Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Nico Bleutge

honey-warm pupils . . .

. . . and was just this one little bit, something
like skin
. that is now being quite closely examined

and touched by a delicate hand. it is in the shadow
where this curve appears, of hairs, little waves

above the nape. soon the dips between them
fade. that points ahead to something bare, to the beautiful naked

woman on the wall, squinting so calmly into the room, this round
tattered mouth and these dots on the underside of the arms.

has the draughtsman’s hand failed? the recognition of an opening
refuses to come, only a mild dab makes itself known

whether that’s enough to breathe through, the figure trembles, it seems
the dislocated contour has politely jogged the painter

into pressing a bit harder and turning the shade
inwards. meanwhile the material at the other end can hardly

be seen. that hangs all too loose on the hip. where
has the seam got to, the fine and slightly undecided stroke

which connects a possibility with another

. . . possibility in the skin. oh sweet honey

on the soft eyelid. the nape remains with the little
tender piece of a wave. and the pupils move on.

honigwarme pupillen . . .

honigwarme pupillen . . .

. . . und war nur dieses eine stückchen, etwas
wie haut
. das wird nun ganz genau betrachtet

und von einer feinen hand berührt. es liegt im schatten
wo sich diese wölbung zeigt, von haaren, kleinen wellen

oberhalb des nackens. bald schon lösen sich die rillen
ab. das weist voraus auf kahles, auf die schöne nackte

an der wand, die schielt so ruhig ins zimmer, dieser runde
ausgefranste mund und diese punkte auf den unterarmen.

hat hier der zeichner sich vertan? es will nicht recht gelingen
eine öffnung zu erkennen, nur ein milder klecks sticht vor

ob das zum atmen reicht, es zittert die figur, wie’s scheint
hat die verschobene kontur den maler höflich angeregt

ein wenig fester aufzudrücken und den schatten ein-
zudrehn. doch kaum zu sehen ist dafür der stoff

am andern ende, der allzu lose um die hüfte hängt. wo
ist denn hier die naht, der feine etwas unbestimmte strich

der eine möglichkeit mit einer andern möglichkeit
. . .
. . . mit einer falte in der haut verknüpft. ach süßer honig

auf dem weichen lid. es bleibt der nacken mit dem kleinen
zart gewellten stück. und die pupillen wandern weiter.
Close

honey-warm pupils . . .

. . . and was just this one little bit, something
like skin
. that is now being quite closely examined

and touched by a delicate hand. it is in the shadow
where this curve appears, of hairs, little waves

above the nape. soon the dips between them
fade. that points ahead to something bare, to the beautiful naked

woman on the wall, squinting so calmly into the room, this round
tattered mouth and these dots on the underside of the arms.

has the draughtsman’s hand failed? the recognition of an opening
refuses to come, only a mild dab makes itself known

whether that’s enough to breathe through, the figure trembles, it seems
the dislocated contour has politely jogged the painter

into pressing a bit harder and turning the shade
inwards. meanwhile the material at the other end can hardly

be seen. that hangs all too loose on the hip. where
has the seam got to, the fine and slightly undecided stroke

which connects a possibility with another

. . . possibility in the skin. oh sweet honey

on the soft eyelid. the nape remains with the little
tender piece of a wave. and the pupils move on.

honey-warm pupils . . .

. . . and was just this one little bit, something
like skin
. that is now being quite closely examined

and touched by a delicate hand. it is in the shadow
where this curve appears, of hairs, little waves

above the nape. soon the dips between them
fade. that points ahead to something bare, to the beautiful naked

woman on the wall, squinting so calmly into the room, this round
tattered mouth and these dots on the underside of the arms.

has the draughtsman’s hand failed? the recognition of an opening
refuses to come, only a mild dab makes itself known

whether that’s enough to breathe through, the figure trembles, it seems
the dislocated contour has politely jogged the painter

into pressing a bit harder and turning the shade
inwards. meanwhile the material at the other end can hardly

be seen. that hangs all too loose on the hip. where
has the seam got to, the fine and slightly undecided stroke

which connects a possibility with another

. . . possibility in the skin. oh sweet honey

on the soft eyelid. the nape remains with the little
tender piece of a wave. and the pupils move on.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère