By Durs Grünbein
"To Grünbein, there's good looks and horror during this refined shiver -- and existence. the realm is a multitude, but the mess Grünbein supplies us is convincingly captivating, half and parcel of our totally cozy (albeit mad) domestic. for this reason his tone, wryly self-critical yet no longer self-effacing, and his voice, self-conscious, yet actually so, no longer neurotically, harbors an underlying humbleness, a wide-eyed appreciation of the lunacy he witnesses. demise, he tells us, is "the deal-making, contract-breaking day," and "this existence, so dead, so rich," is intended to be liked up to attainable within the moments of commentary (even even though "each second is readily ended").
There is an ease to Grünbein's approach to getting this message throughout. A poem beginning
And why, you wonder (why being the main infantile of questions),
Why am I enthusiastic about this rat race on battered ground
ends with reverence for intercourse: "the mole beside your navel… kissing a hand the following, inclining/ Your supple torso there."
Refreshingly, Grünbein doesn't stand on excessive flooring. it's during the muck that he sees the muck, and it's the muck for which he's having a look. there's a critique, but additionally a contentedness, a conflicted love of all of it: "Oh, to be a baby back, grubbing in actual feces." And this is often the allure and the intensity that's such a lot extraordinary in regards to the whole Hofmann-translated choice. Of the forty-one incorporated poems, no are alike in tone or voice, topics which are revisited aren't rehashed, and but nonetheless, a feeling of Grünbein as a definite and singular poet does come upon. conscious of "how many scenes there are/ That cross unwitnessed," Grünbein's paintings -- which, in lots of areas, is depression, politically tinged, or faraway from satire -- is usually fervently curious, and constantly smelly in its honesty." -- e-book Slut
Born in Dresden in 1962, Durs Grünbein is the main major and winning poet to emerge from the previous East Germany, a spot the place, he wrote, "the top shelter was once a closed mouth." In unsettling, frequently humorous, occasionally savage strains whose vibrant pictures mirror his deep love for and reference to the visible arts, Grunbein is reinventing German poetry and taking up the main urgent ethical issues of his iteration. Brilliantly edited and translated by way of the English poet Michael Hofmann, Ashes for Breakfast expertly introduces Germany's such a lot hugely acclaimed modern poet to American readers.
First paperback released in 2006*
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Additional info for Ashes for Breakfast: Selected Poems
That way pulls the sea !.. And there leans dazzling Venus the Vertiginous with her melting arms ! * My eye, though it clings to the waves' supple destinies, And as if dreaming drinks at the eternal Water-carrier, Still keeps free a fixed room, capacious of worlds, And my avidity for surprises in depth No more than glimpses through the rocking transparency That woman's form of foam and gold and weed rolled On the sand and salt by the pounding of the surf. * ALBUM DE VEKS A N C I E N S Pourtant j e place aux cieux les ébats d'un esprit; Je vois dans leurs vapeurs des terres inconnues, Des déesses de fleurs feindre d'être des nues, Des puissances d'orage errer à demi nues, Et sur les roches d'air du soir qui s'assombrit, Telle divinité s'accoude.
Flinging me down bodily in these reeds, I am dying, O sapphire, of my own sad beauty! I can love nothing now but the bewitching water Where I forgot laughter and the rose of former times. How I rue your pure and fatal glitter, Fountain so softly surrounded by me, Where my eyes drank in, from a mortal azure, My own image crowned with moistened flowers! Ah, that image is vain, and tears are eternal! Through the blue of the woods and their fraternal arms A tender gleam of time ambiguous exists, Where from an ember of day is fashioned a betrothed Naked, on the pale space where the water draws m e .
Effeuille aux mânes du défunt Sur ce vide tombeau la funérale rose. Sois, ma lèvre, la rose effeuillant le baiser Q u i fasse un spectre cher lentement s'apaiser, Car la nuit parle à demi-voix, proche et lointaine, A u x calices pleins d'ombre et de sommeils légers. Mais la lune s'amuse aux myrtes allongés. Je t'adore, sous ces myrtes, ô l'incertaine Chair pour la solitude éclose tristement Q u i se mire dans le miroir au bois dormant. Je me délie en vain de ta présence douce, L'heure menteuse est molle aux membres sur la mousse Et d'un sombre délice enfle le vent profond.