Poem
Jan Wagner
QUINCES
when october hung them among the leaves, thosebulging 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.
From: Self-portrait with a swarm of bees
Publisher: Arc Publications, Todmorden, 2015
Publisher: Arc Publications, Todmorden, 2015
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.
© Vertaling: 2017, Ria van Hengel
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.
From: Selbstporträt mit Bienenschwarm. Ausgewählte Gedichte 2001-2015
Publisher: Hanser Berlin Verlag, Berlin
Publisher: Hanser Berlin Verlag, Berlin
Poems
Poems of Jan Wagner
Close
QUINCES
when october hung them among the leaves, thosebulging 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.
From: Self-portrait with a swarm of bees
Publisher: 2015, Arc Publications, Todmorden
Publisher: 2015, Arc Publications, Todmorden
QUINCES
when october hung them among the leaves, thosebulging 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.
From: Self-portrait with a swarm of bees
Publisher: 2015, Arc Publications, Todmorden
Publisher: 2015, Arc Publications, Todmorden
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère