Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Marion Poschmann

(POET’S LOT)

as I eased into sleep amid its white rushing thrill, I was still
bright inside, a refrigerator open a sliver, a mechanically
humming swan boat. it was floating with the deceptive stuff
of dreams in its *** compartment through the ice wreath of the night
through the defrosting fluid, rotting vegetables,
the smell of stagnant ponds.

lost forms of birds drilling with sharp points from the pillow,
feather quills whispering barbs, yellowish beaks, needful of being complemented,
of the garrulous certainty of day. I sank into their downy muttering,
sank deep into what had been plucked: a clucking broodiness, stuffed
into non-ironing sheets, nestled my wearied head, the body, a leaden egg in
the over-white of its enthusiasm.

I saw half of the swans in their evening form, they were taking
the measure of the edges of the approaching night, of this smouldering reliquary
full of loose ends, severed tracks. I was the ugly duckling
waking in the wrong surroundings. as everything around me, as the light
subsided, I saw how the pen was leading her cygnets
quickly over earth and grass to the canal.

(DICHTERLIJK LOT)

toen ik in slaap viel in zijn witte ruisen, bleef ik
van binnen helder, een slechts op een kier geopende koelkast, mechanisch
vibrerend zwanenbootje. het dreef met het bedrieglijke,
het droommateriaal in het ***-vak door de ijskrans van de nacht,
door het ontdooiwater, rotte groente, de verschaalde
vijvergeur.

verloren vogelvormen boorden zich spits uit het kussen,
de pennenschachten als fluisterende stekels, onvolledige gelige
snavels van de taterende zekerheid overdag. ik verzonk in het donzen
gemompel, zakte diep in uitgetrokken veren: kloeken, in strijkvrije overtrekken gestopt,
bebroedden mijn vermoeide hoofd, het lichaam, een loden ei in het
ultrawit van hun geestdrift.

zag ik de helft van de zwanen in hun avondgedaante, zij schreden door
de hoekigheid van de beginnende nacht, van dit gloeiende reliekschrijn
vol losse eindjes, onderbroken sporen. was ik het lelijke eendje,
ontwaakt in de verkeerde omgeving. toen alles om me heen, toen het licht
ging liggen, zag ik het zwanenvrouwtje, hoe ze haar kuikens gidste,
gauw nog over aarde en gras naar het kanaal.

(DICHTERSCHICKSAL)

als ich einschlief in seinem weißen Rauschen, blieb ich
innerlich hell, ein nur spaltbreit geöffneter Kühlschrank, mechanisch
vibrierende Schwanenbarke. sie schwamm mit dem trügerischen,
dem Traummaterial im ***-Fach durch den Eiskranz der Nacht,
durch die Abtauflüssigkeit, faules Gemüse, den abgestandenen
Teichgeruch.

verlorene Vogelformen bohrten sich spitz aus dem Kissen,
die Federkiele flüsternde Stacheln, ergänzungsbedürftige gelbliche
Schnäbel der plappernden Tagesgewißheit. ich sank in das Daunen-
geraune, sank tief in Gerupftes: Glucken, in bügelfreie Bezüge gestopft,
bebrüteten meinen ermüdeten Kopf, den Leib, ein bleiernes Ei im
Überweiß ihrer Begeisterung.

sah ich die Hälfte der Schwäne in ihrer Abendgestalt, sie durchmaßen
die Kantigkeit der beginnenden Nacht, dieses glosenden Reliquiars
voller loser Enden, durchtrennter Fährten. war ich die häßliche Ente,
in falscher Umgebung erwacht. da alles um mich, da das Licht
sich senkte, sah ich die Schwanenhenne, wie sie ihre Küken führte,
noch rasch über Erde und Gras zum Kanal.
Close

(POET’S LOT)

as I eased into sleep amid its white rushing thrill, I was still
bright inside, a refrigerator open a sliver, a mechanically
humming swan boat. it was floating with the deceptive stuff
of dreams in its *** compartment through the ice wreath of the night
through the defrosting fluid, rotting vegetables,
the smell of stagnant ponds.

lost forms of birds drilling with sharp points from the pillow,
feather quills whispering barbs, yellowish beaks, needful of being complemented,
of the garrulous certainty of day. I sank into their downy muttering,
sank deep into what had been plucked: a clucking broodiness, stuffed
into non-ironing sheets, nestled my wearied head, the body, a leaden egg in
the over-white of its enthusiasm.

I saw half of the swans in their evening form, they were taking
the measure of the edges of the approaching night, of this smouldering reliquary
full of loose ends, severed tracks. I was the ugly duckling
waking in the wrong surroundings. as everything around me, as the light
subsided, I saw how the pen was leading her cygnets
quickly over earth and grass to the canal.

(POET’S LOT)

as I eased into sleep amid its white rushing thrill, I was still
bright inside, a refrigerator open a sliver, a mechanically
humming swan boat. it was floating with the deceptive stuff
of dreams in its *** compartment through the ice wreath of the night
through the defrosting fluid, rotting vegetables,
the smell of stagnant ponds.

lost forms of birds drilling with sharp points from the pillow,
feather quills whispering barbs, yellowish beaks, needful of being complemented,
of the garrulous certainty of day. I sank into their downy muttering,
sank deep into what had been plucked: a clucking broodiness, stuffed
into non-ironing sheets, nestled my wearied head, the body, a leaden egg in
the over-white of its enthusiasm.

I saw half of the swans in their evening form, they were taking
the measure of the edges of the approaching night, of this smouldering reliquary
full of loose ends, severed tracks. I was the ugly duckling
waking in the wrong surroundings. as everything around me, as the light
subsided, I saw how the pen was leading her cygnets
quickly over earth and grass to the canal.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
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