Occasional Verse Journal (Early Mid-March)
"The catheters of the lyricists are filled to bursting."
The translation project I’m currently working on, Wolfgang Hilbig’s On Intonation/Territories of the Soul, represents a departure from my usual work, or a belated return, depending on how you see the situation. For the first time in a long time, I’m writing my own “original” poems. These are being composed in parallel with verse translations of Hilbig, which will appear in the aforementioned collection, to be published next year by Sublunary Editions.
In the English-speaking world, Hilbig is known, if he is known at all, for brooding novellas about working class life in East Germany. These combine elements of autobiographical fiction with grotesque (though never quite supernatural) horror. Hilbig’s reputation is somewhat different in the German-speaking world, where his poetry is just as highly regarded as his prose. To my knowledge, these verse translations will be the first published in English. I hope they measure up.
It’s a principle of mine to actively practice the forms of writing that I’m translating. If I have short stories to translate, by Hilbig or by others, then I should also be writing short stories. If I have lyric poems to translate, as I do now, then I should be writing lyric poetry. It’s a crude method but motivating. I got into translation mostly as a way to improve my own writing, a sort of etude. As far as my ability goes, there’s a fair bit of rust that needs sanding away. These poems will be the first, translated or otherwise, I’ve written since my early twenties.
The originals aren’t quite formal studies. I wasn’t—not consciously at least—trying to imitate Hilbig’s style. His poems often rhyme and have, at least with the ones I’m translating, a confessional quality that’s not my usual mode, though both of us share an interest in landscapes, particularly those degraded by industrial activity. As this project nears its conclusion, I do plan on copying him more closely, but for now I hope you enjoy this occasional piece, dashed off during a snowstorm a few weeks ago:
Something of a Real Return
For once the interstate runs quiet.
In the snow the onramps
signify their scant usage.
A redaction has been issued,
with highs in the mid twenties,
along the lowslung frontage commercial corridor.
Felt marker brings imprecision to a script.
The substitute epigrapher stares—
blankminded,
momentarily unlettered—
at the fallen
improvised signage
of the regional Mexican franchise.
Kitchen closed, reopening to be determined,
“…maybe in a day or two, maybe…”
the forecast and its actualization
permitting.
Once language was crystalline,
pneumatic, windblown, brief,
trailing past and trailing off
to wherever the weather prevailed.