Poem
Ester Naomi Perquin
CONNECTION
The muffling telephone made your voiceeven softer than you like to be,
copy, aspire to be.
Oh, for months, you said, those blind doubts
about ringing you. Neither you nor I
was there wholly by chance that night.
Silence. I assess the furious doggedness
with which you rediscover my body
and carry it, drag it there.
If need be, you said, I’ll call again tomorrow.
You waffle a bit about an emptiness that’s
easily sent awry.
Lay me next to you. Sometimes I still
dream of children of yours, as in a game.
Beautiful faces that cry.
© Translation: 2012, Paul Vincent
VERBINDING
VERBINDING
Door het dempen van de telefoon klonk je stemnog zachter dan je zelf graag bent,
nadoet, pretendeert te zijn.
Ach, maanden lang, zei jij, die blinde twijfel
je te bellen. Jij was er evenmin als ik
die nacht geheel toevallig bij.
Stilte. Ik schat de woedende verbetenheid
waarmee je mijn lichaam terug vindt
en het daar heen draagt, toe sleept.
Als het moet, zei jij, bel ik je morgen weer.
Jij schermt wat met een leegte die zich
eenvoudig laat ontwrichten.
Leg me naast je neer. Soms droom ik
nog kinderen van je, spelenderwijs.
Mooie, betraande gezichten.
© 2009, Ester Naomi Perquin
From: Namens de ander
Publisher: Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
From: Namens de ander
Publisher: Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Ester Naomi Perquin
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CONNECTION
The muffling telephone made your voiceeven softer than you like to be,
copy, aspire to be.
Oh, for months, you said, those blind doubts
about ringing you. Neither you nor I
was there wholly by chance that night.
Silence. I assess the furious doggedness
with which you rediscover my body
and carry it, drag it there.
If need be, you said, I’ll call again tomorrow.
You waffle a bit about an emptiness that’s
easily sent awry.
Lay me next to you. Sometimes I still
dream of children of yours, as in a game.
Beautiful faces that cry.
© 2012, Paul Vincent
From: Namens de ander
From: Namens de ander
CONNECTION
The muffling telephone made your voiceeven softer than you like to be,
copy, aspire to be.
Oh, for months, you said, those blind doubts
about ringing you. Neither you nor I
was there wholly by chance that night.
Silence. I assess the furious doggedness
with which you rediscover my body
and carry it, drag it there.
If need be, you said, I’ll call again tomorrow.
You waffle a bit about an emptiness that’s
easily sent awry.
Lay me next to you. Sometimes I still
dream of children of yours, as in a game.
Beautiful faces that cry.
© 2012, Paul Vincent
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