sábado, 8 de diciembre de 2012

NORBERT HUMMELT [8737]


Norbert Hummelt (nacido en 1962 en Neuss ) es un poeta alemán, ensayista y traductor 

Hummelt estudió filología alemana y Inglés en Colonia hasta 1990. Trabajó junto con Marcel Beyer y como él comenzó de escritor experimental, después de Rolf Dieter Brinkmann y Thomas Kling. 
De 1988 a 1992 fue líder de la Autorenwerkstatt Kölner, un grupo de autores en Colonia. Con su segundo libro de poemas, "singtrieb" en 1997, se acercaba a los conceptos de la poesía romántica.
Norbert Hummelt ha vivido en Bergisches cerca de Colonia durante varios años. Desde enero de 2006 vive en Berlín. Enseñó y dio clases de escritura creativa en la Leipzig Deutsches Literaturinstitut y trabaja para la revista.

LIBROS DE POESÍA:

knackige codes (crisp codes), Galrev 1993
singtrieb (appetite for singing / sing instinct), Urs Engeler Editor 1997
Zeichen im Schnee (signs in the snow), Luchterhand 2001
Bildstock (picture stock), Kunstverein Hasselbach 2003
Stille Quellen (silent fonts), Luchterhand 2004
Totentanz (dance of the dead), Luchterhand 2007

TRADUCCIONES:

Inger Christensen, Das Schmetterlingstal. Ein Requiem (from Danish, in: Schreibheft Nr. 52, 1999)
Four Quartets, T. S. Eliot (in: T. S. Elliot: Four Quartets …, Rigodon, 2006).

ENSAYOS:

out here in the dark, Essay, in: Edit 38, 2005.
Du hast dich durch Räume bewegt (you moved through spaces), about Lars Reyers poems, in: BELLA triste Nr. 17, special edition for German contemporary poetry, Hildesheim 2007





en esta noche

como tus besos
de sabor a manzanilla

no te debo despertar

tú dices: no lo comprendes?
quiero dormir, estoy muy cansada.

huelen a pomadas
nuestras dos almohadas.

tú no lo debes saber

el mundo es ajeno a mí, tengo
cinco abriles quizá.

Traducción Jose Carlos Contreras Azaña. 
Karlsruhe. Agosto 2012)




Kritik 
in dieser nacht

Wie deine küsse nach
Kamille schmecken

Ich darf dich nicht wecken

Du sagst: verstehst du nicht?
Ich will schlafen, ich bin so müde.

Nach salbe riechen
Unser beider kissen

Du darfst nicht wissen:

Die welt ist fremd in mir, ich bin
Erst fünf vielleicht.







dimmed light

pavement already shut down
disconcerted in the mist of a
winter evening, one more time
around the same block with
its blacked-out thickly-curtained
facades; where you are heading
dimmed light, calendar pages
long since no longer torn off give
the lad some cherry juice in
a simple glass, slopped and
bunkered the things we’re
conscious of and give him
something from the sweet tin
too some of those chocolate
twists two wrapped in gold paper
as were the open legs, raw with
bedsores in this room here brace
yourself as the images come to you





trip

somewhere between drifting and
dreaming my hand in your hair
stroking mechanically now
what images are with you as you slip
into sleep . . nothing
taken not on a trip
just pin-pricks surrounding
your iris perhaps a bit
like the way a bird in flight
is no longer able to alight
on a branch that’s been sawn off 
my arm beneath you is getting
heavy my hand
is numb and in my head
the pirate copies in the other eye
are more fleeting still than photography






cut

with the discrete images in the room
from a dream he’ll never tell 
he moves into the dull 
hallway light the silent object wrapped
in parchment
and with the transient idea of blood
on his chin concealed with a little
printer’s ink he kicks numbly into
the too-bright morning far below
foam rubber when I’m dead
and gone to his friend in a shoebox
small roses going cold.
the small pit beneath the balcony








haze

you seek the nearness of what’s
outlived and why ever not? no-one’s
looking after all as you press down the
handle on the door and even the man
eating green beans from a flask is hardly
taking any notice you’ve taken down a slim
volume from the shelf: the letters clinging
still to words the dedication gone, the
language’s fruit pulp smelling so sweetly
of decay your jacket’s elbows worn to holes
and the man who wore it before you not long
passed away. it’s all the same. sometimes
though you’d go although still young and
take refuge in your local pub with its tinted
windows blocking any view of impending
dusk smoky air and lips hidden in the haze
of someone else’s words that don’t mean you.
is the century not over yet? you sit with a
plate of egg and chips reading t.s. eliot
in one of those old faber paperbacks






portrait

ash-blonde wind-blown and ousted
from the world
what’s left of things already just
forgetting, rote reciting
sitting eating the last of gherkins
flickering, eye almost fluttering even
a tic perhaps too much alone
in her caravette / in rhyming speech
to herself and for the
rest of the trip
hear her song drift from a fastened
sphere, to nobody visibly
who was supposed to hear
the dialogue of dress and stitch.






dead things

in the sleepy wake of a
day in april
there’s the same tormented pigeon
the empty drink can shoved
into a bush, the yoghurt tub
between branch and twig 
which itself is stuck and that
since last winter things seemingly
left unchanged as though
they’d merely been photographed
thus flees the precisely-found image
into memory, where otherwise safe
in the dark of evening at the edge
of the road in low grass steeped
in long-distance light terrified
the rabbit my eye the thorn frozen in its movement in the moment 
vulnerable body / the
shadow of a blackbird flits
silently overhead and vanishes into a wall of forsythias






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