TEAPOT WITH PERSIMMON FRUIT Poem by Durs Grünbein

Those afternoons when the phases of silence
grow longer than the shadows in winter,
that's when we turn to the idea of still-life.

The room becomes image, and everything in it,
through the open doors the onlooker fades away.
Light moves over the furniture, floors, and rests
on the teapot, the persimmon fruit on the plate,
fixes their contours flawlessly like glue.
It is writing a book about superfluous things.

In times when there was nothing going on, the old
Japanese masters would paint only the inanimate:
teacups and folding screens. That was enough.