Rugged up winter scene

By Nicolas Born
Translated by Marty Hiatt.

I feel nothing and move through silent motorcades.

The world is wrapped in golden paper.

Electricians groan.

The brain feasts on the yellow neon fowl

            of Wienerwald restaurants;

a pack of cough drops shines in a fiery splendour.

Here on the steps of the U-Bahn I shed

            unrestrained tears

and once again winter passes at our place

            without any sign of cultivated pearls.

The main character lies in his little bed

my child, I look at him, it’s Jesus.

He smells lovely in his nappies – baby cream

mixed odours and feelings, woollen socks

an inn, a light one can head toward.

I take my hands out of my pockets. I’m

            nuts about this baby smell.

The green bathwater drains and

            a miracle froths up underground, out of sight.

You and I – with an infinitely human expression

we nailed ourselves to a cross this morning.

It was just another breakfast. My wife’s

milk is kept away from the hard graft. I

            appreciate that.

Gunfire continues outside. They

grab us by our little legs and throw us into the air.

We’ll be beaten and shot, but not

            till later on.

Jesus grabs at my glasses, or maybe

he’s just trying to bless me.

I don’t want any old tales nor

any new tales. And I don’t want any

            modernised tales.

I want human energy metamorphosed

into warm rooms and hot dinners.

I’ll chop your wood for you, so you’ll be warm

            from Christmas till Easter.

I loathe comparisons but once

in Wiesloch they refused to give us a room

            because of how we looked.

For your sake I won’t get sloshed this Christmas.

I can already see you chewing on a straw

            in the sun.

A quartet of angels sings on the radio

the soul of a hen flies up from the chopping block

and the postie flies by and gives me

            four hundred marks

and travellers fly up to a heaven

            softened by snow.

I’m smoking again.

The three kings must be nearby – I hear bells.

Bright windows flanked by dark clouds.

You’re Jesus, but you’re not the only one.

In my wallet I carry a radio-photogram

            of deer being fed in the Harz Mountains

a Russian sleigh ride runs

            through your childhood.

These angels lewdly squeal.

They’ve lost their secret and they spin

            like bits of aeroplane.

It smells like a roast, that’s how it is at our place.

I’ll never find out how old you’ll get,

            Jesus

made by me and in my image

you won’t get far.

Click here to listen to Nicolas Born reading this poem in German on Lyrikline.org.