Poem
Geert van Istendael
Language Machine
1Speak, city, speak!
Stretch your countless tongues up to the sky,
lick the rain, tan in the sun,
taste, taste the rubble, city, hurl ruins
into your throat’s gorge, choke on grit and cough up anger.
Use your tongues to push the glass out of the windows,
crawl through the cellars, spiral along staircases,
slumber in gardens and kiss, city, kiss,
the people of rank,
very carefully kiss their exquisite basket of crabs.
Stay silent, city, still the same silence stands, be patient,
sunk deep in beauty no longer existing,
violated, transubstantiated,
to foundation, to dust, to memories rapidly tarnished.
Stay silent, tongues, stay silent, don’t let the languages
roll off your rosy curves just yet,
the countless languages of this linguistic city,
speech city, scrap city, dragon city.*
Wait, but don’t wait for seasons to pass,
don’t wait for the archangel Michael,
don’t wait until the forest of knowledge sways
in full bloom.
Speak, Brussels, speak,
as soon as the chime of languages
summons the countless travellers to listen.
© Translation: 2009, Willem Groenewegen
* There is a statue of St. Michael killing the dragon on top of the Brussels city hall tower.
Taalmachine
Taalmachine
1Spreek, stad, spreek!
Strek je talloos veel tongen ten hemel,
lik aan de regen, looi in de zon,
proef, proef het puin, stad, slinger ruïnes
de kloof van je keel in, verslik je in gruis en hoest woede.
Druk met je tongen het glas uit de ramen,
sluip door de kelders, wentel langs trappen,
sluimer in tuinen en zoen, stad, zoen,
de bewoners van stand,
zoen zeer behoedzaam hun exquise krabbenmand.
Zwijg nog, stad, nog geldt het te zwijgen, oefen geduld,
verzonken in schoonheid die niet meer is,
geschonden, getranssubstantieerd,
tot fundering, tot stof, tot snel verdoffend geheugen.
Zwijg, tongen, zwijg, laat de talen
nog niet van je rozige welvingen rollen,
de talloos veel talen van deze taalstad,
spraakstad, braakstad, draak van een stad.
Wacht, maar wacht geen seizoenen,
wacht niet op een aartsengel Michaël,
wacht niet tot het woud van het weten wuivend
in bloei staat.
Spreek, Brussel, spreek,
zodra het klokken van talen
de talloos veel reizigers kan lokken tot luisteren.
© 2001, Geert van Istendael
From: Taalmachine
Publisher: Atlas, Amsterdam
From: Taalmachine
Publisher: Atlas, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Geert van Istendael
Close
Language Machine
1Speak, city, speak!
Stretch your countless tongues up to the sky,
lick the rain, tan in the sun,
taste, taste the rubble, city, hurl ruins
into your throat’s gorge, choke on grit and cough up anger.
Use your tongues to push the glass out of the windows,
crawl through the cellars, spiral along staircases,
slumber in gardens and kiss, city, kiss,
the people of rank,
very carefully kiss their exquisite basket of crabs.
Stay silent, city, still the same silence stands, be patient,
sunk deep in beauty no longer existing,
violated, transubstantiated,
to foundation, to dust, to memories rapidly tarnished.
Stay silent, tongues, stay silent, don’t let the languages
roll off your rosy curves just yet,
the countless languages of this linguistic city,
speech city, scrap city, dragon city.*
Wait, but don’t wait for seasons to pass,
don’t wait for the archangel Michael,
don’t wait until the forest of knowledge sways
in full bloom.
Speak, Brussels, speak,
as soon as the chime of languages
summons the countless travellers to listen.
© 2009, Willem Groenewegen
From: Taalmachine
From: Taalmachine
Language Machine
1Speak, city, speak!
Stretch your countless tongues up to the sky,
lick the rain, tan in the sun,
taste, taste the rubble, city, hurl ruins
into your throat’s gorge, choke on grit and cough up anger.
Use your tongues to push the glass out of the windows,
crawl through the cellars, spiral along staircases,
slumber in gardens and kiss, city, kiss,
the people of rank,
very carefully kiss their exquisite basket of crabs.
Stay silent, city, still the same silence stands, be patient,
sunk deep in beauty no longer existing,
violated, transubstantiated,
to foundation, to dust, to memories rapidly tarnished.
Stay silent, tongues, stay silent, don’t let the languages
roll off your rosy curves just yet,
the countless languages of this linguistic city,
speech city, scrap city, dragon city.*
Wait, but don’t wait for seasons to pass,
don’t wait for the archangel Michael,
don’t wait until the forest of knowledge sways
in full bloom.
Speak, Brussels, speak,
as soon as the chime of languages
summons the countless travellers to listen.
© 2009, Willem Groenewegen
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère