Poem
Peter Verhelst
When through the hotel room window we . . .
. . . hand palms against the glass. Deep at night we watchthe glacier, two wisps of smoke that needed centuries
to entwine against the mountainside. What we see,
what we want to see, is the slowest form of lava
we want to be. My cheek a few millimetres
from your cheek and you move your head as if tilting it
to the first sun. Two pebbles of soft flesh, rubbing endlessly
slow against each other, hoping for that one spark one day,
for that one miniscule throbbing, that open and closing of
a wafer thin heart that is being breathed out of the ice. That
this might be our heart, this breathing, this pulsing from one to the other,
this age-long waiting, who would be the first to move, who
smiled, the drinking of breath, this filling up of breath
and this emptying of rooms, of your veins, the melting
of the small glacier we are, this quivering we dream of,
of something simple, breath scrunching above the ice. Hymns. Pure
springs. Geysers. Fresh rainbows. The magnificent avalanche
that causes this.
© Translation: 2009, Astrid Alben
toen we uit het raam van de hotelkamer . . .
toen we uit het raam van de hotelkamer . . .
. . . handpalmen tegen het glas. Diep in de nacht kijken wenaar de gletsjer, twee rookslierten die eeuwen nodig hadden
om te verstrengelen tegen de bergwand. Wat we zien,
wat we willen zien, is de traagste vorm van lava
die we willen zijn. Mijn wang enkele millimeters
van jouw wang en jij beweegt je hoofd als wentel je het
naar de eerste zon. Twee keien van zacht vlees, zich oneindig
traag tegen elkaar wrijvend in de hoop ooit die ene vonk,
ooit dat minuscule kloppen, dat open‑ en dichtgaan van
een vliesdun hart dat uit het ijs tevoorschijn wordt geademd. Dat
dit ons hart kan zijn, dit ademen, dit pompen van de een naar de ander,
dit eeuwenlange wachten, wie als eerste zou bewegen, wie
glimlachte, het drinken van de adem, dit vollopen met adem
en dit leeglopen van kamers, van je aders, het smelten
van de kleine gletsjer die we zijn, dit trillen waar we van dromen,
van iets eenvoudigs, adem knisperend boven ijs. Gezangen. Pure
bronnen. Geisers. Nieuwe regenbogen. De prachtige lawine
die zoiets veroorzaakt.
© 2008, Peter Verhelst
From: Nieuwe sterrenbeelden
Publisher: Prometheus, Amsterdam
From: Nieuwe sterrenbeelden
Publisher: Prometheus, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Peter Verhelst
Close
When through the hotel room window we . . .
. . . hand palms against the glass. Deep at night we watchthe glacier, two wisps of smoke that needed centuries
to entwine against the mountainside. What we see,
what we want to see, is the slowest form of lava
we want to be. My cheek a few millimetres
from your cheek and you move your head as if tilting it
to the first sun. Two pebbles of soft flesh, rubbing endlessly
slow against each other, hoping for that one spark one day,
for that one miniscule throbbing, that open and closing of
a wafer thin heart that is being breathed out of the ice. That
this might be our heart, this breathing, this pulsing from one to the other,
this age-long waiting, who would be the first to move, who
smiled, the drinking of breath, this filling up of breath
and this emptying of rooms, of your veins, the melting
of the small glacier we are, this quivering we dream of,
of something simple, breath scrunching above the ice. Hymns. Pure
springs. Geysers. Fresh rainbows. The magnificent avalanche
that causes this.
© 2009, Astrid Alben
From: Nieuwe sterrenbeelden
From: Nieuwe sterrenbeelden
When through the hotel room window we . . .
. . . hand palms against the glass. Deep at night we watchthe glacier, two wisps of smoke that needed centuries
to entwine against the mountainside. What we see,
what we want to see, is the slowest form of lava
we want to be. My cheek a few millimetres
from your cheek and you move your head as if tilting it
to the first sun. Two pebbles of soft flesh, rubbing endlessly
slow against each other, hoping for that one spark one day,
for that one miniscule throbbing, that open and closing of
a wafer thin heart that is being breathed out of the ice. That
this might be our heart, this breathing, this pulsing from one to the other,
this age-long waiting, who would be the first to move, who
smiled, the drinking of breath, this filling up of breath
and this emptying of rooms, of your veins, the melting
of the small glacier we are, this quivering we dream of,
of something simple, breath scrunching above the ice. Hymns. Pure
springs. Geysers. Fresh rainbows. The magnificent avalanche
that causes this.
© 2009, Astrid Alben
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère