung mit freundlicher Genehmigung
From: Thomas Kling: morsch. Gedichte
Publisher: Suhrkamp, Frankfurt/Main
From: Thomas Kling: morsch. Gedichte
Publisher: Suhrkamp, Frankfurt/Main
Poems
Poems of Thomas Kling
Close
stratum I (petrarch)
the peak ahead, the slope behind me,yet she is what I always see. wind
wounds that will not heal. protruding
roots, underbrush, cropped sparse grass
amid the hard gravel, thorny in
the northern wind . . . as he wrote
in a letter. then two helicopters,
black and suddenly out of nowhere,
circling over the square. rotors
whir; the jagged escape of the swifts
which dive, shrilly
in the scarce, decap-
itated air. air! each breath a crampon!
by noon, thin air. then distance.
© 2002, Peter Filkins
From: Poetry Magazine Oct. Nov. 1998
From: Poetry Magazine Oct. Nov. 1998
stratum I (petrarch)
the peak ahead, the slope behind me,yet she is what I always see. wind
wounds that will not heal. protruding
roots, underbrush, cropped sparse grass
amid the hard gravel, thorny in
the northern wind . . . as he wrote
in a letter. then two helicopters,
black and suddenly out of nowhere,
circling over the square. rotors
whir; the jagged escape of the swifts
which dive, shrilly
in the scarce, decap-
itated air. air! each breath a crampon!
by noon, thin air. then distance.
© 2002, Peter Filkins
From: Poetry Magazine Oct. Nov. 1998
From: Poetry Magazine Oct. Nov. 1998
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