Translation Jake Schneider
full moon listening
just a couple droplets on the windowpane.
over the weekend, the man on the radio says,
it will all become clear. your elbows
resting calmly on the windowsill
like paperweights. or a teacher’s hands.
that’s how you learned it. you listen
to some wild boars at the forest edge
fighting for power in the gene pool.
fall came too early this time.
nothing was prepared for it, and here
come walnuts and conkers cracking
loud through the wood like skydivers.
in their trail, plummeting planes.
and you, crouched at the window, listening
through the night, from afar, to the impact.
lost and found
it was a thursday. we heard it plainly
through the porthole to the neighbor’s cellar: there,
after four weeks missing, she was.
one of the resident sisters hopped right
over the fence, shouted into the cold pit
and rang and rang the bell. the door stayed shut.
we tossed little bacon ribbons
through the rusty grate, sprinkled milk
to go with it. the reply sounded grateful enough.
that night a heavy-duty vehicle floated
through the drive-bay, its red brake lights
signifying dignified disinterest. no sooner had
my little sister brought the question to bear
than the listener’s head began to shake.
it is everyone’s own prerogative how things
that have turned up on their own property
should be dealt with. my sister didn’t hesitate
two seconds: the cat’s alive, she said.
the table was set, the gray-blue flag
of morning still waving outside the window, and there
sat my grandmother – glasses, paper – spreading
liverwurst sandwiches in a race against time.
wholehearted granola soaked all cozy and cute
in its porcelain basin, a few tears afloat
and glistening on the milk’s surface,
on its white skin, trembling with tension.
a tide of cocoa flakes hauled through the bowl,
dark shapes popping up and submerging.
the radio had been on for a century,
crackling decade by decade through the morning,
a kitchen crammed with world music.
outside the buses were proliferating,
crammed with children of a thousand parents
whose minivans, a few miles south,
were speeding into a tree, just then, on a sharp
curve, and the news didn’t come till that night.
look at all sunday can do to us
look at all sunday, look at all sunday can’t, look
at all sunday can’t do, what it can’t do to us –
pacify us since we’re an angry swarm of bees
outside post offices displeased with their balance sheets,
under interest tsunamis, the lava of interest upon interest
that springs on us hissing from a telenovela;
afraid of supernatural misanthropic attacks
by bambis and other objects of contemporary discourse,
like meek sheep we ignore the now we consecrate we
consecrate ourselves quickly with spaghetti, with a nice latte,
isn’t this fun, taking time off, giving away gifts
made of hatred and words, made of shopping bags,
speaking an idiom our very own, we sure aren’t
sure aren’t hobos not gangsters either, just a bit
a bit batty around the ears in our fear and our daring
we race and swim into the morning, into the blaze.
From Marius Hulpe, Einmal werden wir © Lyrikedition 2000, 2013
Translation © Jake Schneider