Die englische Dichterin Helen Dunmore wurde am 12. Dezember 1952 in Yorkshire geboren. Sie hat in York Englisch studiert und war zwei Jahre in Finnland Englischlehrerin. Da ist sie auf die Idee gekommen, ihren ersten Roman zu schreiben. Es kamen noch viele dazu, auch Kinder- und Jugendbücher. Aber eigentlich war sie in Wirklichkeit eine Dichterin, zehn Jahre vor ihrem ersten Roman hatte sie ihren ersten Gedichtband fertig. Von 1983 bis 2017 hat sie ein Dutzend Gedichtbände veröffentlicht. Ich habe heute zwei Gedichte von *Helen Dunmore für Sie. Das erste Gedicht heißt All the Things You Are Not Yet, es ist das Gedicht, das mir von ihren Gedichten am besten gefällt. Gut, das ist jetzt eine etwas subjektive Aussage, die Sammlung ihrer Gedichte →Counting Backwards: Poems 1975-2017 ist 432 Seiten lang. Und ich nehme an, andere Leser würden andere Gedichte nehmen.
All the Things You Are Not Yet
for tess
Tonight there's a crowd in my head:
all the things you are not yet.
You are words without paper, pages
sighing in summer forests, gardens
where builders stub out their rubble
and plastic oozes its sweat.
All the things you are, you are not yet.
Not yet the lonely window in midwinter
with the whine of tea on an empty stomach,
not yet the heating you can't afford and must wait for,
tamping a coin in on each hour.
Not the gorgeous shush of restaurant doors
and their interiors, always so much smaller.
Not the smell of the newsprint, the blur
on your fingertips — your fame. Not yet
the love you will have for Winter Pearmains
and Chanel No 5 — and then your being unable
to buy both washing-machine and computer
when your baby's due to be born,
and my voice saying, "I'll get you one"
and you frowning, frowning
at walls and surfaces which are not mine —
all this, not yet. Give me your hand,
that small one without a mark of work on it,
the one that's strange to the washing-up bowl
and doesn't know Fairy Liquid for whiskey.
Not yet the moment of your arrival in taxis
at daring destinations, or your being alone at stations
with the skirts of your fashionable clothes flapping
and no money for the telephone.
Not yet the moment when I can give you nothing
so well-folded it fits in an envelope —
a dull letter you won't reread.
Not yet the moment of your assimilation
in that river flowing westward: rivers of clothes,
of dreams, an accent unlike my own
saying to someone I don't know: darling...
Die Tess im Untertitel des Gedichts ist Dunmores Tochter Jess Charnley. Hier hält sie gerade den Gedichtband Inside the Wave hoch, mit dem ihre Mutter posthum den Costa Book of the Year Award bekommen hat. In der zweiten Auflage des Buches ist auch das letzte Gedicht von Dunmore abgedruckt, sie schrieb es, als sie im Sterben lag. Es ist ein Gedicht über ihr Sterben, das mit der Strophe beginnt:
Tonight there's a crowd in my head:
all the things you are not yet.
You are words without paper, pages
sighing in summer forests, gardens
where builders stub out their rubble
and plastic oozes its sweat.
All the things you are, you are not yet.
Not yet the lonely window in midwinter
with the whine of tea on an empty stomach,
not yet the heating you can't afford and must wait for,
tamping a coin in on each hour.
Not the gorgeous shush of restaurant doors
and their interiors, always so much smaller.
Not the smell of the newsprint, the blur
on your fingertips — your fame. Not yet
the love you will have for Winter Pearmains
and Chanel No 5 — and then your being unable
to buy both washing-machine and computer
when your baby's due to be born,
and my voice saying, "I'll get you one"
and you frowning, frowning
at walls and surfaces which are not mine —
all this, not yet. Give me your hand,
that small one without a mark of work on it,
the one that's strange to the washing-up bowl
and doesn't know Fairy Liquid for whiskey.
Not yet the moment of your arrival in taxis
at daring destinations, or your being alone at stations
with the skirts of your fashionable clothes flapping
and no money for the telephone.
Not yet the moment when I can give you nothing
so well-folded it fits in an envelope —
a dull letter you won't reread.
Not yet the moment of your assimilation
in that river flowing westward: rivers of clothes,
of dreams, an accent unlike my own
saying to someone I don't know: darling...
Death, hold out your arms for me
Embrace me
Give me your motherly caress,
Through all this suffering
You have not forgotten me.
You have not forgotten me.
Sie hatte ihrer Tochter gesagt: Darling, check your email. There's something for you. Und da war es, das Gedicht →Hold out your arms. Es findet sich auch in der Sammlung Counting Backwards: Poems 1975-2017, die bei mir im Regal steht.
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