Poem
Tomas Lieske
COMPLAINT OF A SHREWMOUSE (MUMMIFIED)
To be able without a crumbled knowledge of phenol, sandy land or its fur-skin situation,to still hold its own in the natron tube beside the leaden falcon calling itself Horus.
To preserve the life force while our children are dying on their bent knees
in the hot sand after which the slug tummies start to float through their bodies.
To be able to identify itself to the gatekeeper in the linen swathes
with resin and papyrus price-tag which describes whose shrewmouse it was.
To remind Queen Notmit of the linseed dynasty that I
lived under her throne and ate spilt drops of beeswax round her flinted feet.
To not have to feed myself to the falcon, claiming to be Horus, reeking beside me,
also being of noble birth, even though I’m in bitumen instead of regal lead.
To ensure my shrewmouse soul goes back into my tiny body, makes my sensitive snout
breathe life again and opens my eyes, glues back my rotted ears.
To discover whether the place I reside is dark, smells of musk,
is slug-thick and holds the joy of the shrew, excreted in the shape of Canopic turds.
To soften and embellish the old sweaty carpet-crease my body has become
with my paws extending backwards like a gymnast and my snapped-off tail.
To realise that sometime in the future something will surprise me, like abundant lichen,
and that not all the glory automatically befalls the falcon, jealous of me for so little.
Formulas,
formulas.
I am wrapped in formulas, upgraded with prayers. Everything vain. Not a fraction
of Horus action. Give me the memory of what I was like. Give me my portrait
on the outermost shrewmouse packaging, unreachable behind the prayer ink strands.
How much I long to see my hardy smile, my whiskers and my lively eyes.
© Translation: 2010, Willem Groenewegen
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2010
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2010
KLACHT VAN EEN SPITSMUIS (GEMUMMIFICEERD)
KLACHT VAN EEN SPITSMUIS (GEMUMMIFICEERD)
Om zich zonder gekruimelde kennis van fenol, zandland of eigen bontvelsituatietoch te kunnen handhaven in de natronkoker naast de loden valk die zich Horus noemt.
Om de levenskracht te behouden terwijl onze kinderen sterven met gebogen knieën
in het hete zand waarna de slakbuikjes door de lijfjes gaan zweven.
Om zich voor de poorwachters te kunnen identificeren in de wikkels van linnen
met hars en met papyrus prijskaart waarop geschreven wiens spitsmuis men was.
Om de koningin Notmit van de lijnzaad-dynastie eraan te herinneren dat ik
onder haar troon woonde en weggedrupte bijenwas at rond haar vuurstenen voeten.
Om de valk die naast mij stinkt en zegt Horus te zijn, niet te hoeven voeden
met mijzelf, ook hooggeboren, al lig ik in bitumen en niet in koninklijk lood.
Om te maken dat mijn spitsmuisziel terugkeert in mijn kleine lijf, mijn gevoelige slurf
het leven hergeeft, mijn ogen opent en mijn weggevreten oren aanlijmt.
Om te ontdekken of de ruimte waarin ik mij bevind, donker is, muskusgeurend,
slakdik en of er spitsvreugde is, uitgedrukt in de vorm van Canopische keutels.
Om de oudzweet tapijtplooi, die mijn lijf geworden is, te verzachten en te verfraaien
met mijn in turnstand achterwaarts gerichte poten en mijn afgebroken staart.
Om te beseffen dat ooit in de toekomst mij iets zal verassen, zoals een rijk korstmos,
en dat niet alle glorie vanzelf de valk toevalt, die mij om weinig jaloers beziet.
Formules,
formules.
Ik ben ik formules gewikkeld, opgewaardeerd met gebeden. Alles ijdel. Geen fractie
van Horusactie. Geeft mij de herinnering aan hoe ik was. Geef mij mijn portret
op de buitenste spitsmuisverpakking, onbereikbaar achter de stroken gebedsinkt.
Hoe verlang ik mijn dappere glimlach te zien, mijn snorharen, mijn pientere ogen.
© 2002, Tomas Lieske
From: Stripping en andere sterke verhalen
Publisher: Querido, Amsterdam
From: Stripping en andere sterke verhalen
Publisher: Querido, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Tomas Lieske
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COMPLAINT OF A SHREWMOUSE (MUMMIFIED)
To be able without a crumbled knowledge of phenol, sandy land or its fur-skin situation,to still hold its own in the natron tube beside the leaden falcon calling itself Horus.
To preserve the life force while our children are dying on their bent knees
in the hot sand after which the slug tummies start to float through their bodies.
To be able to identify itself to the gatekeeper in the linen swathes
with resin and papyrus price-tag which describes whose shrewmouse it was.
To remind Queen Notmit of the linseed dynasty that I
lived under her throne and ate spilt drops of beeswax round her flinted feet.
To not have to feed myself to the falcon, claiming to be Horus, reeking beside me,
also being of noble birth, even though I’m in bitumen instead of regal lead.
To ensure my shrewmouse soul goes back into my tiny body, makes my sensitive snout
breathe life again and opens my eyes, glues back my rotted ears.
To discover whether the place I reside is dark, smells of musk,
is slug-thick and holds the joy of the shrew, excreted in the shape of Canopic turds.
To soften and embellish the old sweaty carpet-crease my body has become
with my paws extending backwards like a gymnast and my snapped-off tail.
To realise that sometime in the future something will surprise me, like abundant lichen,
and that not all the glory automatically befalls the falcon, jealous of me for so little.
Formulas,
formulas.
I am wrapped in formulas, upgraded with prayers. Everything vain. Not a fraction
of Horus action. Give me the memory of what I was like. Give me my portrait
on the outermost shrewmouse packaging, unreachable behind the prayer ink strands.
How much I long to see my hardy smile, my whiskers and my lively eyes.
© 2010, Willem Groenewegen
From: Stripping en andere sterke verhalen
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW, Amsterdam
From: Stripping en andere sterke verhalen
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW, Amsterdam
COMPLAINT OF A SHREWMOUSE (MUMMIFIED)
To be able without a crumbled knowledge of phenol, sandy land or its fur-skin situation,to still hold its own in the natron tube beside the leaden falcon calling itself Horus.
To preserve the life force while our children are dying on their bent knees
in the hot sand after which the slug tummies start to float through their bodies.
To be able to identify itself to the gatekeeper in the linen swathes
with resin and papyrus price-tag which describes whose shrewmouse it was.
To remind Queen Notmit of the linseed dynasty that I
lived under her throne and ate spilt drops of beeswax round her flinted feet.
To not have to feed myself to the falcon, claiming to be Horus, reeking beside me,
also being of noble birth, even though I’m in bitumen instead of regal lead.
To ensure my shrewmouse soul goes back into my tiny body, makes my sensitive snout
breathe life again and opens my eyes, glues back my rotted ears.
To discover whether the place I reside is dark, smells of musk,
is slug-thick and holds the joy of the shrew, excreted in the shape of Canopic turds.
To soften and embellish the old sweaty carpet-crease my body has become
with my paws extending backwards like a gymnast and my snapped-off tail.
To realise that sometime in the future something will surprise me, like abundant lichen,
and that not all the glory automatically befalls the falcon, jealous of me for so little.
Formulas,
formulas.
I am wrapped in formulas, upgraded with prayers. Everything vain. Not a fraction
of Horus action. Give me the memory of what I was like. Give me my portrait
on the outermost shrewmouse packaging, unreachable behind the prayer ink strands.
How much I long to see my hardy smile, my whiskers and my lively eyes.
© 2010, Willem Groenewegen
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW,
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW,
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