Poem
Charlotte Van den Broeck
Bucharest
Some places are so smallthey’d fit on the tip of a finger.
I try to point at where everything was
but I can barely remember.
Among the rubble of forgetting stands
my grandfather’s bookcase and that Sunday afternoon
when we read the atlas together, his finger
resting on the capital of Romania.
‘A smashing bunch of slags’ they had, he said
and I thought a slag was some sort of Eiffel Tower
and resented him for never
bringing me back a miniature version.
Later I learned that borders and grandfathers are relative.
Only that afternoon is marked in the atlas
by raised alphabet letters, as the afternoon
when I still saw in him the most perfect guide.
© Translation: 2016, Astrid Alben
Boekarest
Boekarest
Sommige plaatsen zijn zo kleindat ze in een vingertop passen.
Ik probeer te wijzen waar alles is geweest
maar ik weet het zelf nog amper.
Tussen het puin van het vergeten staat de boekenkast
van mijn grootvader en de zondagmiddag
waarop we samen de atlas lazen, zijn vinger
op de hoofdstad van Roemenië.
Dat men daar ‘een schitterende verzameling hoertjes’ had
en dat ik dacht, dat een hoer zoiets als de Eiffeltoren was
en hem verweet dat hij daarvan nooit
een miniatuurversie voor mij meebracht.
Later bleken landsgrenzen en grootvaders relatief
enkel die middag staat in reliëfalfabet
in de pagina’s van de atlas, als de middag
waarop ik in hem nog een uitstekende gids zag.
© 2015, Charlotte van den Broeck
From: Kameleon
Publisher: De Arbeiderspers, Amsterdam/Antwerpen
From: Kameleon
Publisher: De Arbeiderspers, Amsterdam/Antwerpen
Poems
Poems of Charlotte Van den Broeck
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Bucharest
Some places are so smallthey’d fit on the tip of a finger.
I try to point at where everything was
but I can barely remember.
Among the rubble of forgetting stands
my grandfather’s bookcase and that Sunday afternoon
when we read the atlas together, his finger
resting on the capital of Romania.
‘A smashing bunch of slags’ they had, he said
and I thought a slag was some sort of Eiffel Tower
and resented him for never
bringing me back a miniature version.
Later I learned that borders and grandfathers are relative.
Only that afternoon is marked in the atlas
by raised alphabet letters, as the afternoon
when I still saw in him the most perfect guide.
© 2016, Astrid Alben
From: Kameleon
From: Kameleon
Bucharest
Some places are so smallthey’d fit on the tip of a finger.
I try to point at where everything was
but I can barely remember.
Among the rubble of forgetting stands
my grandfather’s bookcase and that Sunday afternoon
when we read the atlas together, his finger
resting on the capital of Romania.
‘A smashing bunch of slags’ they had, he said
and I thought a slag was some sort of Eiffel Tower
and resented him for never
bringing me back a miniature version.
Later I learned that borders and grandfathers are relative.
Only that afternoon is marked in the atlas
by raised alphabet letters, as the afternoon
when I still saw in him the most perfect guide.
© 2016, Astrid Alben
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