Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Durs Grünbein

TEAPOT WITH PERSIMMON FRUIT

Those afternoons when the phases of silence
grow longer than the shadows in winter,
that’s when we turn to the idea of still-life.   
 
The room becomes image, and everything in it,
through the open doors the onlooker fades away.
Light moves over the furniture, floors, and rests
on the teapot, the persimmon fruit on the plate,
fixes their contours flawlessly like glue.
It is writing a book about superfluous things.
 
In times when there was nothing going on, the old
Japanese masters would paint only the inanimate:
teacups and folding screens. That was enough.

THEEKAN MET KAKIVRUCHTEN

Als in de loop van de middag de fases van het zwijgen
Langer worden dan in de winter de schaduwen,
Komt het idee van het stilleven op.
 
Alles in de kamer wordt schilderij, de toeschouwer
Verdwijnt allengs door de open deuren.
Het licht strijkt over meubels en vloer, raakt
De theepot aan, op het bord de kakivruchten,
Maakt de contouren onuitwisbaar als fixeermiddel.
Het schrijft een boek van overbodige dingen.
 
De oude Japanse meesters schilderden
In de tijd van Niets aan de hand alleen nog maar levenloze
Dingen, kopjes en wandschermen. Dat was genoeg.

TEEKANNE MIT KHAKIFRÜCHTEN

Wenn am Nachmittag die Phasen des Schweigens
Länger werden als im Winter die Schatten,
Kommt die Idee des Stilllebens auf.
 
Alles im Zimmer wird Bild, der Betrachter
Verschwindet allmählich durch die offenen Türen.
Das Licht streicht über Möbel und Böden, berührt
Die Teekanne, auf dem Teller die Khakifrüchte,
Macht die Konturen unverwischbar als Fixativ.
Es schreibt ein Buch der überflüssigen Dinge.
 
Die alten japanischen Meister malten
In der Zeit des Nichts los nurmehr Unbelebtes,
Tassen und Wandschirme. Das war genug.
Close

TEAPOT WITH PERSIMMON FRUIT

Those afternoons when the phases of silence
grow longer than the shadows in winter,
that’s when we turn to the idea of still-life.   
 
The room becomes image, and everything in it,
through the open doors the onlooker fades away.
Light moves over the furniture, floors, and rests
on the teapot, the persimmon fruit on the plate,
fixes their contours flawlessly like glue.
It is writing a book about superfluous things.
 
In times when there was nothing going on, the old
Japanese masters would paint only the inanimate:
teacups and folding screens. That was enough.

TEAPOT WITH PERSIMMON FRUIT

Those afternoons when the phases of silence
grow longer than the shadows in winter,
that’s when we turn to the idea of still-life.   
 
The room becomes image, and everything in it,
through the open doors the onlooker fades away.
Light moves over the furniture, floors, and rests
on the teapot, the persimmon fruit on the plate,
fixes their contours flawlessly like glue.
It is writing a book about superfluous things.
 
In times when there was nothing going on, the old
Japanese masters would paint only the inanimate:
teacups and folding screens. That was enough.
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