Poem
Mieke van Zonneveld
ACUTE PROMYELOCYTIC LEUKEMIA
Never yet so firmly rooted in the ground as when I threatenedto come loose, my dreams reduced to a desire for
remission. Clinging to prognoses, I sank into black holes,
expecting heavenly choirs. I rehearsed a resurrection
and learnt to nip doubt in the bud.
A series of coincidences saved my life. What if
I’d gone to sleep that evening, what if that night
I’d put my head down much too hard, what if ATRA-pills
had not yet been discovered? I thought:
hell is as brightly orange as the liquid in this bag, it burns
unrestrained in my veins. But tears must be forced back
as there are people coming to admire
an undaunted girl. “How are you?” “I’m well.
I haven’t bled to death yet.” I thought
this frightened falling shouldn’t be experienced alone, a single
finger-snap and I am gone, the time determined by coincidence.
This senseless tumbling shouldn’t be experienced.
Even if it’s just a parabola, even if I never drop too far,
the hole is black and I’m so frightened, so miserably ill.
© Translation: 2018, Willem Groenewegen
Acute promyelocytenleukemie
Acute promyelocytenleukemie
Nog nooit zo stug geworteld in de grond als toen ik dreigdelos te schieten, mijn dromen teruggebracht tot een verlangen naar
remissie. Hangend aan prognoses zonk ik weg in zwarte
gaten en verwachtte hemelkoren. Ik repeteerde een herrijzenis
en leerde twijfel in de kiem te smoren.
Ik dank mijn leven aan een reeks toevalligheden. Wat als
ik die avond was gaan slapen, wat als ik mijn hoofd die nacht
te hard had neergelegd, wat als Q`^Q-pillen nog niet waren
ontdekt? Ik dacht:
de hel is feloranje als de vloeistof in dit zakje, het brandt
onbedaarlijk in mijn aderen. Maar tranen moeten teruggedrongen
want er komen mensen om een onverschrokken meisje
te bewonderen. ‘Hoe gaat het?’ ‘Het gaat goed.
Ik ben nog steeds niet doodgebloed.’ Ik dacht:
dit bange vallen wordt maar beter niet alleen beleefd, één
vingerknip en weg ben ik, zo lang als toeval het beschikt.
Dit zinneloze tuimelen wordt beter niet beleefd.
Al is het maar een parabool, al daal ik nooit te diep,
het gat is zwart en ik zo bang, zo godvergeten ziek.
© 2017, Mieke van Zonneveld
From: Leger
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
From: Leger
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Mieke van Zonneveld
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ACUTE PROMYELOCYTIC LEUKEMIA
Never yet so firmly rooted in the ground as when I threatenedto come loose, my dreams reduced to a desire for
remission. Clinging to prognoses, I sank into black holes,
expecting heavenly choirs. I rehearsed a resurrection
and learnt to nip doubt in the bud.
A series of coincidences saved my life. What if
I’d gone to sleep that evening, what if that night
I’d put my head down much too hard, what if ATRA-pills
had not yet been discovered? I thought:
hell is as brightly orange as the liquid in this bag, it burns
unrestrained in my veins. But tears must be forced back
as there are people coming to admire
an undaunted girl. “How are you?” “I’m well.
I haven’t bled to death yet.” I thought
this frightened falling shouldn’t be experienced alone, a single
finger-snap and I am gone, the time determined by coincidence.
This senseless tumbling shouldn’t be experienced.
Even if it’s just a parabola, even if I never drop too far,
the hole is black and I’m so frightened, so miserably ill.
© 2018, Willem Groenewegen
From: Leger
From: Leger
ACUTE PROMYELOCYTIC LEUKEMIA
Never yet so firmly rooted in the ground as when I threatenedto come loose, my dreams reduced to a desire for
remission. Clinging to prognoses, I sank into black holes,
expecting heavenly choirs. I rehearsed a resurrection
and learnt to nip doubt in the bud.
A series of coincidences saved my life. What if
I’d gone to sleep that evening, what if that night
I’d put my head down much too hard, what if ATRA-pills
had not yet been discovered? I thought:
hell is as brightly orange as the liquid in this bag, it burns
unrestrained in my veins. But tears must be forced back
as there are people coming to admire
an undaunted girl. “How are you?” “I’m well.
I haven’t bled to death yet.” I thought
this frightened falling shouldn’t be experienced alone, a single
finger-snap and I am gone, the time determined by coincidence.
This senseless tumbling shouldn’t be experienced.
Even if it’s just a parabola, even if I never drop too far,
the hole is black and I’m so frightened, so miserably ill.
© 2018, Willem Groenewegen
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