pond

says he: grief is a pond.
says i: yes, grief is a pond.
because grief lies in a hollow,
reeking and shot through with fish.
says he: and guilt is a pond.
says i: yes, guilt’s a pond, too.
because guilt sloshes about in a hole
already reaching the flattened pit
of my stiffly upstretched arm.
says he: deceit is a pond.
says i: yes, deceit is also a pond.
because on summer nights you can
picnic on the banks of deceit
and something always gets left behind.

 

things

things today are somehow lonely
things are like vases without friends
like the sideboard here with its marble
slab stood against the wall and left there.
what we want to know is: don’t things
have other things to play with?
have things been given nothing, not the
slightest thing, to hold on to?
but if we were perfectly frank,
we would have but a single question:
where have all the things gone
that are willing to shoulder our guilt?
winding thread me, spinning top you.

Original poems copyright © Monika Rinck, 2003.
Translations copyright © Nick Grindell, 2003.