Ashes for Breakfast: Selected Poems by Durs Grünbein

By Durs Grünbein

"To Grünbein, there's good looks and horror during this refined shiver -- and lifestyles. the realm is a multitude, but the mess Grünbein supplies us is convincingly captivating, half and parcel of our totally cozy (albeit mad) domestic. as a result his tone, wryly self-critical yet no longer self-effacing, and his voice, self-conscious, yet actually so, no longer neurotically, harbors an underlying humbleness, a wide-eyed appreciation of the lunacy he witnesses. demise, he tells us, is "the deal-making, contract-breaking day," and "this lifestyles, so dead, so rich," is intended to be liked up to attainable within the moments of statement (even although "each second is readily ended").

There is an ease to Grünbein's approach to getting this message throughout. A poem beginning

And why, you wonder (why being the main infantile of questions),
Why am I excited by this rat race on battered ground

ends with reverence for intercourse: "the mole beside your navel… kissing a hand right here, inclining/ Your supple torso there."

Refreshingly, Grünbein doesn't stand on excessive floor. it really is throughout the muck that he sees the muck, and it's the muck for which he's having a look. there's a critique, but additionally a contentedness, a conflicted love of all of it: "Oh, to be a baby back, grubbing in genuine feces." And this can be the appeal and the intensity that's such a lot notable in regards to the whole Hofmann-translated choice. Of the forty-one integrated poems, no are alike in tone or voice, subject matters which are revisited will not be rehashed, and but nonetheless, a feeling of Grünbein as a undeniable and singular poet does encounter. conscious of "how many scenes there are/ That pass unwitnessed," Grünbein's paintings -- which, in lots of locations, is depression, politically tinged, or faraway from satire -- is usually fervently curious, and continually stinky in its honesty." -- ebook Slut

Born in Dresden in 1962, Durs Grünbein is the main major and winning poet to emerge from the previous East Germany, a spot the place, he wrote, "the top shelter used to be a closed mouth." In unsettling, usually humorous, occasionally savage strains whose vibrant photographs mirror his deep love for and reference to the visible arts, Grunbein is reinventing German poetry and taking over the main urgent ethical matters of his new release. Brilliantly edited and translated through the English poet Michael Hofmann, Ashes for Breakfast expertly introduces Germany's so much hugely acclaimed modern poet to American readers.

First paperback released in 2006*

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Extra resources for Ashes for Breakfast: Selected Poems

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He didn’t need her participation in this conversation. He was doing quite well on his own. “If you will forgive my impertinence, Miss Sinclair, you’re an oddly striking woman. Once you’ve lost your thinness, you’ll be beautiful, I think. ” One of his eyebrows danced upward. “No, I will not forgive your impertinence. ” All this time, Gaston and the driver had been observ­ ing them with interest. Neither man made any pretense of ignoring their conversation. In fact, they looked as if they were taking mental notes, the better to describe it in detail for the rest of the staff.

He didn’t. ” “I’m a widower. ” She shook her head. “My children will be joining me as soon as I’m set­ tled. ” Hardly a flattering proposal, but he’d looked shocked when she refused. She’d been too foolish, perhaps, in turning her back on his offer. Now she was alone in the world and forced to find her own way in it, a circumstance the minister had predicted. “My offer will not stand open for long, Beatrice. ” Bride—even the word sounded odd. She’d long since given up the thought of being a bride.

He unbuttoned his greatcoat and removed it, swing­ ing it over her shoulders. Immediately, she felt warmer, and also dwarfed by the size of it. The coat puddled on the ground as he proceeded to button it. ” He ignored her. Despite being attired only in a white shirt and black trousers, he didn’t look affected by the cold. “My father tells me you’ve accepted the position he offered you. ” “Why should I, Mr. Gordon? ” She did wish he wouldn’t smile at her in that annoy­ ing way. When she stepped aside to descend the steps, he reached out and gripped her hand.

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