Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Lies Van Gasse

7 THE FIRST LETTER (EXCERPT)

At the end of my own vigil,
as I gaze out mistily from the rings around my eyes
through the glass curtains I see
our postman coming on his heavy bike.
 
He brings a letter. ‘To Kaspar,’ it says, ‘my son’,
in neat letters that seem bloodier than the doll
that once arrived here and lay selflessly shivering
in the metal bed
 
Dear Kaspar, sweet boy,
 
This morning the sun rose on a world in which I had a son.
            This evening, the stars stud a heavenly canopy under which
            a father sleeps.

My way of telling this is clumsy, but my hand
            draws the pen purposefully across the page.
            This letter will be the first of many.

The letters are only the sealed heralds that will precede me
            on my journey. For I am coming to you.

I write these words in a haze. I find them easier than the words
            I will speak once I have found you. And before that time comes
            I hope you will give me a sign.

I have spent the night in vigil, to make up for the nights I did not spend
            by your little bed. Ah, your little bed, [illegible] are no longer
            a child.

The letter goes in its envelope, my bags are packed. I leave with
            longing and uncertainty.

Ever nearer to you,
With love,
Your father


Still, the effect is less pleasant. Hauser
seethes and walks out of the room. I go after him
screaming. Bury his being

in my arms. Not my hands
but sealed heralds
clasp him in my warmth.

And so that wakeful night my Kasper flees
the spineless wimp who calls himself his father.
And I understand that he wants to choose
what lies in front of him.

We take to our heels, lift everything over the
fence, and the hospital disappears.
Goodbye, father, leave your words in your letters,
don’t come looking, come no closer.

Hauser wants no father.

7 DE EERSTE BRIEF (Fragment)

7 DE EERSTE BRIEF (Fragment)

Als ik aan het einde van mijn eigen wake
mottig uit de kringen om mijn ogen blik,
dan zie ik door de glasgordijnen
onze bode komen op zijn zware fiets.

Hij brengt een brief. ‘Aan Kaspar’ staat erop, ‘mijn zoon’,
in klare letters die doorbloeder lijken dan de pop
die hier ooit aankwam en die zelfloos lag te rillen
in het metalen bed.

Beste Kaspar, lieve jongen,

Vanochtend ging de zon op over een wereld waarin ik een zoon had.
                Vanavond doorprikken de sterren een hemelgewelf waaronder
                een vader slaapt.

De manier waarop ik dit vertel is niet de goede, maar krachtig trekt mijn
                hand de pen over dit blad. Deze brief zal de eerste zijn van vele.

De brieven zijn slechts de verzegelde herauten die mij op mijn reis zullen
                voorafgaan. Want ik kom naar je toe.

Deze woorden schrijf ik in een roes. Ze vallen me lichter dan de woorden
                die ik zal spreken wanneer ik je gevonden heb. En voor het zo ver
                is, hoop ik dat jij me een teken geeft.

Ik heb de nacht doorwaakt, als een wissel voor de nachten die ik niet aan
                de rand van je bedje doorbracht. Je bedje, ach, [onleesbaar] geen
                kind meer bent.

De brief gaat in zijn omslag, mijn koffers zijn gepakt. Ik vertrek met
                verlangen en onzekerheid.

Steeds nader tot jou,
Liefs,
je vader


Toch, de uitwerking is minder. Hauser
ziedt en loopt de kamer uit. Ik loop hem
gillend achterna. Begraaf zijn wezen

in mijn armen. Niet mijn handen
maar verzegelde herauten
doen hem in mijn warmte komen.

Zo vlucht mijn Kaspar die doorwaakte nacht
voor het slap sujet dat zich zijn vader noemt.
En ik begrijp dat hij wil kiezen
voor wat vóór hem ligt.

Wij pakken onze benen, tillen alles over de
omheining en het hospitaal verdwijnt.
Dag vader, laat uw letters in uw brieven,
Zoek niet, kom niet nader.

Hauser wil geen vader.
Close

7 THE FIRST LETTER (EXCERPT)

At the end of my own vigil,
as I gaze out mistily from the rings around my eyes
through the glass curtains I see
our postman coming on his heavy bike.
 
He brings a letter. ‘To Kaspar,’ it says, ‘my son’,
in neat letters that seem bloodier than the doll
that once arrived here and lay selflessly shivering
in the metal bed
 
Dear Kaspar, sweet boy,
 
This morning the sun rose on a world in which I had a son.
            This evening, the stars stud a heavenly canopy under which
            a father sleeps.

My way of telling this is clumsy, but my hand
            draws the pen purposefully across the page.
            This letter will be the first of many.

The letters are only the sealed heralds that will precede me
            on my journey. For I am coming to you.

I write these words in a haze. I find them easier than the words
            I will speak once I have found you. And before that time comes
            I hope you will give me a sign.

I have spent the night in vigil, to make up for the nights I did not spend
            by your little bed. Ah, your little bed, [illegible] are no longer
            a child.

The letter goes in its envelope, my bags are packed. I leave with
            longing and uncertainty.

Ever nearer to you,
With love,
Your father


Still, the effect is less pleasant. Hauser
seethes and walks out of the room. I go after him
screaming. Bury his being

in my arms. Not my hands
but sealed heralds
clasp him in my warmth.

And so that wakeful night my Kasper flees
the spineless wimp who calls himself his father.
And I understand that he wants to choose
what lies in front of him.

We take to our heels, lift everything over the
fence, and the hospital disappears.
Goodbye, father, leave your words in your letters,
don’t come looking, come no closer.

Hauser wants no father.

7 THE FIRST LETTER (EXCERPT)

At the end of my own vigil,
as I gaze out mistily from the rings around my eyes
through the glass curtains I see
our postman coming on his heavy bike.
 
He brings a letter. ‘To Kaspar,’ it says, ‘my son’,
in neat letters that seem bloodier than the doll
that once arrived here and lay selflessly shivering
in the metal bed
 
Dear Kaspar, sweet boy,
 
This morning the sun rose on a world in which I had a son.
            This evening, the stars stud a heavenly canopy under which
            a father sleeps.

My way of telling this is clumsy, but my hand
            draws the pen purposefully across the page.
            This letter will be the first of many.

The letters are only the sealed heralds that will precede me
            on my journey. For I am coming to you.

I write these words in a haze. I find them easier than the words
            I will speak once I have found you. And before that time comes
            I hope you will give me a sign.

I have spent the night in vigil, to make up for the nights I did not spend
            by your little bed. Ah, your little bed, [illegible] are no longer
            a child.

The letter goes in its envelope, my bags are packed. I leave with
            longing and uncertainty.

Ever nearer to you,
With love,
Your father


Still, the effect is less pleasant. Hauser
seethes and walks out of the room. I go after him
screaming. Bury his being

in my arms. Not my hands
but sealed heralds
clasp him in my warmth.

And so that wakeful night my Kasper flees
the spineless wimp who calls himself his father.
And I understand that he wants to choose
what lies in front of him.

We take to our heels, lift everything over the
fence, and the hospital disappears.
Goodbye, father, leave your words in your letters,
don’t come looking, come no closer.

Hauser wants no father.
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