Poem
Micha Hamel
THANKS FOR COMING
‘Everybody knows that ugly people have feelingstoo the same way that every gorgeous woman
has a person inside as well,’ I say at a birthday
to see if someone can be lured from the jungle
of their thoughts to have a nice bout of
eccentric speculation on this kind
of pattern in our persistently fatuous universe.
No word of a lie when I say that six seconds
pass before someone replies: she breathes
in 7, 8 and would I perhaps whisk up some hot milk.
‘Next to my full-time job as middle-class man I have
a life as a person these days,’ I then add
in a jocular tone to a receding hairline who
I vaguely recognise from hurried minutes
picking up and taking back my sons. He says:
‘I don’t know you but you probably know me
as I work in television.’ I say: ‘I would never want
to be rich and famous but would like to be just
rich. Did you know that on the sea floor
there’s a cable that connects the continents?’
Then a chatterbox thwarts our conversation:
‘Arnold? Arnold Kecks? The newsreader? What a great –‘
I quickly wade through the swarming infants
to the cake-laden table and come up alongside
a mother luxuriously dolled up who asks how
I manage to cope as an artist while the gift act
hasn’t yet been closed off properly in taxation.
No more than nine minutes later my plea for
school uniforms falters as one of those lice mums
interrupts: ‘Ever since I started washing the gym kit
by hand the colours have stopped draining.’
I take a breath and say: ‘Mind you don’t take the pants
off hairy-backed gentlemen who willingly stay put in
marriages of convenience. Paint your bedroom a subdued colour
scheme, let the headboard face the window and open the front door,
then all will be fine. Normally speaking we stub out our Havana’s
in the strawberries and cream, ride up against the waitresses
and puke bawling with ambivalence into the champagne coolers
to celebrate our idleness. Outside the parade of limousines
stands waiting for the arrival of the all-shattering wrath of
the Lord but until that day the chauffeurs wear their toecaps
away by digging them into the gravel of the drive. And
could you tell that cauliflower in my head that we both
need to be picked up as soon as possible?’
© Translation: 2013, Willem Groenewegen
LEUK DAT JULLIE ER ZIJN
LEUK DAT JULLIE ER ZIJN
‘Iedereen weet dat lelijke mensen ook gevoelenshebben zoals er ook in de allerknapste vrouwen
mensen zitten,’ zeg ik op een verjaardag
om te kijken of ik iemand uit de rimboe
zijner gedachten kan lokken om een robbertje
uitmiddelpuntig te speculeren over dit type
wetmatigheden in ons persistent onbenullige universum.
Ik lieg niet als ik zeg dat er een zestal seconden
voorbijgaat voordat er iemand reageert: ze ademt
in 7, 8 en of ik even warme melk kan gaan kloppen.
‘Naast mijn voltijdsbaan als burgerman heb ik
tegenwoordig een leven als mens,’ probeer ik dan
op joviale toon tegen een wijkende haarlijn die
ik vagelijk herken van de haastige minuten
tijdens het zonen halen en brengen. Hij zegt:
‘Ik ken u niet maar u mij denk ik wel want ik
werk bij de televisie.’ Ik zeg: ‘Ik zou nooit rijk
en beroemd willen zijn maar wel alleen maar
rijk. Weet je dat er op de zeebodem een kabel
ligt die de continenten met elkaar verbindt?’
Dan doorkruist een snater ons gesprek: ‘Arend?
Arend Kaaks? Van het journaal? Wat ontzettend –’
Vlug waad ik door het gekrioel van kleuters
naar de tafel met taarten en kom langszij bij
een weelderig opgedofde moeder die vraagt hoe
ik het bolwerk als kunstenaar terwijl de geefwet
in belastingtechnisch opzicht nog niet behoorlijk
is afgedicht. Nog geen negen minuten later stokt
mijn pleidooi voor schooluniformen als een
luizenmoeder interrumpeert: ‘Sinds ik de gymspullen
op de hand was blijven alle kleuren goed.’
Ik haal adem en zeg: ‘Trek vooral geen broeken uit van
rugbehaarde heren die gewillig in verstandshuwelijken
blijven zitten. Schilder uw slaapkamer in geborgen kleurstelling,
keer het hoofdeinde richting raam en zet de voordeur open, dan
komt het goed. Normaliter drukken wij hier onze Havana’s uit
in de aardbeien met slagroom, rijen tegen de serveersters op
en kotsen brullend van ambivalentie in de champagnekoelers
om onze lediggang te vieren. Buiten staat de stoet limousines
te wachten op de komst van de allesverpletterende gram
des Heren maar tot die tijd draaien de chauffeurs hun
schoenpunten kaal in het grind van onze oprit. En
kun je tegen die bloemkool in mijn kop zeggen dat wij
allebei zo snel mogelijk opgehaald moeten worden?’
© 2013, Micha Hamel
From: Bewegend doel
Publisher: Augustus, Amsterdam
From: Bewegend doel
Publisher: Augustus, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Micha Hamel
Close
THANKS FOR COMING
‘Everybody knows that ugly people have feelingstoo the same way that every gorgeous woman
has a person inside as well,’ I say at a birthday
to see if someone can be lured from the jungle
of their thoughts to have a nice bout of
eccentric speculation on this kind
of pattern in our persistently fatuous universe.
No word of a lie when I say that six seconds
pass before someone replies: she breathes
in 7, 8 and would I perhaps whisk up some hot milk.
‘Next to my full-time job as middle-class man I have
a life as a person these days,’ I then add
in a jocular tone to a receding hairline who
I vaguely recognise from hurried minutes
picking up and taking back my sons. He says:
‘I don’t know you but you probably know me
as I work in television.’ I say: ‘I would never want
to be rich and famous but would like to be just
rich. Did you know that on the sea floor
there’s a cable that connects the continents?’
Then a chatterbox thwarts our conversation:
‘Arnold? Arnold Kecks? The newsreader? What a great –‘
I quickly wade through the swarming infants
to the cake-laden table and come up alongside
a mother luxuriously dolled up who asks how
I manage to cope as an artist while the gift act
hasn’t yet been closed off properly in taxation.
No more than nine minutes later my plea for
school uniforms falters as one of those lice mums
interrupts: ‘Ever since I started washing the gym kit
by hand the colours have stopped draining.’
I take a breath and say: ‘Mind you don’t take the pants
off hairy-backed gentlemen who willingly stay put in
marriages of convenience. Paint your bedroom a subdued colour
scheme, let the headboard face the window and open the front door,
then all will be fine. Normally speaking we stub out our Havana’s
in the strawberries and cream, ride up against the waitresses
and puke bawling with ambivalence into the champagne coolers
to celebrate our idleness. Outside the parade of limousines
stands waiting for the arrival of the all-shattering wrath of
the Lord but until that day the chauffeurs wear their toecaps
away by digging them into the gravel of the drive. And
could you tell that cauliflower in my head that we both
need to be picked up as soon as possible?’
© 2013, Willem Groenewegen
From: Bewegend doel
From: Bewegend doel
THANKS FOR COMING
‘Everybody knows that ugly people have feelingstoo the same way that every gorgeous woman
has a person inside as well,’ I say at a birthday
to see if someone can be lured from the jungle
of their thoughts to have a nice bout of
eccentric speculation on this kind
of pattern in our persistently fatuous universe.
No word of a lie when I say that six seconds
pass before someone replies: she breathes
in 7, 8 and would I perhaps whisk up some hot milk.
‘Next to my full-time job as middle-class man I have
a life as a person these days,’ I then add
in a jocular tone to a receding hairline who
I vaguely recognise from hurried minutes
picking up and taking back my sons. He says:
‘I don’t know you but you probably know me
as I work in television.’ I say: ‘I would never want
to be rich and famous but would like to be just
rich. Did you know that on the sea floor
there’s a cable that connects the continents?’
Then a chatterbox thwarts our conversation:
‘Arnold? Arnold Kecks? The newsreader? What a great –‘
I quickly wade through the swarming infants
to the cake-laden table and come up alongside
a mother luxuriously dolled up who asks how
I manage to cope as an artist while the gift act
hasn’t yet been closed off properly in taxation.
No more than nine minutes later my plea for
school uniforms falters as one of those lice mums
interrupts: ‘Ever since I started washing the gym kit
by hand the colours have stopped draining.’
I take a breath and say: ‘Mind you don’t take the pants
off hairy-backed gentlemen who willingly stay put in
marriages of convenience. Paint your bedroom a subdued colour
scheme, let the headboard face the window and open the front door,
then all will be fine. Normally speaking we stub out our Havana’s
in the strawberries and cream, ride up against the waitresses
and puke bawling with ambivalence into the champagne coolers
to celebrate our idleness. Outside the parade of limousines
stands waiting for the arrival of the all-shattering wrath of
the Lord but until that day the chauffeurs wear their toecaps
away by digging them into the gravel of the drive. And
could you tell that cauliflower in my head that we both
need to be picked up as soon as possible?’
© 2013, Willem Groenewegen
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