Thursday, 9 April 2009

Poem by Pia Tafdrup


Such simple objects as the wallet
are spirited away,
and the hat and the gloves have vanished
traceless as rain on water.
The light falters.
And where are the address and telephone number
of my mother’s parents?
(they are dead, after all).
The mirror is so still, so indecisive,
when my father glances into it.
The whole room spins backwards
around a word
in a silent sentence.
Logic has fled
over the mountains of norms,
even simple obvious words
have flown away
on distended wings.
Everything whirls in towards the centre,
stretches itself ―
in waves towards the infinite.
But grammar still dwells here,
and the pulse beats.
The emotions survive miraculously,
gesticulate with hands.
translated from Danish by David McDuff

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