Condensed Water
Anja Kampmann
About the Sea
The horizon is the concern here the
distance applying color the bright crackling
of surfaces of light and the spreading
of the light as it surges the sea
within its broad chest the putrid sludge
of the fishmeal factories the sea of romantic
fires on the gravel beaches travelers
now losing themselves forever
in a distant view the sea in the harbors, the docks
the container areas licking the sea
beneath cranes all heaving the
homesickness nightwards the sea of moray eels
lurking back behind a rock
the sea of the deep with a hidden image
for the dreams of the sea
that vanished in the sea bottomless
the trenches above it all a mosaic of flakes
streaming tough thick field of dirt the sea
that is so well concealed gasping for air within
its broad chest and snatching at
itself.
translation: Wieland Hoban
*
borderland
we had thaws in the brighter hours
we knew no cold only the ladders
led high and higher into the tree where the fruit
hung in groups the leaves scented the thinner branches
only so much was left of the view weariness
in your bones on the scale the hours were
measured the sun lay in all the reddish skin
we collected in the border region only the hollow
bucket full in which memory dwelt a
reddish ground next to the trees like clamor
as the sun finally declined.
translation: Anne Posten
*
of kaliningrad you kept
the semolina pudding the tin pot in the morning
at boarding school the dogs the wild ones with broken
tails and finally a ship
that came toward you distant and far later
in the harbor the shadows of caps broke
the view broke behind collars
the weeks out between war and marine
lay miles up sea and halls so narrow
and potatoes so many and only
the screeching of gulls.
translation: Anne Posten
*
Lightly
is summer
distance writes
the letters of your memory
with a light touch
While a certain Ferris wheel
lifts gondola after gondola
into the air
So too is the night
namely the rising
of an approximate language
condensed water
and so are the days
namely more like forgetting
the averted glance when
the early evening soaks into your clothes
the transitions to earlier
which you become
more like. Drifting on this old steamship toward the Atlantic, Cuba
so are the days
lightly –
the gondolas fall
fall like each step
type cases with dried moths
a collection
that fades away like a whipcrack in the dark.
translation: Anne Posten
* *
Read this in German
* *
Images: courtesy of Frank Berendt
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愛
張愛玲
這是真的。
有個村莊的小康之家的女孩子,生得美,有許多人來做媒,但都沒有說成。那年她不過十五六歲吧,是春天的晚上,她立在後門口,手扶著桃樹。她記得她穿的是一件月白的衫子。對門住的年輕人同她見過面,可是從來沒有打過招呼的,他走了過來,離得不遠,站定了,輕輕的說了一聲:“噢,你也在這裡嗎?”她沒有說什麼,他也沒有再說什麼,站了一會,各自走開了。
就這樣就完了。
後來這女子被親眷拐子賣到他鄉外縣去作妾,又幾次三番地被轉賣,經過無數的驚險的風波,老了的時候她還記得從前那一回事,常常說起,在那春天的晚上,在後門口的桃樹下,那年輕人。
於千萬人之中遇見你所遇見的人,於千萬年之中,時間的無涯的荒野裡,沒有早一步,也沒有晚一步,剛巧趕上了,那也沒有別的話可說,惟有輕輕的問一聲:“噢,你也在這裡嗎?”
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