Sapphire 
Translator

on Lyrikline: 17 poems translated

from: german, italian, dutch, greek to: english

Original

Translation

Das Wasser, an dem wir wohnen

german | Uwe Kolbe

für Peter Waterhouse

Wir rappeln uns auf
und spucken das modrige Wasser
aus jungem Mund
und husten das kratzende Naß
aus unverdorbenem Halse.
Die Augen sehen noch nicht
und suchen den Helfer schon,
der oben über uns steht
auf niedrigem, trockenen Steg.
Und gleich wird sein Arm da sein,
uns Halt bieten, hieven.
Noch hindert sein Lachen ihn,
noch lacht er zu laut,
um helfen zu können.
Gleich stehen wir wieder neben ihm
wie die begossenen Pudel.

© Suhrkamp Verlag Frankfurt am Main 2001
from: Die Farben des Wassers. Gedichte
Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag , 2001
ISBN: 3-518-41262-0
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

The water near which we live

english

for Peter Waterhouse

We pull ourselves up
and spit the muddy water
out of a young mouth
and cough the irritating water
out of an innocent throat.
The eyes don‘t see yet,
and are already looking for the helper,
who is standing above us
on a low and dry footbridge.
In a moment his arm will be there,
giving us hold, lifting us.
His laughing still impairs him,
he is laughing too loud
to be able to help.
In a moment we will stand beside him again
soaking wet and looking sheepish.



English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton
printed by permission of the author


[Eccoti scarlatta primavera]

italian | Donata Berra

Eccoti scarlatta primavera
vieni e soccorri prima che ritorni
la tenèbra notte
a riaprire la memoria, a trattenere
l'assenso, fioco, al germogliare

e fosse solo pure
di quiete begonie domestiche.

© Donata Berra
from: unveröffentlichtem Manuskript
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

[There you are scarlet spring]

english

There you are scarlet spring
come and help
before the night's darkness returns
to reopen the mind, to hold back
the weak consent to the germination

and if it was only
the silent domestic begonias.




English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author



1 November

dutch | Bernard Dewulf

De doden hebben verzameld vandaag.
Ze kwamen klagen tot in mijn hoofd.
Mijn zoon gaf alles zijn woord,
mijn vrouw lag als een graf te slapen.
Jaarlijks gingen bloemen langs de ramen.
Het leek of ik nooit zo aanwezig was.
Ik zat met iedereen samen,
onvindbaar bij mijn noemende kind,
in een verwarmde kamer vol namen.

© Bernard Dewulf
from: unveröffentlichtem Manuskript
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

November 1st

english

The dead assembled today
They came and moaned up to my head.
My son gave his words to everything,
my wife was lying, sleeping as a grave.
Every year the flowers went by the windows.
It seemed as if I had never been so present before.
I was sitting among all the others,
near my child naming, yet I was not to be found,
in a heated room full of names.




English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author



Zoontje slaapt

dutch | Bernard Dewulf

Het is een middag uit een dagelijkse week,
een eeuw wordt buiten afgewerkt.
In de ether van het eerste huis
ruist je slaap in een elektrisch oor.

Ramen staan wijdopen op een zomer
en tot in onze stille kamers dringt
het pidgin door van weer een nieuwe tijd.
Nu kan de toekomst komen.

Hier wonen wij tot later samen.
Tot ik in je pas, een vader in een vader.
Tot dit huis je zal verhuizen.
Tot het is alsof ik er nooit was.

Hier ben ik, na de middag van mijn dag.
Ik weet, het droomt nu in je hoofd,
maar hoor. Er zingt in onze kamers iets
van elke tijd. Adem, adem met mij door.

© Bernard Dewulf
from: unveröffentlichtem Manuskript
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Little son is sleeping

english

It is an afternoon in an ordinary week,
a century is ending outside.
In the ether of the first house
Your sleep is murmuring in an electric ear.

Windows are standing wide open towards a summer
and the babble of again something new
is about to penetrate even our quiet rooms.
The future may come now.

Here we will live together till later.
Until I fit in you, a father in a father.
Until this house will move you out.
Until it will be as if I had never been there.

Here am I, after the noon of my day.
I know, it is dreaming in your head now,
but listen. Something timeless is singing
in our rooms. Go on, go on breathing with me.





English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author



Voor Isolde

dutch | Bernard Dewulf

Wij hadden gedronken. De beker ineens.
Zodat in de daghaast van lichamen
onze lichamen blonken. Wij hadden
de wereld verloren, de wereld ons,
en hielden een hemelbed aan
waarin de stad wegtikken kon.
Het reed met ons rond, deed met ons
wat wij moesten. Dan gaven wij namen
en namen die in de mond.
Zo vond men ons

niet. De ochtend verdraagt geen sage,
zijn licht is zijn zwaard. De trein nam
ons terug, wiegend naar ons bestaan.
Daar lost iemand in blanke handen ons op,
daar heeft een huis ons bewaard.
Wij drinken er, drinken op ons geluk
en lachen blazend het vuur uit
van verjaardagstaarten. Wij gaan dus
niet dood. Gewond van binnen
kussen wij de dag en de mens.
De spiegel die te scheren wil beginnen.

© Bernard Dewulf
from: unveröffentlichtem Manuskript
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

For Isolde

english

We had drunk. The whole cup at once.
So that in the everyday rush of bodies
our bodies shone. We had
lost the world, the world had lost us,
and we stopped a canopied bed
in which the city could tick away.
It drove around with us, did with us
what we had to do. Then we started giving
names and used them.
So people could not find

us. Daybreak does not tolerate legends,
its light is its sword. The train took
us back, rocking us back to our existence.
There, we are dissolved by someone with white hands,
there, a house keeps us.
We drink, we drink to our happiness there
and we smile while blowing out the candles on the birthday cakes.
don’t die. Wounded inside, we kiss the day.
The mirror who wants me to shave.




English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author



Vater und Sohn

german | Uwe Kolbe

Ein einziges Abstandhalten
und Beieinanderstehn
mit schlenkernden Armen.
Der Vater die Uniform,
der Sohn mit den Rastazöpfen.
Der Vater im Rucksack Preußen,
der Sohn auf dem Surfbrett
zur Mündung der Flüsse hinaus.
Der Vater auf Reisen,
der Sohn die innere Emigration.
Der Vater die Briefe,
der Sohn schweigt.
Vater, ders locker nimmt,
Sohn zu dem Herzen.
Einander Kampf ohne Regel,
ernster als auf dem Spielplatz je,
länger als lebenslang.
Nie sterben die Väter,
hört man, seit Ohren sind,
und selten leben die Söhne.

© Uwe Kolbe
from: Vineta. Gedichte
Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag , 1998
ISBN: 3-518-40990-5
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Father and Son

english

Keeping the distance
and staying close together
with dangling arms.
The father the uniform,
the son with Rasta hair.
The Father's got Prussia in his rucksack,
the son on the surfboard
towards the mouth of the river.
The Father travelling,
the son the internal emigration.
The Father the letters,
the son doesn‘t speak.
Father, who takes it easy,
son to his heart.
Fighting each other without rules,
more seriously than anytime at the playground,
longer than lifelong.
The Fathers never die,
one hears since ears have existed,
and seldom do the sons live.




English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author




Tentando

italian | Donata Berra

Tentando di uscire dal porto
gli incagli erano questi, nominabili:
gòmene draghe gru gialle
argani ruggini, rostri
scialuppe appese a corde
Maria, di sguincio, addossata a un palo.

La mano già sulla barra del timone
sganciate le marre, ma
la città che fa da àncora
il vecchio suona e non ha più sentore
se non del cambio tra la notte e il giorno
come quell'altro suo compagno a prua
gli occhi d'acqua, la giacchetta lisa
con una rosa, rosa rossa in mano.

© Verlag Im Waldgut / Donata Berra
from: Maria, schräg an einen Pfosten gelehnt / Maria, di sguincio, addossata a un palo. Gedichte / Poesie. Aus dem Italienischen übersetzt von J. Kelter
Frauenfeld: Im Waldgut, 1999
ISBN: 3-7294-0285-4
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Tentando

english

Trying to leave the harbor
the obstacles were the following, nameable ones:
ropes, excavators, yellow cranes
rusty winches, hulls
jollyboats hanging on ropes
Maria, obliquely, leaning on a post.


With his hands already touching the tiller
the flukes loosened, but
the city acting as an anchor
the old man plays the accordion, he has no feeling left
except for the change between night and day
like the other one his companion at the bow
watery eyes, worn-out jacket
with a rose, red rose in his hand.




English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author



Sternsucher

german | Uwe Kolbe

Der, hör ich, nachts aus dem Haus geht
und, seh ich, hoch in den Himmel schaut,
den, weiß ich, eine sehr gerne mal träfe,
doch, sagt sie, so wie es aussieht,
der, klagt sie, schaut doch immer nur hoch
und, denkt sie, niemals in mein Gesicht.
So, mein Freund, findest du nie deinen Stern.

© Suhrkamp Verlag Frankfurt am Main 1998
from: Vineta. Gedichte
Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag , 1998
ISBN: 3-518-40990-5
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Stargazer

english

He, I hear, leaves the house at night,
and, I see, watches the sky high above,
him, I know, someone longs to meet,
but, she says, apparently,
he, she complains, always only looks upwards,
and, she thinks, he never looks at my face.
This way, my friend, you will never find your star.




English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author




Moeder

dutch | Bernard Dewulf

Ze zou nu bijna oud zijn,
een bestaande vrouw
met sleet in de vingers.

Op zondag zou ze nagaan
hoe ik overbleef
met iemand die zij herkende.

Ze zou in haar laatste verwarring
een moederorde bewaren
op mijn weerspannige tafel.

En tussen mijn dringende leven,
tussen haar regels
zou ze mijn hele hart ondervragen.

Ik zou een volbrachte zoon zijn,
zij zou de vaat wegdoen
en weer mijn vader ontmoeten.

Ze zou in mijn andere dagen
gelukkig afwezig zijn. Maar dat
zou ik kunnen verdragen.

© Bernard Dewulf
from: unveröffentlichtem Manuskript
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Mother

english

She would almost have been old now,
a tangible woman
with worn out fingers.

On Sunday she would find out
how I stayed behind
with someone she recognised.

In her latest confusion
she would keep a mother’s order
on my recalcitrant table.

And in between my pressing life,
in between her rules
she would hear out my entire heart.

I would be an accomplished son,
she would put away the dishes
and meet my father again.

On my other days she would
happily be absent. But I would
be able to bear that.





English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author



Lui

italian | Donata Berra

Avevano un bell'offrirgli ex voto
erigere tempietti innumeri chiesette
cappelle a picco sugli scogli, nicchie
a perpendicolo sul mare: lui

lui che sarebbe il loro protettore
il solo patrono loro accreditato
Aghios Eolios, santo e pescatore

lui non riuscivano mai a prenderlo.


Così con quel poco sego
prima che fosse alba
gli accendevano smilze candeline
gialle, infilzate fuori
nella sabbia, in riva, ma lui
lui era già sul mare
già sul mare aperto
a spaziare, che alcuni
credono di poter dire, e pensare
che lui
è lo stesso come le schiene
per gioco curve dei delfini,
lui già svagava basso sulle curve onde, svariava
radente a braccia spalancate, a rondine
non a croce, no, sfiorante
il mare che non finisce.

Altri fermi sulla riva di un grande Egeo
dicevano che
quando tutti son via e
non c'è più nessuno
quel suono che si ascolta è il suo,
altri inviperiti lo vituperano
dicono, perfido! se ne stia
persino posato
sugli spilli di punta delle ali
alle rondini di mare.

© Verlag Im Waldgut / Donata Berra
from: Maria, schräg an einen Pfosten gelehnt / Maria, di sguincio, addossata a un palo. Gedichte / Poesie. Aus dem Italienischen übersetzt von J. Kelter
Frauenfeld: Im Waldgut, 1999
ISBN: 3-7294-0285-4
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

LUI

english

They used to offer him quite a lot of ex-votos
erect innumerable small temples
small churches, chapels
at the tops of the rocks, niches
suspended over the sea: him

he who was their protector
the only patron they had been given
Aghios Eolios, saint and fisherman

him they never managed to catch him.

So with the little tallow they had
before dawn
they offered him slim candles
yellow ones, stacked outside
in the sand, on the shore, but he
he was already at sea
already on the open sea
roaming, so that some
believed they saw him
and say he is just like the backs
of dolphins curved just for fun
he was already flying close to the curved waves
changing directions
flying low with his arms wide open
like a swallow
not like a cross, no –
touching the endless sea.

Others standing on the shore of the large Agean
said that when everyone has left
and there is no one there anymore
the sound one hears is his.
Others abuse him furiously say
Rascal! He even stays on top
of the sea swallows' pointed wings.




English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author



ΩΔΗ

greek | Kostas Koutsourelis

Ποιες σκιές
επιστρέφουν
στο λίκνο τους

Ποιοι κοιμούνται
στην πάτρια γη

Ποια σελήνη
λευκάζει στη θλίψη τους

Ποιας λήθης
τους δρέπει η φωνή

© KOSTAS KOUTSOURELIS
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

ODE

english

Which shadows
come back
in their cradle

Who are sleeping
in the fatherland

Which moon
shines white in their sadness

Whose voice reaps
forgetfullness.



English version by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author



Dido's klacht

dutch | Bernard Dewulf

De tijd is met ons klaar.
Vannacht nog rijdt hij mij de dageraad in
van een ander land. De nieuwe ochtend zal mij wekken
aan een onbegrijpelijk raam.

Niemand is voor iemand ooit gemaakt. Soms
raken wij verstrikt in het lamento van een tegenziel.
En is niet, zei je, elk moment op elk moment
bereid tot iedereens oneindigheid?

De oneindigheid is nu gedaan. Ik wil mijn tijd
en mijn geluk. Het kan ons tijdelijk hart bewegen
als het twintig mooie regels lang mislukt.
Maar in de spiegel valt het lelijk tegen.

Ik ga nu, man van mij van nooit. Ik ben van deze kant.
Ik ben van vrouw gemaakt.
Ik heb je lief.
Ik heb je lief alleen, zo ademen wij.

Mijn nieuwe land zal mij in stromend water wassen,
mij wiegen in zijn nette bedden, bedenken in zijn taal.
Ik zal er duizend foto¹s van je maken
en kijkend zal ik op je leegte uitgekeken raken.

© Bernard Dewulf
from: unveröffentlichtem Manuskript
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Dido’s lament

english

Time is through with us.
Not later than tonight it will drive me to the dawn
of another country. The new morning will wake me up
at an incomprehensible window.

No one is ever made for someone. Sometimes
we get entangled in the lament of a countered soul.
And isn’t, as you said, every moment at every moment
disposed to everyone’s infinity?

The infinity is over now. I want my time
and my happiness. It can move our temporary heart
as it fails for all of twenty beautiful lines.
Yet in the mirror, it is a rude awakening.

I am leaving now, my man of never. I come from this side.
I am made of woman.
I cherish you.
I cherish you alone, that is the way we breathe.

My new country will wash me in streaming water,
rock me in its neat beds, think of me in its language.
I will make a thousand pictures of you there
and I will tire of watching emptiness.




English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author



Der Essigbaum

german | Uwe Kolbe

Wahrscheinlich wars langer Weile geschuldet, daß ich ihn wahrnahm.
   Wir warteten wieder einmal - Bahnhof Schönhauser Allee –
Auf einen Zug am Nordring, an dessen verbliebener Hälfte.
   S-Bahn in Rostrot und Gelb, zischend kam sie zum Stehn,
setzte ich mich an das Fenster, um aus der Nähe zu schauen:
   trieb doch dort einer aus sich, aus einem dürren Nichts
tatsächlich richtige Blätter. Ich fragte, was das sei, den Vater:
   ´n Essigbaum, und der treibt Zweige und Blätter neu.
Ich darauf: An dieser Stelle kann er doch nicht überleben!
   Siehste doch, dieser Kerl ist so bescheiden, es geht.

Licht gab es keins da, jedenfalls nicht zu gewöhnlichen Zeiten,
   die wir hier warteten, ich neuerdings fasziniert
von diesem Kerl, besser –chen, der sich wacker das Leben ertrotzte.
   Sein zarter Stamm lehnte fast an der Stromschiene vorn,
hinter ihm ragte und lud jedesmal zum kindlichen Tagtraum
   eine düstere Stützmauer, zu Bögen gewölbt.
Dort, wo die Bögen sich voneinander trennten, ein Luftloch,
   sagte jedenfalls ich, je als kleineres Kreuz,
ausgespart für nicht erkennbaren Zweck, wozu die Belüftung?
   Einfach zur Zierde vielleicht. So hat das Kind nicht gedacht.

Seine Vision galt den Kellern dort, wo seit Kriegsende Gras wuchs,
   und es sprach neuerdings mit seinem Freunde, dem Baum,
der keiner werden konnte, weil alle S-Bahnen täglich
   in dem Minutentakt mit ihrem Fahrtwind an ihm
zerrten, und es alle Kraft galt, die Blätter zu halten, sonst gar nichts.
   Leise, versteht sich, sprach ich mit dem beinahe Baum.
Er war mein Vorbild, auch wenn ich seinen Namen nie nannte.
   Selten, doch wenn ich dorthin gehe und nach ihm schau,
ist es ein Spiel, die Augen verbunden, mit Schwindelgefühlen,
    obwohl ich die Regeln weiß, weil ich erwachsen bin.

© Suhrkamp Verlag Frankfurt am Main 2001
from: Die Farben des Wassers. Gedichte
Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag , 2001
ISBN: 3-518-41262-0
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

The Staghorn Sumac

english

It was probably due to boredom that I noticed it.
   We were waiting again – station Schönhauser Allee –
for a train on the northern ring, on the half that had remained of it.
   Commuters train colored red and yellow, with a whistle it came to a halt,
I took a seat by the window, to watch from nearby:
   out of itself, out of a dry nothing
one did put forth real leaves. I asked the father what that might be:
   a staghorn sumac, and it‘s sprouting new leaves and twigs.
I answered: But it can‘t survive at this spot!
   You see that it can, this lad is so modest; it works.

There was no light, at least not at usual times,
   when we were waiting here, I only recently fascinated
by this lad, or better this little one, who is fighting so bravely for his life.
   Its feeble trunk almost leant against the power rail in front of it,
behind it rose a gloomy wall that formed arches,
   inviting one every time to daydream.
There, where the arches separate, a ventilation hole,
   that‘s what I said, each like a smaller cross,
designed for uses unknown, why the ventilation?
   Maybe simply as an ornament. The child didn‘t think that way.

His vision was with these vaults, where the grass had been growing since the end of the war,
   and recently he talked to his friend, the tree,
which had no chance to become one, because all the trains that passed
   daily, minutewise, dragged it with the airstream
and it took all its power to keep hold of its leaves, nothing more.
   In a low voice, of course, did I talk to what was nearly a tree.
It was my model, although I never called its name.
   Rarely, but when I go there and look after it,
it is a game, with eyes blindfolded, feeling dizzy,
    although by now I’m an adult and know the rules




English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author



ΒΙΒΛΙΟΘΗΚΗ

greek | Kostas Koutsourelis

Σ' αυτό το μαυσωλείο των λέξεων
κάθε σελίδα φρουρεί
μια μνήμη αβέβαιη,
μια σκονισμένη αθανασία

Κάποτε,
σ' ώρες απρόβλεπτες,
ένας ξένος ξεφυλλίζει αργά το κενό
κι απ' των σελίδων το βυθό
μια παγωμένη μουσική
παίρνει να τρίζει

© KOSTAS KOUTSOURELIS
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

LIBRARY

english

In this mausoleum of words
every page guards
an uncertain memory,
a dusty immortality

Sometimes
in hours unpredictible
a stranger leafs slowly through the emptyness
and from the bottom of the pages
a frozen music
starts crackling



English version by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author




ΑΝΤΙΝΟΜΙΕΣ

greek | Kostas Koutsourelis

Τα χείλη του μεσημεριού
πάνω στο χιόνι

Της θάλασσας το βλέμμα
που στεγνώνει

Πόλεις βαθύρριζες
που παρασύρει ο αέρας

Το σάλιο της νύχτας
στο λαιμό της μέρας

Ρολόγια ευκίνητα,
ανάπηρα χρόνια

Ενός χαμόγελου αρραγούς               
η ερειπωμένη εικόνα

Το δώρο που σου δόθηκε
και δεν σου ανήκει

Η ήττα που
εξαγόρασε τη νίκη

Η ξηρασία της σκέψης μου
και του κορμιού σου οι βάλτοι

Το αιφνίδιο ρίγος
του παλιού εφιάλτη

© KOSTAS KOUTSOURELIS
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

CONTRADICTIONS

english

The lips of the summer
on the snow

The sea's look
which dries

Cities deeprooted
blown by the wind

The saliva of the night
on the neck of the day

Lissom watches
handicapped years

Of an unbroken smile
the ruinous image

The gift that was given to you
and does not belong to you

The defeat that needed
the victory

The drought of my thought
and the swamps of your body

The sudden shiver
of the old nightmare



English version by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author



Ingredienzen der Schlaflosigkeit

german | Uwe Kolbe

Es war diese Mücke, ich hab sie gehört.
Und es war – wuchs da nicht Gras
zwischen zwei Kriegen?
Es war ähnlich dem Grund, weshalb ich die Stadt
zum ersten Mal wirklich verließ.
Und es war, daß die Liebe sich weigerte,
einfach zu sein wie ein Handgriff,
schön wie ein Silbenrätsel,
witzig und unerklärlich, wie die Attacke
der Katze, die anschließend wieder
vornehm gemessen schreitet oder
sich putzt, mit der Zunge die Pfote befeuchtet,
damit übern Hinterkopf streicht,
mit dieser unnachahmlichen Sorgfalt.
Es war, daß der Lärm meiner Stadt
den letzten alten Putz zerrüttet,
das letzte Brandmauern-Graubraun
auf den monströsen Lkw kippt,
der gestern mich fast überrollte.
Es war, daß Reste der alten Gewißheit
einander zersetzten, die neue
privat bleibt, das rasende Herz
- in unseren Breiten kommt so etwas
von übertriebenem Genuß.
Es war, du wachst auf und nuschelst,
mach endlich das Fenster zu.

© Suhrkamp Verlag Frankfurt am Main 1998
from: Vineta. Gedichte
Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag , 1998
ISBN: 3-518-40990-5
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Ingredients of Sleeplessness

english

It was the gnat, I heard it.
And it was – didn‘t the grass grow there
between two wars?
It was similar to the reason why I seriously left the city
for the first time.
And it was, that love rejected
to be as simple as a flick of the wrist,
beautiful like a word game,
funny and inexplicable, like the attacking
cat, which, after the attack, continues
to walk elegantly in moderate pace, or
to clean itself, licking the paw with the tongue,
then stroking the back of its head with the wet paw,
with this unimitable care.
It was, that the noise of my city
destroys the remains of the old plaster,
tips the last grey-brown
of the fire wall on to the monstrous lorry,
that nearly ran me over yesterday.
It was, that remnants of the former certainty
decomposed each other, the new one
remains private, the heavily pounding heart
- in our part of the world this is the result
of excessive consumption.
It was, you wake up and mumble,
will you close that window.




English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author





Al porto

italian | Donata Berra

Al porto, uno

A ridosso dell'onda, preso
tra le maglie della rete, perso
al finisterre sguardo, e le passioni:
fermo, aspettando che calino le nasse


Al porto, due

Senza apparente scopo
come la lenta risacca

ma con visibile fastidio
per le frasi che non la riguardano                           

sta la bella donna
seduta al bar Blu Mare

attorcigliando il fumo
cilestrino della sigaretta.

© Verlag Im Waldgut / Donata Berra
from: Maria, schräg an einen Pfosten gelehnt / Maria, di sguincio, addossata a un palo. Gedichte / Poesie. Aus dem Italienischen übersetzt von J. Kelter
Frauenfeld: Im Waldgut, 1999
ISBN: 3-7294-0285-4
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

In the harbor

english

In the harbor, one

Close to the shelter of the wave, entangled
in the mesh of the net, lost
in the endless glance he loses his passion:
standing still, waiting for the fish traps to lower.


In the harbor, two

Without any apparent purpose
like the surf rolling slowly

but with visible annoyance
at the sentences that are not about her


the beautiful woman is
sitting in the bar Blue Mare


curling the pale blue smoke
of the cigarette.




English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton



© 2001 by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton

printed by permission of the author