Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Herman De Coninck

He\'d hoped he might get by without an autumn...

He’d hoped he might get by without an autumn.
Sudden snow. The austerity of white. The precision of cold.
With less providing meaning,
more would recover from it –

and then it would be over. Not these months
detaching final leaves, sorting through junk,
making such an endless fuss of loss
you felt like hanging the leaves back on the trees.

He’d hoped he might get by without going sour.
But the whole garden is fermenting from hours
of rain and almost hissing from a minute’s sun.
Oh, the days when things could pass and nothing had to last.

Hij had gehoopt dat het zonder herfst kon.

Hij had gehoopt dat het zonder herfst kon.
Ineens sneeuw. De ascese van wit. De precisie van kou.
Minder moet zorgen voor betekenis,
meer moet ervan genezen –

en dat het dan gedaan was. Niet dit maanden-
lange afhaken van laatste blaren, uitsorteren
van rommel, zó eindeloos uitpakken met gemis
dat je de blaren terug zou hangen aan hun takken.

Hij had gehoopt dat het zonder verzuren kon.
Maar de hele tuin ligt te gisten van uren
tegen, en bijna te sissen van één minuut zon.
O, toen alles nog voorbij kon gaan en niets hoefde te duren.
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He\'d hoped he might get by without an autumn...

He’d hoped he might get by without an autumn.
Sudden snow. The austerity of white. The precision of cold.
With less providing meaning,
more would recover from it –

and then it would be over. Not these months
detaching final leaves, sorting through junk,
making such an endless fuss of loss
you felt like hanging the leaves back on the trees.

He’d hoped he might get by without going sour.
But the whole garden is fermenting from hours
of rain and almost hissing from a minute’s sun.
Oh, the days when things could pass and nothing had to last.

He\'d hoped he might get by without an autumn...

He’d hoped he might get by without an autumn.
Sudden snow. The austerity of white. The precision of cold.
With less providing meaning,
more would recover from it –

and then it would be over. Not these months
detaching final leaves, sorting through junk,
making such an endless fuss of loss
you felt like hanging the leaves back on the trees.

He’d hoped he might get by without going sour.
But the whole garden is fermenting from hours
of rain and almost hissing from a minute’s sun.
Oh, the days when things could pass and nothing had to last.
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