Poem
Delphine Lecompte
TO BITE IN FRENCH
I once went to language campI heard the verb bite in French
And I thought it meant to die
I was allowed to stick my hand in the mouth of a calf
And already sensed that sex would not be as intimate; nor as comfy.
I fell in love with someone of my own sex
They let her go home early because her father was an arctic explorer
A short-haired monitrice said, ‘Tu as une voix forte!’
She hated me, the feeling was a little bit mutual
Every day, I thought of the church in my native village.
I was caught attempting to steal some shampoo
From the blondest and most unblushing camp member
I got a postcard from my mother
It showed a Degas horse race
She wrote: ‘Paris is beautiful. Wilfried bought an African mask for me.’
I once went to language camp
I learned that biting and dying were different words
After the thwarted shampoo theft, I was despised
Every morning, I spoke with God
I thought he was just as talented as Degas, and even more beautiful than horses’ legs.
Language camp was not that much fun
The calf and the postcard were its highlights
Back home, I was asked to give my opinion on the African mask; I didn’t have one.
Bijten in het Frans
Bijten in het Frans
Ik was eens op taalkampIk hoorde het werkwoord bijten in het Frans
En ik dacht dat het sterven betekende
Ik mocht mijn hand in de muil van een kalf steken
En ik voorvoelde dat seks minder intiem zou zijn; minder gezellig ook.
Ik werd verliefd op iemand van hetzelfde geslacht
Ze mocht vroeger naar huis omdat haar vader een poolreiziger was
Een kortharige monitrice zei: ‘Tu as une voix forte!’
Ze haatte mij, het was een klein beetje wederzijds
Elke dag dacht ik aan de kerk van mijn geboortedorp.
Ik werd betrapt toen ik shampoo trachtte te stelen
Van het minst blozende en meest blonde kamplid
Ik kreeg een postkaart van mijn moeder
Het was een paardenrace van Degas
Ze schreef: ‘Parijs is mooi. Wilfried heeft een Afrikaans masker voor mij gekocht.’
Ik was eens op taalkamp
Ik leerde dat bijten en sterven niet dezelfde woorden waren
Na de verijdelde shampoodiefstal werd ik geminacht
Elke ochtend sprak ik met God
Ik vond hem even getalenteerd als Degas, en mooier nog dan paardenbenen.
Zo prettig was het taalkamp niet
Het kalf en de postkaart waren de hoogtepunten
Terug thuis mocht ik mijn mening geven over het Afrikaanse masker; ik had er geen.
From: Dichter, bokser, koningsdochter
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam | Antwerpen
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam | Antwerpen
Poems
Poems of Delphine Lecompte
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TO BITE IN FRENCH
I once went to language campI heard the verb bite in French
And I thought it meant to die
I was allowed to stick my hand in the mouth of a calf
And already sensed that sex would not be as intimate; nor as comfy.
I fell in love with someone of my own sex
They let her go home early because her father was an arctic explorer
A short-haired monitrice said, ‘Tu as une voix forte!’
She hated me, the feeling was a little bit mutual
Every day, I thought of the church in my native village.
I was caught attempting to steal some shampoo
From the blondest and most unblushing camp member
I got a postcard from my mother
It showed a Degas horse race
She wrote: ‘Paris is beautiful. Wilfried bought an African mask for me.’
I once went to language camp
I learned that biting and dying were different words
After the thwarted shampoo theft, I was despised
Every morning, I spoke with God
I thought he was just as talented as Degas, and even more beautiful than horses’ legs.
Language camp was not that much fun
The calf and the postcard were its highlights
Back home, I was asked to give my opinion on the African mask; I didn’t have one.
From: Dichter, bokser, koningsdochter
TO BITE IN FRENCH
I once went to language campI heard the verb bite in French
And I thought it meant to die
I was allowed to stick my hand in the mouth of a calf
And already sensed that sex would not be as intimate; nor as comfy.
I fell in love with someone of my own sex
They let her go home early because her father was an arctic explorer
A short-haired monitrice said, ‘Tu as une voix forte!’
She hated me, the feeling was a little bit mutual
Every day, I thought of the church in my native village.
I was caught attempting to steal some shampoo
From the blondest and most unblushing camp member
I got a postcard from my mother
It showed a Degas horse race
She wrote: ‘Paris is beautiful. Wilfried bought an African mask for me.’
I once went to language camp
I learned that biting and dying were different words
After the thwarted shampoo theft, I was despised
Every morning, I spoke with God
I thought he was just as talented as Degas, and even more beautiful than horses’ legs.
Language camp was not that much fun
The calf and the postcard were its highlights
Back home, I was asked to give my opinion on the African mask; I didn’t have one.
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