NORBERT HUMMELT [8737]

Norbert Hummelt (nacido en 1962 en Neuss ) es un poeta alemán, ensayista y traductor 

Hummelt estudió filología alemana y Inglés en Colonia hasta 1990. Trabajó junto con Marcel Beyer y como él comenzó de escritor experimental, después de Rolf Dieter Brinkmann y Thomas Kling. 

De 1988 a 1992 fue líder de la Autorenwerkstatt Kölner, un grupo de autores en Colonia. Con su segundo libro de poemas, "singtrieb" en 1997, se acercaba a los conceptos de la poesía romántica.

Norbert Hummelt ha vivido en Bergisches cerca de Colonia durante varios años. Desde enero de 2006 vive en Berlín. Enseñó y dio clases de escritura creativa en la Leipzig Deutsches Literaturinstitut y trabaja para la revista.

LIBROS DE POESÍA:

knackige codes (crisp codes), Galrev 1993

singtrieb (appetite for singing / sing instinct), Urs Engeler Editor 1997

Zeichen im Schnee (signs in the snow), Luchterhand 2001

Bildstock (picture stock), Kunstverein Hasselbach 2003

Stille Quellen (silent fonts), Luchterhand 2004

Totentanz (dance of the dead), Luchterhand 2007

TRADUCCIONES:

Inger Christensen, Das Schmetterlingstal. Ein Requiem (from Danish, in: Schreibheft Nr. 52, 1999)

Four Quartets, T. S. Eliot (in: T. S. Elliot: Four Quartets …, Rigodon, 2006).

ENSAYOS:

out here in the dark, Essay, in: Edit 38, 2005.

Du hast dich durch Räume bewegt (you moved through spaces), about Lars Reyers poems, in: BELLA triste Nr. 17, special edition for German contemporary poetry, Hildesheim 2007

en esta noche

como tus besos

de sabor a manzanilla

no te debo despertar

tú dices: no lo comprendes?

quiero dormir, estoy muy cansada.

huelen a pomadas

nuestras dos almohadas.

tú no lo debes saber

el mundo es ajeno a mí, tengo

cinco abriles quizá.

Traducción Jose Carlos Contreras Azaña. 

Karlsruhe. Agosto 2012)

Kritik 

in dieser nacht

Wie deine küsse nach

Kamille schmecken

Ich darf dich nicht wecken

Du sagst: verstehst du nicht?

Ich will schlafen, ich bin so müde.

Nach salbe riechen

Unser beider kissen

Du darfst nicht wissen:

Die welt ist fremd in mir, ich bin

Erst fünf vielleicht.

dimmed light

pavement already shut down

disconcerted in the mist of a

winter evening, one more time

around the same block with

its blacked-out thickly-curtained

facades; where you are heading

dimmed light, calendar pages

long since no longer torn off give

the lad some cherry juice in

a simple glass, slopped and

bunkered the things we’re

conscious of and give him

something from the sweet tin

too some of those chocolate

twists two wrapped in gold paper

as were the open legs, raw with

bedsores in this room here brace

yourself as the images come to you

trip

somewhere between drifting and

dreaming my hand in your hair

stroking mechanically now

what images are with you as you slip

into sleep . . nothing

taken not on a trip

just pin-pricks surrounding

your iris perhaps a bit

like the way a bird in flight

is no longer able to alight

on a branch that’s been sawn off 

my arm beneath you is getting

heavy my hand

is numb and in my head

the pirate copies in the other eye

are more fleeting still than photography

cut

with the discrete images in the room

from a dream he’ll never tell 

he moves into the dull 

hallway light the silent object wrapped

in parchment

and with the transient idea of blood

on his chin concealed with a little

printer’s ink he kicks numbly into

the too-bright morning far below

foam rubber when I’m dead

and gone to his friend in a shoebox

small roses going cold.

the small pit beneath the balcony

haze

you seek the nearness of what’s

outlived and why ever not? no-one’s

looking after all as you press down the

handle on the door and even the man

eating green beans from a flask is hardly

taking any notice you’ve taken down a slim

volume from the shelf: the letters clinging

still to words the dedication gone, the

language’s fruit pulp smelling so sweetly

of decay your jacket’s elbows worn to holes

and the man who wore it before you not long

passed away. it’s all the same. sometimes

though you’d go although still young and

take refuge in your local pub with its tinted

windows blocking any view of impending

dusk smoky air and lips hidden in the haze

of someone else’s words that don’t mean you.

is the century not over yet? you sit with a

plate of egg and chips reading t.s. eliot

in one of those old faber paperbacks

portrait

ash-blonde wind-blown and ousted

from the world

what’s left of things already just

forgetting, rote reciting

sitting eating the last of gherkins

flickering, eye almost fluttering even

a tic perhaps too much alone

in her caravette / in rhyming speech

to herself and for the

rest of the trip

hear her song drift from a fastened

sphere, to nobody visibly

who was supposed to hear

the dialogue of dress and stitch.

dead things

in the sleepy wake of a

day in april

there’s the same tormented pigeon

the empty drink can shoved

into a bush, the yoghurt tub

between branch and twig 

which itself is stuck and that

since last winter things seemingly

left unchanged as though

they’d merely been photographed

thus flees the precisely-found image

into memory, where otherwise safe

in the dark of evening at the edge

of the road in low grass steeped

in long-distance light terrified

the rabbit my eye the thorn frozen in its movement in the moment 

vulnerable body / the

shadow of a blackbird flits

silently overhead and vanishes into a wall of forsythias