Poem
Anneke Brassinga
II
Keep those filthy fingers off – what it is,To Be, must stay unfathomed, despite its
overwhelming presence all around, just as now,
for instance, a bomb of light descends so smoothly
in the trees and what was flowing compacts itself
into granite with gladiolus sheen. On a grand one would
wish to hammer it out, the more out of tune the better,
send sheets of adamantine notes fluttering, glinting
like nails being struck – but only
the constellations arrive around the hold where you,
softest converse of their brazen dazzle,
neither breathe nor sleep but simply
wither: forever containing the farthest reaches,
your small body in the earth among the trees,
now that night is here and we still fail
to grasp our empty hands’ so leaden weight.
II
II
Afblijven met die vuile vingers – wat het is,bestaan, hoort ondoorgrond te zijn, hoezeer ook
alom overweldigend present bijvoorbeeld zoals
nu in het geboomte daalt gesmeerd een bom
van licht, en het omvloeide dicht zich timmert tot
graniet en zwaardlelieweerschijn. Op een vleugel
wou men raggen, hoe valser hoe beter, vellen
laten wapperen vol keihard schrift, blinkende
spijkers geslagen klinkend – maar alleen
de constellaties komen, rond het ruim waar jij,
zachtste tegendeel van hun onvervroren
schittering, ademt noch slaapt, eenvoudig
vergaat: verst reikende inhoud blijvend
je kleine vorm in de aarde tussen bomen,
nu het nacht is en wij nog altijd niet
begrijpen hoe onze lege handen zo zwaar.
© 2005, Anneke Brassinga
From: Wachtwoorden
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
From: Wachtwoorden
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Anneke Brassinga
Close
II
Keep those filthy fingers off – what it is,To Be, must stay unfathomed, despite its
overwhelming presence all around, just as now,
for instance, a bomb of light descends so smoothly
in the trees and what was flowing compacts itself
into granite with gladiolus sheen. On a grand one would
wish to hammer it out, the more out of tune the better,
send sheets of adamantine notes fluttering, glinting
like nails being struck – but only
the constellations arrive around the hold where you,
softest converse of their brazen dazzle,
neither breathe nor sleep but simply
wither: forever containing the farthest reaches,
your small body in the earth among the trees,
now that night is here and we still fail
to grasp our empty hands’ so leaden weight.
From: Wachtwoorden
II
Keep those filthy fingers off – what it is,To Be, must stay unfathomed, despite its
overwhelming presence all around, just as now,
for instance, a bomb of light descends so smoothly
in the trees and what was flowing compacts itself
into granite with gladiolus sheen. On a grand one would
wish to hammer it out, the more out of tune the better,
send sheets of adamantine notes fluttering, glinting
like nails being struck – but only
the constellations arrive around the hold where you,
softest converse of their brazen dazzle,
neither breathe nor sleep but simply
wither: forever containing the farthest reaches,
your small body in the earth among the trees,
now that night is here and we still fail
to grasp our empty hands’ so leaden weight.
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