Poem
Marieke Lucas Rijneveld
IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S THE HOUSE
I think of doors that slam harder when someone leaves the housefor the last time, of corners in rooms that are actually armpits and
spread anxious sweat, leakages. There is no uneasy atmosphere,
it is the windows that tremble when someone leaves.
Such as sadness is comparable to putting out the garbage
you see no one doing it and still, on Monday morning it is out there on the street,
some things you only do alone in bed when the night becomes a sail
from which stars tumble, falling on the roof like firecrackers.
In the distance two factories stand together smoking -
when the door slammed shut behind you, I hung out of the window,
there they were, safe under the awning of some grey clouds
and I called after you while they lit another cigarette, spoke about us
smokers put themselves eternally in the mist, so that they’re always looking to the other
and I shouted at you, causing the wallpaper to tear itself loose from the walls
because we will call even if they cut through the lines like umbilical cords
send letters with perfume and ink spots as contradictions
to conceal that we might just love each other too much
throw messages in bottles filled with thoughts and concerns to keep
our heads above water. Put the house on a postcard.
© Translation: 2017, Sarah Timmer Harvey
HET LIGT NIET AAN JOU MAAR AAN HET HUIS
HET LIGT NIET AAN JOU MAAR AAN HET HUIS
Ik denk aan deuren die harder dichtvallen als iemand voor het laatsthet huis verlaat, aan hoeken van kamers die eigenlijk oksels zijn en
angstzweet verspreiden, lekkages. Er hangt geen ongemakkelijke sfeer,
het zijn de ramen die bibberen als iemand weggaat
Zoals verdriet vergelijkbaar is met het vuilnis buitenzetten
niemand zie je het doen en toch staat het op maandagochtend aan de straat
sommige dingen doe je alleen in bed als de nacht in een zeil verandert
waar sterren vanaf tuimelen, op het dak vallen als knalerwten.
In de verte staan twee fabrieken met elkaar te roken
toen de deur achter je dichtviel, heb ik uit het raam gehangen
zij stonden daar veilig onder het afdak van wat grijze wolken
en ik riep je na terwijl zij de volgende opstaken, het over ons hadden
rokers staan zelf eeuwig in de mist, kijken daarom altijd naar de ander
dus schreeuwde ik naar je waardoor het behang zich losrukte van de muren
want we bellen ook al knippen ze de lijnen door als navelstrengen
sturen brieven met parfum en inktvlekken als tegenstellingen
om te verdoezelen dat we misschien wel te veel van elkaar houden
gooien flessenpost met gedachten en zorgen om ons hoofden
boven water te houden. Zetten het huis op een ansichtkaart.
© 2015, Marieke Lucas Rijneveld
From: Kalfsvlies
Publisher: Atlas Contact, Amsterdam
From: Kalfsvlies
Publisher: Atlas Contact, Amsterdam
Marieke Lucas Rijneveld
(The Netherlands, 1991)
Marieke Lucas Rijneveld is considered one of the rising stars in contemporary Dutch literature. In 2015 Rijneveld published Kalfsvlies ('Calf's Caul'), a collection of poetry which was awarded the C. Buddingh’ Prize for best Dutch-language poetry debut, prompting the daily newspaper de Volkskrant to proclaim her the national literary talent of the year. In 2020 she has been awarded the Interna...
Poems
Poems of Marieke Lucas Rijneveld
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IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S THE HOUSE
I think of doors that slam harder when someone leaves the housefor the last time, of corners in rooms that are actually armpits and
spread anxious sweat, leakages. There is no uneasy atmosphere,
it is the windows that tremble when someone leaves.
Such as sadness is comparable to putting out the garbage
you see no one doing it and still, on Monday morning it is out there on the street,
some things you only do alone in bed when the night becomes a sail
from which stars tumble, falling on the roof like firecrackers.
In the distance two factories stand together smoking -
when the door slammed shut behind you, I hung out of the window,
there they were, safe under the awning of some grey clouds
and I called after you while they lit another cigarette, spoke about us
smokers put themselves eternally in the mist, so that they’re always looking to the other
and I shouted at you, causing the wallpaper to tear itself loose from the walls
because we will call even if they cut through the lines like umbilical cords
send letters with perfume and ink spots as contradictions
to conceal that we might just love each other too much
throw messages in bottles filled with thoughts and concerns to keep
our heads above water. Put the house on a postcard.
© 2017, Sarah Timmer Harvey
From: Kalfsvlies
From: Kalfsvlies
IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S THE HOUSE
I think of doors that slam harder when someone leaves the housefor the last time, of corners in rooms that are actually armpits and
spread anxious sweat, leakages. There is no uneasy atmosphere,
it is the windows that tremble when someone leaves.
Such as sadness is comparable to putting out the garbage
you see no one doing it and still, on Monday morning it is out there on the street,
some things you only do alone in bed when the night becomes a sail
from which stars tumble, falling on the roof like firecrackers.
In the distance two factories stand together smoking -
when the door slammed shut behind you, I hung out of the window,
there they were, safe under the awning of some grey clouds
and I called after you while they lit another cigarette, spoke about us
smokers put themselves eternally in the mist, so that they’re always looking to the other
and I shouted at you, causing the wallpaper to tear itself loose from the walls
because we will call even if they cut through the lines like umbilical cords
send letters with perfume and ink spots as contradictions
to conceal that we might just love each other too much
throw messages in bottles filled with thoughts and concerns to keep
our heads above water. Put the house on a postcard.
© 2017, Sarah Timmer Harvey
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