Poem
Delphine Lecompte
I get up to make yesterday into the day before yesterday
I get up to think about yesterdayYesterday I wrote a bad poem
But I thought it was great
Yesterday I washed an aphasic woman
And stole a culinary magazine
From the waiting room at my mother’s gynaecologist’s.
The aphasic woman was called Martha
She used to be a truffle grater in a factory
I haven’t looked at the culinary magazine yet
My mother’s still got a uterus
But she doesn’t use it.
After thinking about yesterday
I contemplate the day before yesterday
The day before yesterday I didn’t wash anybody
Especially myself
I didn’t steal any magazines
My father wrote to me on a postcard of a grazing zebra
That he was proud of his nursing daughter who had given birth
To a son without a harelip
The trunk of the plane tree was wet
With an Irish tourist’s urine.
The Irish tourist wanted to murder me yesterday
I don’t want to think about that too long
After all, it’s today that matters
Now
Now I’ve re-read my poem
Again it’s not great.
© Translation: 2012, Rosalind Buck
Ik sta op om van gisteren eergisteren te maken
Ik sta op om van gisteren eergisteren te maken
Ik sta op om na te denken over gisterenGisteren heb ik een slecht gedicht geschreven
Maar ik dacht dat het geniaal was
Gisteren heb ik ook nog een afatische vrouw gewassen
En een culinair tijdschrift gestolen
Uit de wachtkamer van mijn moeders gynaecoloog.
De afatische vrouw heette Martha
Ze was vroeger truffelraapster aan de band
Het culinair tijdschrift heb ik nog niet bekeken
Mijn moeder heeft nog altijd een uterus
Maar ze gebruikt hem niet.
Na het denken over gisteren
Mijmer ik over eergisteren
Eergisteren heb ik niemand gewassen
Vooral mijzelf niet
Ik heb geen tijdschriften gestolen
Mijn vader schreef mij op een postkaart van een grazende zebra
Dat hij trots was op zijn pleegdochter die bevallen was
Van een zoon zonder hazenlip
De stronk van de plataan was nat
Van de urine van een Ierse toerist.
De Ierse toerist wilde mij gisteren vermoorden
Ik wil daar niet te lang bij stilstaan
Uiteindelijk gaat het om vandaag
Om nu
Nu heb ik mijn gedicht herlezen
Het is weer niet geniaal.
© 2012, Delphine Lecompte
From: Blinde gedichten
Publisher: De Bezige Bij Antwerpen, Antwerpen
From: Blinde gedichten
Publisher: De Bezige Bij Antwerpen, Antwerpen
Poems
Poems of Delphine Lecompte
Close
I get up to make yesterday into the day before yesterday
I get up to think about yesterdayYesterday I wrote a bad poem
But I thought it was great
Yesterday I washed an aphasic woman
And stole a culinary magazine
From the waiting room at my mother’s gynaecologist’s.
The aphasic woman was called Martha
She used to be a truffle grater in a factory
I haven’t looked at the culinary magazine yet
My mother’s still got a uterus
But she doesn’t use it.
After thinking about yesterday
I contemplate the day before yesterday
The day before yesterday I didn’t wash anybody
Especially myself
I didn’t steal any magazines
My father wrote to me on a postcard of a grazing zebra
That he was proud of his nursing daughter who had given birth
To a son without a harelip
The trunk of the plane tree was wet
With an Irish tourist’s urine.
The Irish tourist wanted to murder me yesterday
I don’t want to think about that too long
After all, it’s today that matters
Now
Now I’ve re-read my poem
Again it’s not great.
© 2012, Rosalind Buck
From: Blinde gedichten
From: Blinde gedichten
I get up to make yesterday into the day before yesterday
I get up to think about yesterdayYesterday I wrote a bad poem
But I thought it was great
Yesterday I washed an aphasic woman
And stole a culinary magazine
From the waiting room at my mother’s gynaecologist’s.
The aphasic woman was called Martha
She used to be a truffle grater in a factory
I haven’t looked at the culinary magazine yet
My mother’s still got a uterus
But she doesn’t use it.
After thinking about yesterday
I contemplate the day before yesterday
The day before yesterday I didn’t wash anybody
Especially myself
I didn’t steal any magazines
My father wrote to me on a postcard of a grazing zebra
That he was proud of his nursing daughter who had given birth
To a son without a harelip
The trunk of the plane tree was wet
With an Irish tourist’s urine.
The Irish tourist wanted to murder me yesterday
I don’t want to think about that too long
After all, it’s today that matters
Now
Now I’ve re-read my poem
Again it’s not great.
© 2012, Rosalind Buck
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