Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jan Wagner

QUINCES

when october hung them among the leaves, those
bulging lanterns, then it was time: we picked ripe
quinces, lugged the baskets of yellow bounty
      into the kitchen,

soused the fruits in water. the pears and apples
grew towards their names, to a simple sweetness –
unlike quinces, clinging to branches in some
      shadowy border’s

alphabet, obscure in our garden’s latin,
tough and foreign in their aroma. we cut,
quartered, cored the flesh (we were four adult hands,
      two somewhat smaller),

veiled by clouds of steam from the blender, poured in
sugar, heat and effort to something that – raw –

made our palates baulk. but then who could, who would
      hope to explain them:

quinces, jellied, lined up in bellied jars on
shelves and set aside for the darkness, stored for
harsher days, a cellar of days, in which they
      shone, are still shining.

KWEEPEREN

als de maand oktober ze in de boom hing,
lampions met deuken, dan was het tijd: wij
plukten kweeën, sjouwden de manden vol met
      geel naar de keuken

onder water. appels en peren rijpten
naar hun naam toe, naar een eenvoudig zoetzijn –
anders dan de kweeperen in de verste
      hoek in de boomgaard

van mijn alfabet, in het tuinlatijn, zo
hard en vreemd van geur. en wij schilden, vieren-
deelden, sneden pitten eruit (vier grote
      handen, twee kleine),

wazig in de stoom van de fruitpers, suiker,
hitte, moeite voegden wij toe aan iets wat
rauw geen mond verdroeg. wie van ons kon ooit de
      kweeën begrijpen,

hun gelei, in buikige potten voor de
winterdagen in het gelid geplaatst op
planken in een kelder van dagen, waar ze
      glansden en glanzen.

QUITTEN

wenn sie der oktober ins astwerk hängte,
ausgebeulte lampions, war es zeit: wir
pflückten quitten, wuchteten körbeweise
      gelb in die küche

unters wasser. apfel und birne reiften
ihrem namen zu, einer schlichten süße –
anders als die quitte an ihrem baum im
      hintersten winkel

meines alphabets, im latein des gartens,
hart und fremd in ihrem arom. wir schnitten,
viertelten, entkernten das fleisch (vier große
      hände, zwei kleine),

schemenhaft im dampf des entsafters, gaben
zucker, hitze, mühe zu etwas, das sich
roh dem mund versagte. wer konnte, wollte
      quitten begreifen,

ihr gelee, in bauchigen gläsern für die
dunklen tage in den regalen aufge-
reiht, in einem keller von tagen, wo sie
      leuchteten, leuchten.
Close

QUINCES

when october hung them among the leaves, those
bulging lanterns, then it was time: we picked ripe
quinces, lugged the baskets of yellow bounty
      into the kitchen,

soused the fruits in water. the pears and apples
grew towards their names, to a simple sweetness –
unlike quinces, clinging to branches in some
      shadowy border’s

alphabet, obscure in our garden’s latin,
tough and foreign in their aroma. we cut,
quartered, cored the flesh (we were four adult hands,
      two somewhat smaller),

veiled by clouds of steam from the blender, poured in
sugar, heat and effort to something that – raw –

made our palates baulk. but then who could, who would
      hope to explain them:

quinces, jellied, lined up in bellied jars on
shelves and set aside for the darkness, stored for
harsher days, a cellar of days, in which they
      shone, are still shining.

QUINCES

when october hung them among the leaves, those
bulging lanterns, then it was time: we picked ripe
quinces, lugged the baskets of yellow bounty
      into the kitchen,

soused the fruits in water. the pears and apples
grew towards their names, to a simple sweetness –
unlike quinces, clinging to branches in some
      shadowy border’s

alphabet, obscure in our garden’s latin,
tough and foreign in their aroma. we cut,
quartered, cored the flesh (we were four adult hands,
      two somewhat smaller),

veiled by clouds of steam from the blender, poured in
sugar, heat and effort to something that – raw –

made our palates baulk. but then who could, who would
      hope to explain them:

quinces, jellied, lined up in bellied jars on
shelves and set aside for the darkness, stored for
harsher days, a cellar of days, in which they
      shone, are still shining.
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