Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Marieke Lucas Rijneveld

IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S THE HOUSE

I think of doors that slam harder when someone leaves the house
for 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.

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 laatst
het 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.
Close

IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S THE HOUSE

I think of doors that slam harder when someone leaves the house
for 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.

IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S THE HOUSE

I think of doors that slam harder when someone leaves the house
for 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.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère