Theo Dorgan 

auf Lyrikline: 2 Gedichte übersetzt

aus: katalanisch, hebräisch nach: englisch




katalanisch | Mireia Calafell

Sempre s’estima igual però diferent, em deies.
I ara entre el cafè i jo provem d’endevinar
si ens condemnava allò que era igual
o bé la diferència és la culpable.
L’amargor com una pista em porta a tu,
que ets a la cuina i amb la cullera dissols
el sucre que ja no em despertarà.
Del teu gest no es desprèn una resposta,
tan sols l’indici d’una pèrdua. Fixa’t:
Jo no tinc ales perquè els omòplats
tornen a ser omòplats si tu no els mires.
I tu que no tens esma per volar.
De tan a prop del terra, ja no caurem.
I estimar és caure.

© Mireia Calafell
aus: Costures
Audio production: Catalunya Ràdio



All that you love, you love equally but in different ways
you used to say,
and now, between me and the coffee we are trying to guess
if we have been punished by this even-handedness,
or if it’s difference that is to blame.
Bitterness, as a hint, brings me to you
there in the kitchen, where you are spooning in
sugar that will not wake me anymore.
There are no answers in your gestures,
only the evidence of loss. Look —
I no longer have wings, my shoulderblades
no more than shoulderblades if you do not look on them.
You have lost the will to fly.
This close to the ground we cannot fall —
and to love, after all, is to fall.

Translated by Theo Dorgan.


hebräisch | Amir Or

יָרֵחַ מַבְשִׁיל בְּעַנְפֵי הַצַּפְצָפָה.
שַׁחַר פּוֹצֵעַ בְּעֵינֵי דַּיָּגִים, בִּזְרוֹעוֹתֵיהֶם
מִתְחַבְּטוֹת לָצֵאת
סְנוּנִיוֹת שֶׁל דָּם.
שַׁחַר פּוֹצֵעַ פִּיהֶם.
לוּ הָיוּ תּוֹפְסִים וְלוּ דָּג אֶחָד
אֶפְשָׁר הָיָה מִתְרַחֵשׁ

יֵשׁוּעַ פּוֹסֵעַ עַל הַמַּיִם,
רוּחַ קֹדֶשׁ עַל פִּטְמוֹתָיו,
רוּחַ קֹדֶשׁ
נוֹשֶׁפֶת עַל זַכְרוּתוֹ הַשְׁקוּפָה הַמְיַבֶּבֶת.

לַמַּיִם חַיִּים מִשֶּׁלָּהֶם.
נְזִירוֹת, אֲבָנִים עֲגוּלּוֹת,
יוֹרְדוֹת לְהִטָּבֵל בֵּין הַיּוֹנִים.
צִפֳּרִים מְעַשְּׂבוֹת אֶת עֶרְוָתָן.
הַבֹּקֶר טָהוֹר.

כֶּתֶם שֶׁל יַּיִן מִתְפַּשֵּׁט בָּאֲגַם,
פִּסּוֹת שֶׁל לֶחֶם צָפוֹת.
הַבֹּקֶר טָהוֹר.

© Amir Or
Audio production: 2010 Literaturwerkstatt Berlin



A moon ripens in the boughs of the poplar.
Dawn wounds the eyes of the fishermen,
their arms ripple —
 swifts of blood
struggling to fly out.
Dawn wounds their mouths.
A radio.
If they catch even one fish
there’s the possibility of a miracle.

Jesus walks on the water,
his nipples brushed by a holy wind,
the holy spirit
blows on his translucent grieving phallus.

The water has a life of its own.
Nuns, round stones,
step down to bathe among the doves.
The birds tend their nakedness.
The morning is pure.

A wine-stain spreads on the lake,
 morsels of bread float.
The morning is pure.

Translated by Tony Curtis and Theo Dorgan