Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Durs Grünbein

Titian\'s new pad

Heaving with throw cushions. All the ornamental fish are yapping
Behind thickened glass, in water effervescing like Alka Seltzer.
Algae fan themselves with fresh blood. Peace returns to the aquarium,
At the expense of a few chewed up fins. The guppy stoutly dreams.
A pair of stockings plus garters is writhing at the foot of the sofa,
A portly cigar, with cummerbund, blows smoke rings from the massy ashtray.
Kilims, ankle-deep, unroll clear to the windows, like red carpets.
In golden palettes all over the apartment, glutinous colours
Are melting to the likeness of a rose, moon mountains, phlegmons -
Female nude here, Old Testament scene there. Three mirrors per glass-fronted cabinet
To cover your retreat into the labyrinth. Kickshaws on the mantelpiece,
Faience pottery and candelabra flatter the dependably childless denizens,
Smiling from framed photographs on tallboys, cruise snaps, captain and crew.
On the wireless someone with a nasty monastic cough is reading the Decameron,
Though only the afghan hound, blending in so nicely with the carpet tassels, seems to be attending.
‘Shall I describe it to you, sweetness? The music of the spheres... Faked?
I suppose your orgasm was faked too? Don’t take my word for it then, ask the fishes.’

Tizians neue zimmer

Tizians neue zimmer

All die Sitzkissen schwitzen. All die Zierfische japsen
Hinter Panzerglas, wo das Wasser wie von Brausetabletten schäumt
Und die Algen sich Blut zufächeln. Mit zerfressenen Flossen
Ging der Krieg im Aquarium zuende. Der dickliche Guppy träumt.
Vor dem Sofa, verrenkt, liegt ein Strumpfpaar mit Strapsen,
In den letzten Zügen im Kristall die Zigarre. Wie hingegossen
Breiten sich Stoffbahnen aus um die Fenster, knöcheltief, Kelims.
Im ganzen Apartment schmelzen, an den Wänden in goldenen Tiegeln
Pastose Farben zu etwas das Rosen ähnelt, Mondgebirgen, PhIegmonen –
Ein Frauenakt hier, dort eine Bibelszene. Pro Glasschrank drei Spiegel
Decken den Rückzug ins Labyrinth. Was da klirrt als Klimbim,
Die Fayencen, die Lüster schmeicheln den feisten, kinderlosen Bewohnern
Die auf Kommoden von Photos lächeln, auf Kreuzfahrt, die ewige Crew.
Im Radio liest jemand, sich klösterlich räuspernd, das Decamerone,
Und nur der Afghane, sein Fell eins mit den Teppichfransen, hört zu.
‘Wie es war, willst du wissen, chérie? Wie mit himmlischen Geigen...
Gespielt? War das Stöhnen gespielt? Frag die Fische, sie schweigen.’
Close

Titian\'s new pad

Heaving with throw cushions. All the ornamental fish are yapping
Behind thickened glass, in water effervescing like Alka Seltzer.
Algae fan themselves with fresh blood. Peace returns to the aquarium,
At the expense of a few chewed up fins. The guppy stoutly dreams.
A pair of stockings plus garters is writhing at the foot of the sofa,
A portly cigar, with cummerbund, blows smoke rings from the massy ashtray.
Kilims, ankle-deep, unroll clear to the windows, like red carpets.
In golden palettes all over the apartment, glutinous colours
Are melting to the likeness of a rose, moon mountains, phlegmons -
Female nude here, Old Testament scene there. Three mirrors per glass-fronted cabinet
To cover your retreat into the labyrinth. Kickshaws on the mantelpiece,
Faience pottery and candelabra flatter the dependably childless denizens,
Smiling from framed photographs on tallboys, cruise snaps, captain and crew.
On the wireless someone with a nasty monastic cough is reading the Decameron,
Though only the afghan hound, blending in so nicely with the carpet tassels, seems to be attending.
‘Shall I describe it to you, sweetness? The music of the spheres... Faked?
I suppose your orgasm was faked too? Don’t take my word for it then, ask the fishes.’

Titian\'s new pad

Heaving with throw cushions. All the ornamental fish are yapping
Behind thickened glass, in water effervescing like Alka Seltzer.
Algae fan themselves with fresh blood. Peace returns to the aquarium,
At the expense of a few chewed up fins. The guppy stoutly dreams.
A pair of stockings plus garters is writhing at the foot of the sofa,
A portly cigar, with cummerbund, blows smoke rings from the massy ashtray.
Kilims, ankle-deep, unroll clear to the windows, like red carpets.
In golden palettes all over the apartment, glutinous colours
Are melting to the likeness of a rose, moon mountains, phlegmons -
Female nude here, Old Testament scene there. Three mirrors per glass-fronted cabinet
To cover your retreat into the labyrinth. Kickshaws on the mantelpiece,
Faience pottery and candelabra flatter the dependably childless denizens,
Smiling from framed photographs on tallboys, cruise snaps, captain and crew.
On the wireless someone with a nasty monastic cough is reading the Decameron,
Though only the afghan hound, blending in so nicely with the carpet tassels, seems to be attending.
‘Shall I describe it to you, sweetness? The music of the spheres... Faked?
I suppose your orgasm was faked too? Don’t take my word for it then, ask the fishes.’
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère