Poem
Stefan Hertmans
THE CHOSEN ONE
When Flora danceshe sits in the front row.
He takes his glasses off
and shuts his eyes, delighting in
the way she glides.
How he can see her
no one has ever understood;
only an angel’s eyelids
are translucent.
She brushes past and flutters by,
strews light and shadows
around the sandy circle,
she shakes her lissom body and
like a snake with limbs
she writhes and coils, fragrant and
seemingly blind.
And all the time she sings,
high-pitched and rather wild.
Suddenly she stands before his throne;
she pants and shivers.
And he, his eyes still closed,
he lisps towards her breath
and the pulsing arteries in her throat,
applauding what he doesn’t see.
© Translation: 2017, Donald Gardner
DE UITVERKORENE
DE UITVERKORENE
Als Flora danstzit hij op de eerste rij.
Hij zet zijn bril af,
sluit zijn ogen en geniet
terwijl zij zweeft.
Hoe hij haar ziet,
heeft niemand ooit begrepen;
doorschijnend zijn alleen de
oogleden van een engel.
Ze schuiert en ze vlindert,
werpt schaduwen en licht
de zandkring rond,
ze schudt haar lijfje en ze
kronkelt als een slang
met ledematen, geurig
en als blind.
Ze zingt erbij,
hoog en een beetje wild.
Ze staat plots voor zijn troon;
ze hijgt uit en ze trilt.
En hij, de ogen nog steeds dicht,
hij lispelt in de richting van haar adem
en de kloppende aders in haar keel
en looft wat hij niet ziet.
From: Een beeld van jou
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Stefan Hertmans
Close
THE CHOSEN ONE
When Flora danceshe sits in the front row.
He takes his glasses off
and shuts his eyes, delighting in
the way she glides.
How he can see her
no one has ever understood;
only an angel’s eyelids
are translucent.
She brushes past and flutters by,
strews light and shadows
around the sandy circle,
she shakes her lissom body and
like a snake with limbs
she writhes and coils, fragrant and
seemingly blind.
And all the time she sings,
high-pitched and rather wild.
Suddenly she stands before his throne;
she pants and shivers.
And he, his eyes still closed,
he lisps towards her breath
and the pulsing arteries in her throat,
applauding what he doesn’t see.
© 2017, Donald Gardner
From: Een beeld van jou
From: Een beeld van jou
THE CHOSEN ONE
When Flora danceshe sits in the front row.
He takes his glasses off
and shuts his eyes, delighting in
the way she glides.
How he can see her
no one has ever understood;
only an angel’s eyelids
are translucent.
She brushes past and flutters by,
strews light and shadows
around the sandy circle,
she shakes her lissom body and
like a snake with limbs
she writhes and coils, fragrant and
seemingly blind.
And all the time she sings,
high-pitched and rather wild.
Suddenly she stands before his throne;
she pants and shivers.
And he, his eyes still closed,
he lisps towards her breath
and the pulsing arteries in her throat,
applauding what he doesn’t see.
© 2017, Donald Gardner
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