Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Durs Grünbein

IN FRONT OF AN OLD X-RAY

The bodies are gone. A posthumous tidiness reigns
In the empty flat, spring-cleaned from the mirrors
To the stains in the bath. At the bottom of the tub
Curls one single hair, last surviving trace of a species
That cleans up after itself and washes after mating.
How peaceful are the windowsills with their dead flies –
But even here terror likes to call.

It insinuates itself into crevices, thresholds and radiator ribs,
A hatchery for insect eggs, an odorless incense
Wafting through the room, blackening the stove rings,
Luke-warm at floor level, cooling in the curtain pleats.
Scales of skin it is, sweepings from a reptile cage
That show who sleeps here. To go by the kitchen calendar
Hanging over the sink, some Monday or other
Has come and gone.

There is builders’ rubble under the floorboards, and nothing human
About the furniture, save the tenacity with which it was assembled,
The skeletal table, the clutch of ossified chairs,
So long unwarmed by either hand or behind.
The illusion of mod cons is dried up in the sink,
Contorted in the windings of taps. Comfort
Summons a lurking house-ghost out of the corners,
Where at other times the hoover revelled
In bestial squalor.

After an interval of days, in some cases weeks, the inhabitant
Returns here, to his own surprise. His glance falls – along with
His key-ring – to the indifferent floor, before catching itself
On the resolute walls. He stands there fascinated,
As much a stranger to himself as he would be
Before the grouted frigidarium of Pompeii, or the scribbled walls
Of the House of Charred Furniture, the dark
And juiceless obscenities.

The shades have fled. Printed on the stone
Is the narrow edge of sweat that a Roman woman’s foot
Left one July noon. No one could identify
The interconnecting chambers, once they’re vacated.
All trace of pink has gone from the assembled emptiness,
Though the rust of the pipes keeps its freshness longer
Than the fishes’ blood in the kitchen,
The ocular gleam of clean plates.

Life burgeons in dustbins. Only sometimes a fingernail breaks
While rummaging through the plastic bags. A false movement
Drills a splinter into the flesh. A desk drawer jams
Because, with the insistence of an object in a dream,
An infant photograph of yourself keeps sticking.
Plants, desiccated in a cupboard, deny the peaceably
Ticking grandfather clock. From everywhere comes the derisive:
‘You see what comes of...’

For instance, the towel dangling stiffly on its hook,
Or the pair of shoes, parked by the door,
That got you this far. Or again, the toothbrush,
Grey with use, a living relic, spied through a keyhole,
An archive of tiny deaths that might be broken up at any time.
Till something turns up that no one missed – an X-ray
In amongst the yellow bills in a medical file,
A negative showing your own skull,
With the break in the bone.

The souvenir of an accident – radiation
Has stripped away all the flesh. A white pall
Lies on the film, an angel’s cigarette smoke swirls
Round the empty eye-sockets. A triangle gapes
In lieu of a nose. Space is inhaled
Through the dark oral cavity. And that calcium-rich grin
Is both your ur-face and your last, even though
Nothing looks back at you.

The eyes, skin and hair are all abolished,
Cancelled along with the eyelashes and the dutiful eyelids,
As are the tears – lifeblood of fiction – in their ducts and glands,
And every wrinkle. The lips are gone
You used to gnaw. And swallowed up the tongue
Behind the teeth. But all through the ensuing years
(Or weeks), the bent nail stays in the plaster
Where the hammer drove it. The damp patch on the ceiling
shines dully through the paint. Blue as on the first day,
The vase, resting place of so many violets, stands in the window,
A small coin of soap lies pristine in its dish. All signs of use
On knives and bottlenecks were a false lead
In this abandoned flat. Against bare walls,
Flickering in the X-ray illumination, nothing was left
To recall the poise of bodies, vanished
In the come and go.

VOR EINEM ALTEN RÖNTGENBILD

VOR EINEM ALTEN RÖNTGENBILD

So sind die Körper gegangen. In der verlassenen Wohnung
Ist alles posthume Ordnung, von den Spiegeln bereinigt
Bis zu den Flecken im Bad. Unten am Wannengrund
Klebt ein einzelnes Haar, das Relikt einer Tierart,
Die nach der Paarung sich wäscht und die Spuren verwischt.
Wie friedlich die Fensterbretter mit ihren toten Fliegen –
Und doch kommt der Schrecken auch hier
Gern zu Besuch.

In die Ritzen legt er sich, auf Schwellen und Heizungsrippen,
Ein Nest für Insekteneier, ein geruchloser Weihrauch,
Der die Zimmer durchzieht, die Herdplatten schwärzt,
Lauwarm am Boden, in den Vorhangfalten schon kalt.
Hautschuppen sind es, Stäubchen aus einem Reptilienkäfig,
An denen sich zeigt, wer hier schläft. Vom Kalender
Annonciert überm Spülstein, hat die Zeit überdauert
Irgendein Montag.

Unter den Dielen liegt Bauschutt, und an den Möbeln ist nichts
Menschlich, außer der Zähigkeit, die sie geschaffen hat,
Den geripphaften Tisch, das Ensemble verknöcherter Stühle,
Die solang keine Hüfte mehr warmhielt und keine Hand.
Im Waschbecken trocknet, im Wasserhahn krümmt sich
Die Illusion vom erleichterten Leben. Komfort
Ruft aus den Ecken ein Hausgeist, der sich versteckt hält,
Wo sonst der Staubsauger aufheult
Im animalischen Dreck.

Dorthin zurück kehrt, manchmal nach Tagen, nach Wochen,
Erstaunt, der hier wohnt. Mit dem Schlüsselbund fällt
Sein Blick auf neutralen Boden, bevor er sich fängt
Im geschlossenen Mauerwerk. Gebannt steht er da,
Für Augenblicke sich fremd wie vor den spurlosen Fugen
Der Kaltwasserbecken Pompejis, vor der zerkratzten Wand
Im Haus der Verkohlten Möbel, den Obszönitäten,
Dunkel und fleischlos.

So sind die Schatten verschwunden. Und vom Stein aufgesaugt
Ist der schmale Schweißrand, den in der Julihitze am Mittag
Der Fuß einer Römerin hinterließ. Die Kammern alle,
Durch Türen verbunden, nachdem sie geräumt sind,
Kennt keiner sie wieder. Vor versammelter Leere
Ist jedes Rosa getilgt, und der Rost an den Rohren bleibt
Länger frisch als in der Küche das Fischblut, auf neuen Tellern
Der Augapfelglanz.

Doch in den Abfalleimern keimt Leben. Und manchmal bricht
Beim Durchwühlen der Tüten ein Fingernagel. Ein Mißgriff
Zieht einen Splitter ins Fleisch. Eine Schublade klemmt,
Weil ein Photo, das dich als Säugling zeigt, festhängt
Mit der Beharrlichkeit eines Gegenstandes im Traum.
Pflanzen, im Schrank vertrocknet, dementieren den Frieden
Einer tickenden Wanduhr. Von überall höhnt es:
‘Sieh, was draus wird...’.

Das steife Handtuch, zum Beispiel, am Haken, und an der Tür
Ein Paar Halbschuh, bis hierher getragen. Oder die Bürste,
Grau mit dem Abdruck vom Zähneputzen – ein Nachlaß
Zur Lebzeit, erspäht durch ein Schlüsselloch,
Ein Archiv kleiner Tode, das jederzeit auflösbar ist.
Bis etwas anfällt, das keiner vermißt hat, – ein Röntgenbild
Zwischen gelben Rezepten in einer Krankenakte,
Ein Negativ, das den eigenen Schädel zeigt,
Im Knochen den Bruch.

Das Souvenir eines Unfalls, – und durch Bestrahlung ist
Alles Fleisch restlos beseitigt worden. Weiß auf dem Film
Liegt ein Schleier, um leere Augenhöhlen der Zigarettenrauch
Eines paffenden Engels. Ein Dreieck klafft
Anstelle der Nase. Durch den verdunkelten Mund
Schiebt sich das All. Und dieses Grinsen, in Kalzium gefaßt,
Ist das erste Gesicht und das letzte, aus dem
Nichts mehr zurückblickt.

Denn mit den Wimpern gestrichen, mit den geduldigen Lidern,
Sind auch die Augen, Haut und Haar aufgebraucht
Wie aus den Drüsen der Stoff für Romane, die Tränen,
Und jede Falte. Auf die man so gerne gebissen hatte,
Die Lippen sind fort. Und verschluckt ist die Zunge
Hinterm Gebiß. Doch in den Jahren nachher
(Oder waren es Stunden) blieb, wo der Hammer ihn traf,
Der verbogene Nagel im Putz. Durch den Anstrich sichtbar,
War an der Decke der Wasserfleck. Blau wie am ersten Tag
Stand die Vase im Fenster, das Veilchengrab, lag in der Schale
Ein rundes Stück Seife, unbenutzt. Und die Spur von Gebrauch
An Messern und Flaschenhälsen war eine falsche Fährte
In der verlassenen Wohnung. Vor kahlen Wänden,
Flackernd im Röntgenlicht, zeugte nichts mehr
Von den Balancen der Körper, verschwunden
Im Kommen und Gehn.
Close

IN FRONT OF AN OLD X-RAY

The bodies are gone. A posthumous tidiness reigns
In the empty flat, spring-cleaned from the mirrors
To the stains in the bath. At the bottom of the tub
Curls one single hair, last surviving trace of a species
That cleans up after itself and washes after mating.
How peaceful are the windowsills with their dead flies –
But even here terror likes to call.

It insinuates itself into crevices, thresholds and radiator ribs,
A hatchery for insect eggs, an odorless incense
Wafting through the room, blackening the stove rings,
Luke-warm at floor level, cooling in the curtain pleats.
Scales of skin it is, sweepings from a reptile cage
That show who sleeps here. To go by the kitchen calendar
Hanging over the sink, some Monday or other
Has come and gone.

There is builders’ rubble under the floorboards, and nothing human
About the furniture, save the tenacity with which it was assembled,
The skeletal table, the clutch of ossified chairs,
So long unwarmed by either hand or behind.
The illusion of mod cons is dried up in the sink,
Contorted in the windings of taps. Comfort
Summons a lurking house-ghost out of the corners,
Where at other times the hoover revelled
In bestial squalor.

After an interval of days, in some cases weeks, the inhabitant
Returns here, to his own surprise. His glance falls – along with
His key-ring – to the indifferent floor, before catching itself
On the resolute walls. He stands there fascinated,
As much a stranger to himself as he would be
Before the grouted frigidarium of Pompeii, or the scribbled walls
Of the House of Charred Furniture, the dark
And juiceless obscenities.

The shades have fled. Printed on the stone
Is the narrow edge of sweat that a Roman woman’s foot
Left one July noon. No one could identify
The interconnecting chambers, once they’re vacated.
All trace of pink has gone from the assembled emptiness,
Though the rust of the pipes keeps its freshness longer
Than the fishes’ blood in the kitchen,
The ocular gleam of clean plates.

Life burgeons in dustbins. Only sometimes a fingernail breaks
While rummaging through the plastic bags. A false movement
Drills a splinter into the flesh. A desk drawer jams
Because, with the insistence of an object in a dream,
An infant photograph of yourself keeps sticking.
Plants, desiccated in a cupboard, deny the peaceably
Ticking grandfather clock. From everywhere comes the derisive:
‘You see what comes of...’

For instance, the towel dangling stiffly on its hook,
Or the pair of shoes, parked by the door,
That got you this far. Or again, the toothbrush,
Grey with use, a living relic, spied through a keyhole,
An archive of tiny deaths that might be broken up at any time.
Till something turns up that no one missed – an X-ray
In amongst the yellow bills in a medical file,
A negative showing your own skull,
With the break in the bone.

The souvenir of an accident – radiation
Has stripped away all the flesh. A white pall
Lies on the film, an angel’s cigarette smoke swirls
Round the empty eye-sockets. A triangle gapes
In lieu of a nose. Space is inhaled
Through the dark oral cavity. And that calcium-rich grin
Is both your ur-face and your last, even though
Nothing looks back at you.

The eyes, skin and hair are all abolished,
Cancelled along with the eyelashes and the dutiful eyelids,
As are the tears – lifeblood of fiction – in their ducts and glands,
And every wrinkle. The lips are gone
You used to gnaw. And swallowed up the tongue
Behind the teeth. But all through the ensuing years
(Or weeks), the bent nail stays in the plaster
Where the hammer drove it. The damp patch on the ceiling
shines dully through the paint. Blue as on the first day,
The vase, resting place of so many violets, stands in the window,
A small coin of soap lies pristine in its dish. All signs of use
On knives and bottlenecks were a false lead
In this abandoned flat. Against bare walls,
Flickering in the X-ray illumination, nothing was left
To recall the poise of bodies, vanished
In the come and go.

IN FRONT OF AN OLD X-RAY

The bodies are gone. A posthumous tidiness reigns
In the empty flat, spring-cleaned from the mirrors
To the stains in the bath. At the bottom of the tub
Curls one single hair, last surviving trace of a species
That cleans up after itself and washes after mating.
How peaceful are the windowsills with their dead flies –
But even here terror likes to call.

It insinuates itself into crevices, thresholds and radiator ribs,
A hatchery for insect eggs, an odorless incense
Wafting through the room, blackening the stove rings,
Luke-warm at floor level, cooling in the curtain pleats.
Scales of skin it is, sweepings from a reptile cage
That show who sleeps here. To go by the kitchen calendar
Hanging over the sink, some Monday or other
Has come and gone.

There is builders’ rubble under the floorboards, and nothing human
About the furniture, save the tenacity with which it was assembled,
The skeletal table, the clutch of ossified chairs,
So long unwarmed by either hand or behind.
The illusion of mod cons is dried up in the sink,
Contorted in the windings of taps. Comfort
Summons a lurking house-ghost out of the corners,
Where at other times the hoover revelled
In bestial squalor.

After an interval of days, in some cases weeks, the inhabitant
Returns here, to his own surprise. His glance falls – along with
His key-ring – to the indifferent floor, before catching itself
On the resolute walls. He stands there fascinated,
As much a stranger to himself as he would be
Before the grouted frigidarium of Pompeii, or the scribbled walls
Of the House of Charred Furniture, the dark
And juiceless obscenities.

The shades have fled. Printed on the stone
Is the narrow edge of sweat that a Roman woman’s foot
Left one July noon. No one could identify
The interconnecting chambers, once they’re vacated.
All trace of pink has gone from the assembled emptiness,
Though the rust of the pipes keeps its freshness longer
Than the fishes’ blood in the kitchen,
The ocular gleam of clean plates.

Life burgeons in dustbins. Only sometimes a fingernail breaks
While rummaging through the plastic bags. A false movement
Drills a splinter into the flesh. A desk drawer jams
Because, with the insistence of an object in a dream,
An infant photograph of yourself keeps sticking.
Plants, desiccated in a cupboard, deny the peaceably
Ticking grandfather clock. From everywhere comes the derisive:
‘You see what comes of...’

For instance, the towel dangling stiffly on its hook,
Or the pair of shoes, parked by the door,
That got you this far. Or again, the toothbrush,
Grey with use, a living relic, spied through a keyhole,
An archive of tiny deaths that might be broken up at any time.
Till something turns up that no one missed – an X-ray
In amongst the yellow bills in a medical file,
A negative showing your own skull,
With the break in the bone.

The souvenir of an accident – radiation
Has stripped away all the flesh. A white pall
Lies on the film, an angel’s cigarette smoke swirls
Round the empty eye-sockets. A triangle gapes
In lieu of a nose. Space is inhaled
Through the dark oral cavity. And that calcium-rich grin
Is both your ur-face and your last, even though
Nothing looks back at you.

The eyes, skin and hair are all abolished,
Cancelled along with the eyelashes and the dutiful eyelids,
As are the tears – lifeblood of fiction – in their ducts and glands,
And every wrinkle. The lips are gone
You used to gnaw. And swallowed up the tongue
Behind the teeth. But all through the ensuing years
(Or weeks), the bent nail stays in the plaster
Where the hammer drove it. The damp patch on the ceiling
shines dully through the paint. Blue as on the first day,
The vase, resting place of so many violets, stands in the window,
A small coin of soap lies pristine in its dish. All signs of use
On knives and bottlenecks were a false lead
In this abandoned flat. Against bare walls,
Flickering in the X-ray illumination, nothing was left
To recall the poise of bodies, vanished
In the come and go.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère