Poem
Maria Barnas
ISTANBUL
The streaming men the meandering womenand the splashing children are lost as in a dream.
The pouring rain has no grip on the wading bodies
in the waning imaginary sun. I follow the water
that gushes through the streets to a flickering hotel
where my open suitcase floats in a river room.
While someone produces a variation on a melody
in the mouth of someone who doesn’t know when to stop
betrayal raves away from me like a ship
of lives that I loved catching the wind in its sails
The windows rise. Someone thumps on the wall of the room
in which I gather up my life. Could it be a bit more quiet.
© Translation: 2013, Diane Butterman
Istanbul
Istanbul
De stromende mannen de meanderende vrouwenen de opspattende kinderen zijn als in een droom verzonken.
De plenzende regen heeft geen vat op de lichamen
die zich al wadend wanen in de zon. Ik volg het water
dat door de straten gutst tot aan een flakkerend hotel
waar mijn koffer open in een rivierkamer drijft.
Terwijl iemand een variatie vormt op een melodie
in de mond van iemand die van geen ophouden weet
ijlt het verraad van levens die ik liefhad als een schip
waarvan het zeil de wind vangt bij me vandaan.
De vensters rijzen. Iemand bonst op de wand van de kamer
waarin ik heel mijn leven bundel. Of het niet wat stiller kan.
© 2013, Maria Barnas
From: Jaja de oerknal
Publisher: De Arbeiderspers, Amsterdam
From: Jaja de oerknal
Publisher: De Arbeiderspers, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Maria Barnas
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ISTANBUL
The streaming men the meandering womenand the splashing children are lost as in a dream.
The pouring rain has no grip on the wading bodies
in the waning imaginary sun. I follow the water
that gushes through the streets to a flickering hotel
where my open suitcase floats in a river room.
While someone produces a variation on a melody
in the mouth of someone who doesn’t know when to stop
betrayal raves away from me like a ship
of lives that I loved catching the wind in its sails
The windows rise. Someone thumps on the wall of the room
in which I gather up my life. Could it be a bit more quiet.
© 2013, Diane Butterman
From: Jaja de oerknal
From: Jaja de oerknal
ISTANBUL
The streaming men the meandering womenand the splashing children are lost as in a dream.
The pouring rain has no grip on the wading bodies
in the waning imaginary sun. I follow the water
that gushes through the streets to a flickering hotel
where my open suitcase floats in a river room.
While someone produces a variation on a melody
in the mouth of someone who doesn’t know when to stop
betrayal raves away from me like a ship
of lives that I loved catching the wind in its sails
The windows rise. Someone thumps on the wall of the room
in which I gather up my life. Could it be a bit more quiet.
© 2013, Diane Butterman
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