Robin Robertson 

Translator

The school lesson stayed with me;
its secret king, the leaf, eats the light,
makes sugar unrelentingly;
I slipped home, then, through the sun-foddered light
between trees, shrubs, grass,
being drawn up rough
to the light’s invisible teats.

On my tongue the breaking leaf, the filler-word ‘green’
for phyll; your eyes, at noon in the reeds
accompanied by Pan’s reed-pipe
piped through the opened car door to the two of us
mechanically at work in the grass,
our last attempt to lie together
without lying, to be green to each other again.

In light that fell, turned, resisted,
until sugar grew like the filler-word
‘feel’ and I left you there:
with the car door open, and the pipes:
the grass stain drawn
so deep into my skirt, so green,
that all the light ran off it.

Today, the frogs – once princes
shot flat against the wall,
all this in the depths of life –
are unstuck; some say the depth is simply
a cellar, dark, a little damp, they stick,
but only in the sense of being torn.
Schöneweide, Schöneweide

I widen my mouth, drawing with the lipstick,
pull the brace from the child’s teeth.
Bite into this mound of rice!
Chubby hands of a child, clapping.
Here, two bend for one coin,
stretched from both sides slowly into copper-wire.
                          Schöneweide, Schöneweide
copper-wire

Now let me tell you how to use a wall.
Wedding-dress in tatters,
staring out of the S-Bahn,
I see one high-heeled shoe
stuck fast on the cellar floor,
I re-touch my lipstick; from the wall
trickles the question, in its little voice:
‘the unmarrying feast, can you make that word?’
Schöneweide, Schöneweide
go

Through the window, snake-side,
another way to use a wall: heart, hand, brain, all
coming down to earth; a pile of rice,
Schöneweide, Schöneweide

Long ago we started – startled, sticky – yesterday,
like the starling on the slope, my own breast
was still starred (crazy white dots), the tattered dress,
scattered, gaze frozen. It went to the heart.
The hills outside the window
look like snake eggs.
A snake’s shed skin: the phrase: Love me,
please

In the cellar: a lot of machinery, laundry, a frog,
the cupboard with its wedding photo, shoes
lined up against the oil tank – we made warmth,
we made a hollow for it, we made a child – hurry up
(everyone knows how to do that).
                          Schöneweide, Schöneweide
go

Transfers on the S-Bahn window (I’ve fallen in love):
one night on the haycart, blanket drawn to the chin,
staring up as a young woman
as the rain came; under the blanket, we could see
the lightning flashes of the stars.
These stars, the rice of heaven
in this pilgrimage to plenty.

Nailed down (my tongue to the wall)
we moved in together to save money
(foraging for acorns in a green drift).
In my wedding-dress on the S-Bahn,
the hunters didn’t shoot from their positions
but hung fire, while heaven held out the Joker.
Schöneweide, Schöneweide
everything before me/him/us
and no one there.

We went skiting about on the ice and,
through the slush, I saw a scored face: our child
pushed her toy penguin
on borrowed skates, pushing
all our anxieties
at night between us.
Schöneweide, Schöneweide

We did our best, stiff in the cellar,
the Witch of Echoes hunting from shoe to shoe
(on the wedding day) behind the tank,
behind mistakes, I lever up
the central-heating system:
two red arrows turned
towards each other
telling me to REPEAT
                          Swine divide us, Swine divide us
ignite

Magpies, crows, blackbird-field, the first
and second fledglings; the stickiness of rot,
of last year’s strength
clarted in the soles of my shoes;
my brain throbbing in front of the tank
– the skating, the embracing, the shaking –
who would see the puffy eyes, who was it
cleaning her teeth in the mirror,
who was it with the crusty smile in the glass,
who would see the rust-red blaze of shame?
Schöneweide, Schöneweide
rice in bulk, bagged up;
another way to use a wall.

Bent candles. The child sitting back in her seat
with a jar in her lap: fired colour, full of tadpoles
and algae, drifting like skin.
The child played with the golden ball.
Schöneweide, Schöneweide
All by herself
she learnt how to swim.

copper-wire
The cellar cleared: broken,
wrong. Some say the depth
is simply torn.
The heart, this addicted machine,
still thumps, jumps – believes in –
those silver blades sliding, shearing
round the heavens.

Go –
with scooter and bike
and bicycle-pump, picnic, muscle-power,
covered by transfers
(one of us playing with a ball)
the windows of the train,
the deer, the hunters;
her Lillyfee
helmet half-covering her face,
the child pulls the curtain
(of the horse-drawn cart,
once upon a time),
laughs and – with a lipstick –
paints a smile onto the face of her mother
and takes the other, the sad mouth, away.
Schöneweide, Schöneweide
go