Dagmara Kraus

(1981 / Wrocław)

Gloomerang - Poem by Dagmara Kraus

you race along the furlong,
crookeder than a barong,
you go away,
u-bend again,
in sidelong zippersong
as in crabwalk;
so long as my foot is long,
you'll always
come again,
but you can't be
circling and circling, so long,
till you come,
alone all along,
sprung from the oak-rungs,
you fan out, fangs out,
from your flightpath
(carving headlong
down the valleyslope),
you return
to me.
your spin
(oblong) a craving to
it descends
when you miss a target;
that's when the gong
gets rung.
and were it pyongyang,
you'd come
you'd come with yin-yang,
dugong, and oolong-scent,
surrounded by linsangs,
christened in kelp.
were it canaan,
you'd come
you'd come diaphanous
as pale touch-me-not,
escorted by ten
sandaled vandals,
genghis khan's courtesans,
their private scandals
bandaged in green cellophane.
perhaps you'd come
by toboggan
to my slack-walled wigwam,
with baboon-elan
and legerdemain,
as mezzo-hetman
with a toucan-right-hand-man
—the astrakhan mane
would suit you well.
you'd come
back like a mustang,
you'd come
trotting, completely frank
without salute or stink,
sturm und drang or harangue,
but with quite correct
you'd come back
as bridle, from scamming
and summits. gloomerang,
welcome back.

all this gloomerang-caprice
(gloomerang, capiche?),
—oh gloomerang-gazer, book-nosed schnook—
the cancan-ing gloomerang-beats,
all the gloomcrookedstoop:
gloomerang's hunchback, hooked as a scythe,
will outhunch
my nosebump (plumb out of line).
then you would come,
with your ever-bent back,
back to me, gloomerang,
bent on return, vestigial,
and always much worse than
you were the last time you bent
your flat gaze back to mine.

but who threw you,
not my arm, certainly,
not this hand, there's no doubt
it's in no condition
to throw you so that you'd
come bending back.

so may i, this time?
i'd toss you, somehow,
so that you'd never
come winding back:
you'd shoot target-wise,
to your target be tethered,
in its bull's-eye gulphole
you'd vanish forever,

your bull's-eye of gloom banished into the ether.

but you pester
and never relent
but you bluster
and never recant
but you rupture
and never repent
but you hector
and never relax
even once

into something resembling sleep.

the snoozerang cannot bring down the gloomerang.

how wretched, my catch-stress,

catch! catch! catch! catch! catch! catch!

you, that gashed heaven's latch,
once match-straight
in the windbreach
of cumulous cumulonimbus:
you are the mistake-hatch,
the gloom-coma of wingrash.

so long, you circle,
have circled already,
you, gloomerang—
hours-, days-, overnightslong
in gloomerang circles
over my head,
in my head, and around,
and always you come
back round again.

i went round
in the gloom
on a morning constitutional,
and questioned,
but not—
and so then further on,
i grappled with gloom,
i wrestled with gloom,
with the gravegloomcrush
and the gloomerangboom
from sundown
until moonrise.

the gloomerang-effect
differs thusly
from all others:

it colors waves
in the dressgray
of mourners;
it tugs earth
through the blueweave
of weepies;
it teaches or barks
the cha cha
of crossed stars.
it sands corners away.
only a featherbrain
believes it meanders:

though it pesters
it doesn't relent
though it blusters
it doesn't recant
though it ruptures
it doesn't repent
though it hectors
it doesn't relax
twice over.

this above all:

it does not sleep.

(spinningsong, to a melody from mary poppins)

boomgloomerang, boomgloomerang, boomboomcheroo,
gloom never skips, has no blood and no shoes,
boomgloomerang, boomgloomerang, boomboomcheright,
gloomerang knows only quickturningflight,
boomgloomerang, boomgloomerang, boomboomcheree,
gloomerang slips from your dictionary,
boomgloomerang, boomgloomerang, boomboomandbigger,
gloomerang lands on a pistol's hairtrigger.


battered gentians
scattered far
and beheaded.
volcanic pelicans
spouting firebeaks.
you sprawl next to me. wake, gloomerang—
the facts were, perhaps, somewhat
demented. how cozily
we fit, spooning into each other,
me and my beau, the gloomerang-tempter.

optional: incantation/invocation

come, gloomer glowmbe, come gloomer glowmbe
gloomgloomer, come. gloomgloomer, come:
come gloomer glowmbe.
gloom glúmian aura.
gloomcomboros. gloom oroboros
(ouroboros), gloomygus boris, come (in gloomerbolo).
suffer glum solo, o come, gloomypuss, gloom-lump, -yoke,

so, have a couple
o gloomcrumb, come;
have a rugelcrumb,
yes, gloomrugel, come;
come crumble,
thurderlette, come.

what then?
why crumble into this

the gloomrunes. gloomerina.
daginia's newgloom.
gloom came in troughs (that one's for frank), clammy,
in font gloomyman—and here the gallowsmien
clump-clear, littlelamb.

the muumuutune.
my fevertunemuumuuspell.
a muumuutrombone booms and flames up the gloomyman.

there: that is his gloomstare.

lumber'sglúmian—cumbersamba—cumberglúmian —gloomerrumba
gloomertango—mamamamba—gloomerma mbo—watch your waist
lumber'sglúmian—cumbersamba—cumberglúmian—gloomer rumba
gloomertango—mamamamba—gloomermambo—watch your haste
glo omerrumba

poolside in kumba, camergloon—wait, wait,
—does that work?

mooning gloomy
like a lounging loon.

slogging through toxic glumes,
clubfooted, bowlegged, arms curtailed:
here comes gloomerang with the whole gloomclan.
(tak, tak : szklany.)
(carnival hands.)


gloom'rang here
in old st. gloom
and como
(for the pagan jubilee)

caravans come round here.
karaman's been full besieged
by makara's caracaras;
and when comes dagmara,
then comes, too, the gloomerang
harping on the karaghan.
(then she wants
to tell him:
turn your head; cough.

most likely i'll come
in looming turns,
fate's gloomyarn
its evernewgloom,
and karakumsandblack,
i come dumb,
come bargehearted,
come, come,
i come, i come,
gloom'rang, crumbling i suc-


Translated from German by Joshua Daniel Edwin

Comments about Gloomerang by Dagmara Kraus

  • Bernard F. Asuncion (2/1/2017 9:51:00 PM)

    Well-written poem..... thanks for sharing.... (Report) Reply

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  • (2/1/2017 4:49:00 PM)

    A panoramic contortion of linguistic abstractionism, underneath the marvel of imagination is a running train wreck of paranoia and suspicion speeding towards a manic catastrophe. The flow was amazing in this translation, this is what it would look like if Roald Dahl was bipolar misanthrope. A delicious dirge into the demons of depressive expression. (Report) Reply

  • Mohammed Asim Nehal (2/1/2017 11:14:00 AM)

    Congrats for the POTD
    Splendid start and by the end all finished.. (Report) Reply

  • (2/1/2017 9:10:00 AM)

    Congrats on modern poet of the Day and thanks for sharing. (Report) Reply

  • Lantz Pierre (2/1/2017 5:06:00 AM)

    A whirlwind exhibition of acrobatic, aerobatic, combative, cooperative linguistic excellence. An aural epic. More tun than a depressive episode in a house of mirrors with light and images disguising the way out, the way in, the way one language is never quite enough to capture the real force of life. This poem lives and breathes and threatens to take your breath away if your daring enough to shout it out your window. Be sure to wait for the echoes. This poem cries out for a typographic master articulation to reverberate on the page. Phew. I friggin' love this. (Report) Reply

  • Edward Kofi Louis (2/1/2017 12:51:00 AM)

    Gloomyarn. Thanks for sharing this poem with us. (Report) Reply

  • Robert Murray Smith (2/1/2017 12:24:00 AM)

    By the end of this poem I felt that I had headed into a magnetic field that failed to attract my neurons. Remember, they are electric too, but eclectic isn't electric. The yang became yin then its time now for a tub of gin! (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Monday, January 16, 2017

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