"dust": A poem by Nadja K├╝chenmeister


once the door is shut, even the dogs in their
kennels are hushed. air traffic ceases, no
mower, no ticking alarm clock, no intrusion. just

the curtain seam that drags along the floor. a shaft of light
that strikes my eye. a sense of fever. timber creaking softly.
just a wasp that bounces off the window. the sway of firs

outside, and in my room, where someone
lurks with blunted blade, motes are trembling. dust.
dust. i hear the wasp that is above me. a clatter of

plates from the kitchen, a clink of glasses, now cutlery:
who, if i cried out, would hear me, once the animal film
on channel three and all that talk are underway

and none of it addressed to me, trapped in boundless
afternoon light. dust. dust. am i the insect, weary beyond
measure, this is the bed my mother lay in as a child.

"staub" (dust)--Nadja Kuchenmeister
Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser and Gabriel Rosenstock

At first glance, Nadja Kuchenmeister's poems seem to follow a template used by many poets today: domestic scenes are described in close detail, implying emotions rather than expressing them directly. But, as her poems continue, the ear picks out intricate patterns of rhyme and assonance, creating a level of formal beauty unusual in verse now. Yet there's nothing self-conscious about them; her poems, however melodic, are rooted in the mundane scenes they spring from.  Roman Bucheli, arts editor for the leading Swiss newspaper, has called her "a virtuoso of the unspectacular."

Indeed, Kuchenmeister has been widely praised as a refreshing new voice in German-language poetry. Die Zeit named her second collection, Unter dem Wacholder (Under the Juniper Tree) one of the best books of 2014. When the collection won the Bremen Literature Prize, Mareike Bannasch described it as inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke, Tom Waits and the Bible.

In a 2014 segment on SWR2 Radio,  presenter Gabi Schlag said, "Her first book of poems, Alle Lichter (All Lights) [published in 2010], is a reflection of the angry Nadja Kuchenmeister: the undefeated person who asserts the right to create new meanings: her own value system. In Unter dem Wacholder, the melancholy, death-hungry the poet is just as unconditional: hard and precise. Her ability to portray the process of remembrance in all its mystery and magic is unbroken." 

Two excellent and experienced translators, Hans-Christian Oeser and Gabriel Rosenstock, have published English and Gaelic versions of Kuchenmeister's work, which were issued by the Irish publisher Litriocht. To be fully appreciated, however, her poems must be heard in German (see the first link below).




Photograph of Nadja Kuchenmeister by Franziska Buddrus

A fragment from Robert Lowell



Christ, let me die at night
with a semblance of my senses,
like the full moon that fails.

I'll never forget watching a visibly shaken Joseph Brodsky, who was a good friend of Robert Lowell's, read these lines during the poet's funeral at the Church of the Advent in Boston in September 1977.


This fragment was found among the papers Lowell left at his home in Britain when he departed from there earlier in the month, bound for the United States. On September 12 he died of heart failure in a taxi on the way from Kennedy Airport to Manhattan. Of course, we were struck by Lowell's uncanny prophesy, but we were also moved by the fact that these lines, some of the last he wrote, had the same startling clarity as the poems in his final book, Day by Day, published the year before his death.

In the decades since then, Lowell's work--especially his collection, For the Union Dead--has continued to inspire our poets who want to probe the full range of American life--our public, or political lives, as well as our most personal experiences.

The photograph above of Lowell and his wife, Caroline Blackwood, was taken by Walker Evans in 1973. The portrait of Lowell below was taken by Evans at Milgate House, the couple's home in Kent.



Lowell in his days as Poetry Consultant at the Library of Congress (1947-48)