Poem
Herman De Coninck
Fingerprints on the Window
I think that poetry is something like fingerprintson 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.
© Translation: 2008, David Colmer
Vingerafdrukken
Vingerafdrukken
Ik denk dat poëzie iets is als vingerafdrukkenop 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.
© 1997, The estate of Herman de Coninck
From: De Gedichten
Publisher: De Arbeiderspers, Amsterdam
From: De Gedichten
Publisher: De Arbeiderspers, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Herman De Coninck
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Fingerprints on the Window
I think that poetry is something like fingerprintson 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.
© 2008, David Colmer
From: De Gedichten
From: De Gedichten
Fingerprints on the Window
I think that poetry is something like fingerprintson 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.
© 2008, David Colmer
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