Poem
Peter Verhelst
‘words, words, words...’ (hamlet, shakespeare)
Nobody knows which story gave birth to Silence.Click of toe- and fingernails on the wooden floor.
As if thirsty,
she keeps coming closer, breathing next to an ear.
She bends her legs, sniffs our hair, our coats,
shoes, mouths, armpits, fingers, searching for fears, dreams,
tenderness, the secrets we keep hidden from ourselves. She takes
a deep breath. Long back muscles.
Small breasts. Velvet belly. She crawls over us,
inside out, sighing, letting us smell her lips,
her tongue. Breathe her in.
As soon as the audience has left, the stage is cleared:
the bones of fear, the phalanges of tenderness, the hair
of dreams and the sinews of secrets piled together.
The folded canvas is raised
to the roof. Over the theatre, seagulls circle.
Nobody knows which story Silence is seeking – every night
she hurries through the streets. We stand naked at the window,
bellies pressed against the glass and dreaming of her.
© Translation: 2018, David Colmer
‘woorden, woorden, woorden…’ (hamlet, shakespeare)
‘woorden, woorden, woorden…’ (hamlet, shakespeare)
Niemand weet uit welk verhaal Stilte komt.Getik van teen- en vingernagels op de houten vloer.
Alsof ze dorst heeft
komt ze almaar dichterbij, adem naast een oor.
Ze buigt door haar poten, besnuffelt onze haren, onze jas,
schoenen, oksels, vingers, mond, op zoek naar angsten, tederheden,
dromen, de geheimen die we voor onszelf verbergen. Diep
ademt ze in. Lange spieren in de rug.
Kleine borsten. Fluwelen buik. Ze kruipt over ons heen,
binnenstebuiten, zuchtend, we mogen aan haar lippen
ruiken, aan haar tong. Adem haar diep in.
Zodra de zaal weer leeg is wordt het podium ontruimd,
de botten van de angst, de vingerkootjes tederheid, de haren
van de dromen, pezen van geheimen op een hoop gegooid.
Het zeil wordt dichtgevouwen
naar het dak gebracht. Boven de schouwburg cirkelen meeuwen.
Niemand weet naar welk verhaal Stilte zoekt – elke nacht
ijlt ze door de straten. We duwen onze onderbuik tegen het raam,
naakt staan we achter glas van haar te dromen.
© 2018, Peter Verhelst
From: Wat ons had kunnen zijn
Publisher: Stichting CPNB,
From: Wat ons had kunnen zijn
Publisher: Stichting CPNB,
Poems
Poems of Peter Verhelst
Close
‘words, words, words...’ (hamlet, shakespeare)
Nobody knows which story gave birth to Silence.Click of toe- and fingernails on the wooden floor.
As if thirsty,
she keeps coming closer, breathing next to an ear.
She bends her legs, sniffs our hair, our coats,
shoes, mouths, armpits, fingers, searching for fears, dreams,
tenderness, the secrets we keep hidden from ourselves. She takes
a deep breath. Long back muscles.
Small breasts. Velvet belly. She crawls over us,
inside out, sighing, letting us smell her lips,
her tongue. Breathe her in.
As soon as the audience has left, the stage is cleared:
the bones of fear, the phalanges of tenderness, the hair
of dreams and the sinews of secrets piled together.
The folded canvas is raised
to the roof. Over the theatre, seagulls circle.
Nobody knows which story Silence is seeking – every night
she hurries through the streets. We stand naked at the window,
bellies pressed against the glass and dreaming of her.
© 2018, David Colmer
From: Wat ons had kunnen zijn
From: Wat ons had kunnen zijn
‘words, words, words...’ (hamlet, shakespeare)
Nobody knows which story gave birth to Silence.Click of toe- and fingernails on the wooden floor.
As if thirsty,
she keeps coming closer, breathing next to an ear.
She bends her legs, sniffs our hair, our coats,
shoes, mouths, armpits, fingers, searching for fears, dreams,
tenderness, the secrets we keep hidden from ourselves. She takes
a deep breath. Long back muscles.
Small breasts. Velvet belly. She crawls over us,
inside out, sighing, letting us smell her lips,
her tongue. Breathe her in.
As soon as the audience has left, the stage is cleared:
the bones of fear, the phalanges of tenderness, the hair
of dreams and the sinews of secrets piled together.
The folded canvas is raised
to the roof. Over the theatre, seagulls circle.
Nobody knows which story Silence is seeking – every night
she hurries through the streets. We stand naked at the window,
bellies pressed against the glass and dreaming of her.
© 2018, David Colmer
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