Uttaran Das Gupta (India) is a New Delhi-based journalist and writer. He has published a book of poems (Visceral Metropolis, 2017) and writes a fortnightly column on poetry (Verse Affairs) for The Wire. His novel Ritual has been optioned for a film or web series. Das Gupta teaches journalism at O P Jindal Global University, Sonipat. 

English

BABEL AT KUNSTHISTORISCHES[1]

“They want to say something, the dead” —Tomas Tranströmer[2]

Wooden scaffolding holds up rain-

-heavy clouds—their shoulders appear

like a ship’s mast in the clear

patch beyond industrial smog. Ropes strain

with the load of blocks a bricklayer

pulls up to his perch. The prayers,

incense, of priests isn’t insurance

enough against pillars sinking

into sand. This unthinking

project of pride, endurance

—falsework arches, concentric vaults—

rises like a monument to faults.

Lower still, on the cobbled street,

an artist on his knees pulls out

stones like a dentist.[3] In the dugout

patch he’ll plant stumbling blocks—your feet

will find its flaneur instincts checked,

as you—curious—bend down to inspect:

HIER WOHNTE

JETTE ELKAN

JG. 1864

DEPORTIERT 1942

THERESIENSTADT

MINSK

EMORDET[4]

CARAVANS IN THE NIGHT

“Wiener seid’s froh! Oho! Wieso?!”[5]

The Danube in Vienna is green:

is this a riverboat? A space-

-craft? All that remains unseen

at daybreak is like a staircase

into darkness—a promise:

we will come back, we shall retrace

this sojourn, less like a novice,

more like an exile, perhaps.

Voluntary exile. The office

of immigration services maps

our hobo desires, our fears—

their city mustn’t collapse,

like Babylon. Waves and waves

have washed up over the years,

too many tongues. Those who gave

bread and milk have put out their lights.

Caravans are turned away at night.[6]

A HOME IN TÜBINGEN

We’ll have a home in Tübingen:

clean air making it easy to cycle uphill from Neckarbrücke.

My nose in your black hair, we’ll stare out the attic window,

lay still on wet, cold afternoons as the Shift church

rings crucifixion at three.

Your research will expand, nourished by the mellow light,

my translation of Celan, Hölderlin…

Running will help us build an appetite for brunch,

or a canoe ride.

We’ll begin to frequent the Imbiss, the farmers’ market,

and drop in at the Heckenhauer Antiquariat.

But all this won’t happen, can’t happen, can it?

Your summer and my summer are like spheres rolling away from each other.

We admit only the temptation:

the skies are clear.

In the cracks between cobbled stones there’s grass,

someone is playing guitar at Holzplatz.