Poem
Harry Man
Ultrasound
ULTRASOUND
De witte ader van je ruggengraatfladdert onder een vlindergeest;
vleugels uitbottend in vlucht,
tweemaal per tel, hartenklop na hartenklop.
De istmus van je voeten trapt in het nat –
de wrijving van de sensor geeft kriebels.
Met de punt van zijn pen omcirkelt
de arts je vergrote in licht geschoeide hand
en die glimp, die herinnering aan lucht
in de bomen, is de adem van je moeder.
Nachtblind zul je terug naar
zijn hymne glijden via de klikken
van je verhardend hoofd.
Dit lied, stil als een lichtknop,
is hoe je ademtocht zal zijn.
De warmte van mijn hand op je buik,
jouw en mijn polsslag synchroon –
je grootste kracht is geliefd te zijn.
Ultrasound
The white artery of your spinehovers beneath a butterfly’s ghost;
wings budding into flight
twice a second, heartbeat by heartbeat.
The isthmus of your foot kicks in the fluid –
the pressure of the sensor is ticklish.
With the end of his biro the doctor
circles your magnified hand gloved in light
and this shimmer, this afterthought of air
in the trees, is the breath of your mother.
Night-blind you will fumble back
to its anthem through the clicks
of your hardening head.
This song, secret as a light switch,
is how your breathing will be.
The warmth of my wrist on your belly;
your pulse and mine in time –
the first of your strengths is to be loved.
Harry Man
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1982)
Harry Man stands out as a new and exciting voice in the UK, exploring the borders of paper and stage, science and art in an intriguing way. He started his career as a spoken word performer, something that still influences his work. In 2013 he debuted with the pamphlet Lift, a dynamic mix of science fiction, science and nostalgia in sparkling language packed with humour. For Lift, Man received t...
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Ultrasound
The white artery of your spinehovers beneath a butterfly’s ghost;
wings budding into flight
twice a second, heartbeat by heartbeat.
The isthmus of your foot kicks in the fluid –
the pressure of the sensor is ticklish.
With the end of his biro the doctor
circles your magnified hand gloved in light
and this shimmer, this afterthought of air
in the trees, is the breath of your mother.
Night-blind you will fumble back
to its anthem through the clicks
of your hardening head.
This song, secret as a light switch,
is how your breathing will be.
The warmth of my wrist on your belly;
your pulse and mine in time –
the first of your strengths is to be loved.
Ultrasound
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