Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Herman De Coninck

Fingerprints on the Window

I think that poetry is something like fingerprints
on the window behind which a child who can’t sleep
stands waiting for dawn. Earth generates mist;

sorrow, a kind of sigh. Clouds
are responsible for twenty-five kinds of light.
They actually hold it back. Back lighting.

It’s still too early to be now. But the rivers
are already leaving. They’ve heard the murmuring
from the silver factory of the sea.

Daughter beside me at the window. Loving her is
the easiest way to remember these things.
Birds hammer at the anvil of their call

all, all, all.

Vingerafdrukken

Vingerafdrukken

Ik denk dat poëzie iets is als vingerafdrukken
op het venster, waarachter een kind dat niet kan slapen
te wachten staat op dag. Uit aarde komt nevel,

uit verdriet een soort ach. Wolken
zorgen voor vijfentwintig soorten licht.
Eigenlijk houden ze het tegen. Tegenlicht.

Het is nog te vroeg om nu te zijn. Maar de rivieren
vertrekken alvast. Ze hebben het geruis
uit de zilverfabriek van de zee gehoord.

Dochter naast me voor het raam. Van haar houden
is de gemakkelijkste manier om dit alles te onthouden.
Vogels vinden in de smidse van hun geluid

uit, uit, uit.
Close

Fingerprints on the Window

I think that poetry is something like fingerprints
on the window behind which a child who can’t sleep
stands waiting for dawn. Earth generates mist;

sorrow, a kind of sigh. Clouds
are responsible for twenty-five kinds of light.
They actually hold it back. Back lighting.

It’s still too early to be now. But the rivers
are already leaving. They’ve heard the murmuring
from the silver factory of the sea.

Daughter beside me at the window. Loving her is
the easiest way to remember these things.
Birds hammer at the anvil of their call

all, all, all.

Fingerprints on the Window

I think that poetry is something like fingerprints
on the window behind which a child who can’t sleep
stands waiting for dawn. Earth generates mist;

sorrow, a kind of sigh. Clouds
are responsible for twenty-five kinds of light.
They actually hold it back. Back lighting.

It’s still too early to be now. But the rivers
are already leaving. They’ve heard the murmuring
from the silver factory of the sea.

Daughter beside me at the window. Loving her is
the easiest way to remember these things.
Birds hammer at the anvil of their call

all, all, all.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère