Frothy Poem by Marion Poschmann

Forest frothing up. Again and again
forest frothing up, dissipating. Sitting on park benches,
bathing in pale ideas of evening. Concentrating
on contemplating clouds, the layers of beauty
in an outsized well of consciousness. The loudspeaker
on the streetlamp speaks.

"Look, he's coming with the clouds!" An untranslatable
residue remains. Never being able to think the rest.
The rest would be what befalls the spirit when it flies.
Instead allowing clouds to wander through the mind. Their shadows
on your face. Dark countenance of time. The park cools down,
the park keeper clears his throat.

The lamppost speaks. Clouds in veils and streaks, a
collection area that never reaches completion. On the park benches
chess players placing forces in boxes. Thrones and powers.
While the setting sun corks up the well, the
park keeper allows all the clouds to burst. Sto gramm, the pawn
advances.

Translation Catherine Hales