Poem
Peter Theunynck
Mother
Far from the Indians in the camp,from people smelling of oil,
the pencil behind the
greengrocer’s ear.
Far from the undercoat on the gate,
the sand in one’s hair,
from all that’s alive,
the little brother lies still in the cot.
The newspaper doesn’t know what
to do with its cod. The ounce of tomatoes
blows its nose in the bag – sadness
leaking everywhere. The paint catches
flies and the sky looks blue.
The father keeps on blowing air
and presses keys no longer
generating sound.
A walk on a tiled floor, to
those looking back, is vexingly
slow. We put a doll in
a box, leave small change on
a saucer, eat some butter biscuits,
bow to everything. No, candles
aren’t for us. The soil is hard
to our spades. The neighbours behind
the privet hedge are silent.
You can hear her
cawing in the crows by the canal.
© Translation: 2010, Willem Groenewegen
MOEDER
MOEDER
Ver van de indianen in het kamp,van mensen die naar olie ruiken,
het potlood achter het oor van
de groenteman.
Ver van de grondlaag op de poort,
het zand in het haar,
van alle leven,
ligt het broertje in het wiegje stil.
De krant weet met zijn kabeljauw
geen blijf. Het ons tomaten snuit
zijn neus in de zak. Overal lekt
verdriet uit. Maar de verf vangt
vliegen en de hemel ziet blauw.
De vader maar lucht blazen,
kleppen indrukken waar
geen klank meer uitkomt.
Wat lopen tegelgangen voor
wie omkijkt tergend
traag. We stoppen een pop in
een doos, leggen kleingeld op
een schoteltje, eten petitbeurres,
zeggen ja en amen. Neen, kaarsen
krijgen we niet. De grond is hard
voor onze schoppen. De buren
achter de ligusterhagen zwijgen.
Je kunt haar horen
krassen in de kraaien aan de vaart.
© 1999, Peter Theunynck
From: De bomen zijn paars en de hemel
Publisher: Manteau, Antwerpen
From: De bomen zijn paars en de hemel
Publisher: Manteau, Antwerpen
Poems
Poems of Peter Theunynck
Close
Mother
Far from the Indians in the camp,from people smelling of oil,
the pencil behind the
greengrocer’s ear.
Far from the undercoat on the gate,
the sand in one’s hair,
from all that’s alive,
the little brother lies still in the cot.
The newspaper doesn’t know what
to do with its cod. The ounce of tomatoes
blows its nose in the bag – sadness
leaking everywhere. The paint catches
flies and the sky looks blue.
The father keeps on blowing air
and presses keys no longer
generating sound.
A walk on a tiled floor, to
those looking back, is vexingly
slow. We put a doll in
a box, leave small change on
a saucer, eat some butter biscuits,
bow to everything. No, candles
aren’t for us. The soil is hard
to our spades. The neighbours behind
the privet hedge are silent.
You can hear her
cawing in the crows by the canal.
© 2010, Willem Groenewegen
From: De bomen zijn paars en de hemel
From: De bomen zijn paars en de hemel
Mother
Far from the Indians in the camp,from people smelling of oil,
the pencil behind the
greengrocer’s ear.
Far from the undercoat on the gate,
the sand in one’s hair,
from all that’s alive,
the little brother lies still in the cot.
The newspaper doesn’t know what
to do with its cod. The ounce of tomatoes
blows its nose in the bag – sadness
leaking everywhere. The paint catches
flies and the sky looks blue.
The father keeps on blowing air
and presses keys no longer
generating sound.
A walk on a tiled floor, to
those looking back, is vexingly
slow. We put a doll in
a box, leave small change on
a saucer, eat some butter biscuits,
bow to everything. No, candles
aren’t for us. The soil is hard
to our spades. The neighbours behind
the privet hedge are silent.
You can hear her
cawing in the crows by the canal.
© 2010, Willem Groenewegen
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