Poem
Peter Verhelst
3.
Man on a mountain, his eyes closed, the man sits smilingon the edge of the mountain pointing at the landscape, without
looking at us over his shoulder he points over the edge,
he speaks without moving his lips, his hair white,
his forehead white, he says: ‘Do you see the lake?’
How is it possible that between the root hairs and grasses
we didn’t see it surge, how the small animals already fled up the mountain,
how the first tree crowns melted like glasses in the molten glass
of the evening sky, how birds first formed a cloud
above the blue shadows of the trees and then one by one
fell into the water – as if the lake had been made for that.
We sit on the edge of the mountain, eyes closed
we sit with rolled-up trouser legs, yet without the man
we see, lifting our feet from the water, raindrops
fall up from the water, as if flapping their wings all those birds
are pecking at the underside of the water, we see, even though
our eyes are popping out of our heads, we see dozens, hundreds of fingertips
of the man write something on the paper-thin, silver underside of the water,
something that for a lifetime now we hadn’t remembered.
3.
3.
Man op een berg, zijn ogen dicht, lachend zit de manop de rand van de berg naar het landschap te wijzen, zonder ons
over zijn schouder aan te kijken wijst hij over de rand,
spreekt hij zonder zijn lippen te bewegen, zijn haren wit,
zijn voorhoofd wit, zegt hij: ‘Zie je het meer?’
Hoe is het mogelijk dat we het niet tussen wortelharen en grassen
hebben zien opwellen, hoe de kleine dieren de berg al op vluchtten,
hoe de eerste boomkruinen als glazen in het vloeibare glas
van de avondlucht smolten, hoe vogels eerst een wolk vormden
boven de blauwe schaduwen van de bomen en dan een voor een
in het water vielen – alsof het meer daarvoor was gemaakt.
We zitten op de rand van de berg, met de ogen dicht
zitten we met opgerolde broekspijpen, maar zonder de man
zien we, de voeten optrekkend uit het water, regendruppels
uit het water omhoogvallen, alsof al die vogels klapwiekend
tegen de onderkant van het water pikken, zien we, al hebben we
ogen te kort, zien we tientallen, honderden vingertoppen van de man
iets op de vliesdunne, zilveren onderkant van het water schrijven,
iets wat we al een leven lang niet meer wisten.
From: Wij totale vlam
Publisher: Prometheus, Amsterdam
Publisher: Prometheus, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Peter Verhelst
Close
3.
Man on a mountain, his eyes closed, the man sits smilingon the edge of the mountain pointing at the landscape, without
looking at us over his shoulder he points over the edge,
he speaks without moving his lips, his hair white,
his forehead white, he says: ‘Do you see the lake?’
How is it possible that between the root hairs and grasses
we didn’t see it surge, how the small animals already fled up the mountain,
how the first tree crowns melted like glasses in the molten glass
of the evening sky, how birds first formed a cloud
above the blue shadows of the trees and then one by one
fell into the water – as if the lake had been made for that.
We sit on the edge of the mountain, eyes closed
we sit with rolled-up trouser legs, yet without the man
we see, lifting our feet from the water, raindrops
fall up from the water, as if flapping their wings all those birds
are pecking at the underside of the water, we see, even though
our eyes are popping out of our heads, we see dozens, hundreds of fingertips
of the man write something on the paper-thin, silver underside of the water,
something that for a lifetime now we hadn’t remembered.
From: Wij totale vlam
3.
Man on a mountain, his eyes closed, the man sits smilingon the edge of the mountain pointing at the landscape, without
looking at us over his shoulder he points over the edge,
he speaks without moving his lips, his hair white,
his forehead white, he says: ‘Do you see the lake?’
How is it possible that between the root hairs and grasses
we didn’t see it surge, how the small animals already fled up the mountain,
how the first tree crowns melted like glasses in the molten glass
of the evening sky, how birds first formed a cloud
above the blue shadows of the trees and then one by one
fell into the water – as if the lake had been made for that.
We sit on the edge of the mountain, eyes closed
we sit with rolled-up trouser legs, yet without the man
we see, lifting our feet from the water, raindrops
fall up from the water, as if flapping their wings all those birds
are pecking at the underside of the water, we see, even though
our eyes are popping out of our heads, we see dozens, hundreds of fingertips
of the man write something on the paper-thin, silver underside of the water,
something that for a lifetime now we hadn’t remembered.
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