+

+

+ "

1

I wish to write
in clear letters
on a dry riverbed
a white ribbon of pebbles
seen from afar
or a scree slope
rubble
sliding under my lines
slipping away
so that the however
of the thorny life of my words
be the however of each letter.

2

Little letters
precise ones
so that the words come quietly
so that the words sneak in
so that you have to go there
towards the words
to look for them in the white
paper
quietly
you don’t notice them entering
through the pores
sweat that runs inwards

Fear
mine
ours
and the however of each letter

"
— Hilde Domin, from “Three Ways of Transcribing Poems”, translated by Meg Taylor and Elke Heckel

+ "We must be able to go away
and yet be like a tree
rooted in the earth
standing fast while the landscape passes.
We must hold our breath
until the wind dies down
and different air starts to encircle us
until the play of light and shade
of green and blue
shows the old pattern
and we are home
wherever that may be
and able to sit down and lean against it
as if it were the gravestone of
our mother."
— Hilde Domin, Passing Landscape

+ "Die versunkene Stadt
für mich
allein
versunken.

Ich schwimme
in diesen Straßen.
Andere gehn.

Die alten Häuser
haben neue große Türen
aus Glas.

Die Toten und ich
wir schwimmen
durch die neuen Türen
unserer alten Häuser.

—

The sunken city,
sunken
for me
alone.

I swim
in these streets.
Others walk.

The old houses
have grand, new doors,
all of glass.

We swim,
the dead and I,
through the new doors
of our old houses.

"
—

Hilde Domin, Köln/ Cologne, translated by Eavan Boland

This poem means so much, more than I could ever express— Köln is part of me, I swam its streets, and a dark past is a part it. People disappeared like ghosts, were tortured and killed within its walls and the city will eternally remain scarred by history.

(Source: awritersruminations)