Nancy Allison
had as poetry teachers Michael Waters and Amy Clampitt and, before them, the woods and waters of the Chesapeake Bay. In the 1990s, she moved to England, where she founded and edited a literary magazine at The University of Warwick. She currently works as a freelance writer and editor in Munich. Until meeting Ron Winkler and his poems last year, Allison had given poetry the slip for more than a decade.
“what is poetry?”
by Ulrike Draesner
translated from German by Iain Galbraith
cleaning vacuuming wiping runny noses a scraped knee
stroking tummy to put them to sleep or when it’s sore
singing bedtime songs spreading one’s legs being
responsive consoling stuffing dirty washing in the drum
for the tenth time fishing pubic hair out of a drain
closing the toilet lid clearing mugs the entire family
has left on top of the dishwasher into the machine
cursing but inaudibly pondering the parenting
of men abandoning all parenting and bending to feed
the dog playing parcheesi like a total noodle
locking oneself in the bathroom at last pandemonium
one minute later: wiping snot spreading a jam sandwich
picking jam sandwich out the shag–pile washing
their swimsuits not having set a foot out all day
hunting the house–key admiring then despising
multi–tasking misheard as mummi–tasking shovelling
a dead bird off the window–ledge not finding it
icky taking it to the garden taking in the solar storm
butterflies the stuff they’ve left by the pond (which
is desperately in need of cleaning) dragonflies
a seconds–long re–
flection: oneself
bleary, small
a child showing its
white teeth, your teeth
it is your body
you have no better words
for what you see, vital
and detached
from yourself
knowing more about you than you
can bear and it says: my love
for you is deeper than a forest
it says: dark is the inside of the mouth
and everything that thinks
through the woods, the nested stalks
by Ulrike Draesner
translated from German by Iain Galbraith
the trunks, chopped, logged
(brandenburg wood) the soft firs laid
on long and bendy logs, sledges
in the forest bound for summer that miniature
flower between needles between last and
new year smaller than a fingernail three buds very red
like joy spilling and skipping — this thundering
across the floor of the forest the startled
deer the terrier in full chase a second–long noise
stillness
as if the panorama had been switched on, later
a hunting song a terrier panting in the sand
the tiny flower of reality
(depending on size) untouched
(and what wavelength the deer?)
ball-lightning, hammond organ
by Ulrike Draesner
translated from German by Iain Galbraith
but didn’t she
but didn’t she die
but didn’t she revive
and was therefore risen — struck
in the kitchen while stirring the pastry
while cooking pudding yellow it roared
right into the pot, mercy, gall and fire jelly —
but down she fell ever so lightly touched
where a brain artery and nerve tissue crossed
. . . the yard flashing with two empty plastic bags
heart sacs floating straight through the air
with the throbbing bags all at once
cowering in a corner up on the kitchen
ceiling the yellow bubbling pan the lew–warm
wafting of plastic in the yard knew
he was there below her kneeling at the strike–point
grief–struck, foiled, all bent on fencing
the bags fluttering over the yard as if calling her
because
and because
she’d sensed this body–howling of his at the hearth
a pleading blackbird’s beak so yellow and tender she was touched
re–entering that is risen again in the kitchen
on the floor her eyes fearful across the yard
flashed a starling but thus did she
but thus did she
stay, a scar on her knee
inconspicuous — 20 seconds
of female ulysses on a lightning visit
a strand of hair curling
in her cleavage its
blond now dyed brown
and thus she zizzed across the sea
says she meant zipped