Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Stefan Hertmans

THE GLASSES

Picking red currants
On an empty day,
Black clouds, a windy afternoon,
Her fingers gleaming from the juice,
 
She thinks of scars and sugar,
Bitter stalks and nectar.
 
Then she obediently fills
The hot rinsed glasses,
Jar after shining fluted jar.
 
She sets her sobs in bowls
Carefully stacked to the brim
For long warm winters stored
on ancient racks of patience.

De glazen

De glazen

Het rissen van de rode bessen
Op een lege dag,
Met wind en zwarte wolken,
Haar vingers blinkend van het sap,

Denkt ze aan littekens en suiker,
Bittere stengels, godendrank.

Gehoorzaam vult ze dan
De heet gespoelde glazen,
Glas na doorschijnend rillenglas.

Ze zet het snikken in bokalen
Zorgvuldig afgevuld
Voor lange warme winters
Op oude rekken van geduld.
Close

THE GLASSES

Picking red currants
On an empty day,
Black clouds, a windy afternoon,
Her fingers gleaming from the juice,
 
She thinks of scars and sugar,
Bitter stalks and nectar.
 
Then she obediently fills
The hot rinsed glasses,
Jar after shining fluted jar.
 
She sets her sobs in bowls
Carefully stacked to the brim
For long warm winters stored
on ancient racks of patience.

THE GLASSES

Picking red currants
On an empty day,
Black clouds, a windy afternoon,
Her fingers gleaming from the juice,
 
She thinks of scars and sugar,
Bitter stalks and nectar.
 
Then she obediently fills
The hot rinsed glasses,
Jar after shining fluted jar.
 
She sets her sobs in bowls
Carefully stacked to the brim
For long warm winters stored
on ancient racks of patience.
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