Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Marion Poschmann

FROTHY

Forest frothing up. Again and again
forest frothing up, dissipating. Sitting on park benches,
bathing in pale ideas of evening. Concentrating
on contemplating clouds, the layers of beauty
in an outsized well of consciousness. The loudspeaker
on the streetlamp speaks.

“Look, he’s coming with the clouds!” An untranslatable
residue remains. Never being able to think the rest.
The rest would be what befalls the spirit when it flies.
Instead allowing clouds to wander through the mind. Their shadows
on your face. Dark countenance of time. The park cools down,
the park keeper clears his throat.

The lamppost speaks. Clouds in veils and streaks, a
collection area that never reaches completion. On the park benches
chess players placing forces in boxes. Thrones and powers.
While the setting sun corks up the well, the
park keeper allows all the clouds to burst. Sto gramm, the pawn
advances.

SCHUIM

Bos schuimt op. Telkens weer
schuimt bos op, verstuift. Op parkbanken zitten,
baden in fletse ideeën van avond. Zich
bezighouden met wolken kijken, de lagen van schoonheid
in een bewustzijnskuip, extra grote maat. De luidspreker
aan de lantaarnpaal praat.

‘Ziet! Hij komt met de wolken!’ Er blijft een
onvertaalbare rest. De rest nooit kunnen denken.
De rest zou zijn wat de geest overkomt wanneer hij vliegt.
In plaats daarvan wolken over je heen laten trekken. Hun schaduw
op je gezicht. Donker gelaat van de tijd. Het park koelt af,
de opzichter schraapt zijn keel.

De lantaarnpaal praat. Wolken in sluiers en strepen, nooit
afgesloten verzameldomein. Op de parkbanken schaakspelers
die de machten in vakjes zetten. Tronen en mogendheden.
Terwijl de ondergaande zon de fonteinen kurkt, laat de
parkwachter alle wolken ontploffen. Sto gram, de pion
gaat vooruit.

SCHAUM

Wald schäumt auf. Wieder und wieder
schäumt Wald auf, verpufft. Auf Parkbänken sitzen,
in bleichen Ideen von Abend baden. Sich
Wolkenbetrachtungen widmen, den Schichten von Schönheit
in einer Bewußtseinswanne in Übergröße. Der Lautsprecher
an der Laterne spricht.

„Siehe, er kommt mit den Wolken!“ Es bleibt ein
unübersetzbarer Rest. Den Rest niemals denken können.
Der Rest wäre das, was dem Geist widerfährt, wenn er fliegt.
Sich stattdessen von Wolken bewandern lassen. Ihren Schatten
auf dem Gesicht. Dunkles Antlitz der Zeit. Der Park kühlt ab,
der Wächter räuspert sich.

Der Laternenpfahl spricht. Wolken in Schleiern und Schlieren, nie
abgeschlossenes Sammelgebiet. Auf den Parkbänken Schachspieler,
die die Gewalten in Kästchen setzen. Throne und Mächte.
Während die sinkende Sonne die Brunnen verkorkt, läßt der
Parkwächter alle Wolken platzen. Sto Gramm, der Bauer
rückt vor.
Close

FROTHY

Forest frothing up. Again and again
forest frothing up, dissipating. Sitting on park benches,
bathing in pale ideas of evening. Concentrating
on contemplating clouds, the layers of beauty
in an outsized well of consciousness. The loudspeaker
on the streetlamp speaks.

“Look, he’s coming with the clouds!” An untranslatable
residue remains. Never being able to think the rest.
The rest would be what befalls the spirit when it flies.
Instead allowing clouds to wander through the mind. Their shadows
on your face. Dark countenance of time. The park cools down,
the park keeper clears his throat.

The lamppost speaks. Clouds in veils and streaks, a
collection area that never reaches completion. On the park benches
chess players placing forces in boxes. Thrones and powers.
While the setting sun corks up the well, the
park keeper allows all the clouds to burst. Sto gramm, the pawn
advances.

FROTHY

Forest frothing up. Again and again
forest frothing up, dissipating. Sitting on park benches,
bathing in pale ideas of evening. Concentrating
on contemplating clouds, the layers of beauty
in an outsized well of consciousness. The loudspeaker
on the streetlamp speaks.

“Look, he’s coming with the clouds!” An untranslatable
residue remains. Never being able to think the rest.
The rest would be what befalls the spirit when it flies.
Instead allowing clouds to wander through the mind. Their shadows
on your face. Dark countenance of time. The park cools down,
the park keeper clears his throat.

The lamppost speaks. Clouds in veils and streaks, a
collection area that never reaches completion. On the park benches
chess players placing forces in boxes. Thrones and powers.
While the setting sun corks up the well, the
park keeper allows all the clouds to burst. Sto gramm, the pawn
advances.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère