Elsbeth
Ich habe Elsbeth fast vergessen, sie
tat, so schien es mir, nichts Wichtiges. Sie führt
mich an der Hand durch Weizenfelder, ruft:
Herrgott, wie gout! Man hält sie für beschränkt.
Sie hatte krauses Haar.
Ich habe nur ein Foto, wo sie ernst
zum Strickzeug schaut. Die schmale Armbanduhr
zeigt halb vier. Da hatte sie schon Krebs.
Sie zieht den Faden durch das Öhr, sie schlingt ihn flink.
Niemand schaut ihr zu.
Ich hörte, sie sei nie verliebt gewesen, doch
glaube ich es nicht. Am morgen, noch im Hemd,
brüht sie Kaffee. Sie trägt den Nachttopf
zum Plumpsklo. An der Schüssel mit Emaille,
seh ich, wäscht sie sich.
Sie bohnert Wachs in Bohlen. Wie das riecht.
Ein Streit bei Tisch. Die Grossmutter will nicht, dass sie
schon morgens Harzer isst. Und da, dies eine Mal,
erhebt sie ihre Stimme, heftig und erzürnt.
Wie oft hab ich versucht,
in das Innen ihrer Dörflichkeit zu tauchen,
zu erfassen, was die Stirn verbirgt:
Die helle Fläche auf dem Foto. Niemals schrieb
sie etwas auf. Und als sie starb
blieb nichts von ihr zurück.
Doris
Das Trägerröckchen mit den Streifen hat sie nie
gemocht, doch demonstriert sie Gleichmut. Ihr Gesicht
ist makellos. Ein Glitzerband,
hellsilber, überm Pony schimmert.
Ein Hauch von Hollywood.
Mit Barbiepuppen spielt sie Filme, lässt sich bitten:
Sprich laut. Doch niemand glaubt der Sängerin.
Ihr Schrei erstickt im Grab.
Plötzlich stirbt die Phantasie. Das Mädchen
wird zur Frau.
Bleich ist das Gesicht, die Haare
und Lippen schwarz. Sie schweigt bei Tisch,
in ihren Augen liegt,
was niemand sieht, gebrochener Akkord.
Die Platte schwankt: Dark Side of the Moon.
Ein Rest Bacardy-Cola, angetrocknet, knistert. Ich
studiere längst den Sieg des Proletariats.
Sie heiratet, im sechsten Monat schwanger,
siebzehn. Johnny klaut.
Ich lese ihre Briefe. Ihre Schrift,
nach links gezogen, kleine Herzchen.
Der Kleine läuft. Sie raucht.
Sie steht auf dem Balkon.
Wasserwerfer sprühen, meine Augen sind
mit Tränengas gefüllt.
aus Die Mundharmonika
Kornelia Koepsell
Listen to "Elsbeth" read in the original German by the author:
First of all, Kornelia translated the poems herself. I then helped to refine the language, sharpen the images, and, as a native English speaker, bring in alternatives from my broader range of vocabulary and understanding of register. One of the interesting things about working with an author’s draft translation is that once the first translation has been seen, it cannot be unseen. This was the challenge of the project. I had to work within this tension in my search for new ideas and inflections. But it was also a liberation, as Kornelia gave me ideas and starting points where I may not have gone myself, and the poems went back and forth between us in conversation.
The characters here occupy their space on the page like bodies. I tried to draw their contours, capture their movements, rhythms and tonalities. In “Elsbeth”, for example, there is no external rhyme, but I felt I wanted to bring out the sounds echoing internally, as in her inaccessible mind.
I introduced Elsbeth’s lisp when I realized the German word was potentially her idiosyncratic pronunciation (“gout” instead of “gut”). This made me see that in leaving the German poem behind while focusing on the English—which of course has its merits—I had missed this detail. This little turn then led me further into the character’s voice, so I changed “call” or “shout” (“ruft”) to “whoop” to bring out a childish exuberance in both the meaning and the alliterative sound in the line. Translators might draw aspects out of the original that they feel are innate to it. Whether or not this is welcome is something only each individual reader can judge.
The characters here occupy their space on the page like bodies. I tried to draw their contours, capture their movements, rhythms and tonalities. In “Elsbeth”, for example, there is no external rhyme, but I felt I wanted to bring out the sounds echoing internally, as in her inaccessible mind.
I introduced Elsbeth’s lisp when I realized the German word was potentially her idiosyncratic pronunciation (“gout” instead of “gut”). This made me see that in leaving the German poem behind while focusing on the English—which of course has its merits—I had missed this detail. This little turn then led me further into the character’s voice, so I changed “call” or “shout” (“ruft”) to “whoop” to bring out a childish exuberance in both the meaning and the alliterative sound in the line. Translators might draw aspects out of the original that they feel are innate to it. Whether or not this is welcome is something only each individual reader can judge.
—Marielle Sutherland
Kornelia Koepsell was born in 1955. She spends her time between Höchberg (near Würzburg) and Berlin. She studied sociology and psychology at Frankfurt University and graduated with a PhD in developmental psychology. She also attended drawing classes at the Städel Academy of Fine Arts. She finished her education as a psychoanalyst in Würzburg, where she then worked at the university and in her own practice. Her poems have been published in German and Austrian literary magazines and anthologies such as Akzente, Sinn und Form, Manuskripte and Jahrbuch der Lyrik, and in the complete volumes Weißes Rauschen (White Noise; Edition Faust, 2015), Epiphanien (Epiphanies; Königshausen und Neumann, 2019), Die Mundharmonika (The Harmonica; Edition Faust, 2020) and Heimatland (Home Country; Königshausen & Neumann, 2022).
Marielle Sutherland was born in Hartlepool, UK, in 1976. She studied German at the University of Oxford, completed a PhD at University College London and holds a Diploma in Translation. She is now a translator and copy editor at the German Historical Institute London. Her publications include Rainer Maria Rilke. Selected Poems, co-translated with Susan Ranson (OUP, 2011); Bauhaus Architecture 1919–1933, by Hans Engels (Prestel Verlag, 2018); texts in Early Radio: An Anthology of European Texts and Translations, ed. Emilie Morin (Edinburgh University Press, 2023); and translations in several literary journals. She was awarded the Peirene Stevns Translation Prize in 2023 for a sample translation of Yael Inokai’s Ein simpler Eingriff (A Simple Intervention; Hanser Berlin, 2022). The full novel will be published in 2024 by Peirene Press.
