Poem
Xavier Roelens
1952
gaston cuts out and tears whoever’s been forgotten from thephotographs, and more. like the boy who for his school
detention had to retrieve the scarf he hadn’t hidden, not him at
least, opened the school gates and took off. like the boy who
rummaged through father’s drawer, felt cogs and springs and
hands vanished among the parts before father could squash his
fingers. like the boy who squashed his school dinners, he cuts
him out too. and the boy who slapped gaston’s naked arse
with his towel in the changing rooms has long since faded.
and the boy who caught a cricket, he never made it to the
spring. and the boy who wanted to saunter with a cap deep
over his eyes but stumbled three steps in and tore the only
good pair of trousers his parents could afford, he too is far
from home. and I, who felt the heat in the back of my pants,
and the boy who traded his tonsils for a mouthful of ice cream
and the boy who spooned up rainwater by the chicken coup,
we who once skipped about in the snow with gaston, we see
our traces erased. snip. snip. snip. and then he pinpricks the
non from her bench, who had slapped him for being messy in
art, after which mother had slapped him because he’d been
slapped. next the tufts of sky. and the bench as firewood. and
the grass. the remainder is only himself, doesn’t retain even
himself.
© Translation: 2018, Astrid Alben
1952
1952
guust scheurt en knipt uit de foto wie vergeten is en zelfs meer. ook de
jongen die als straf na school de sjaal moest zoeken die hij nochtans
niet verstopt had, niet hij, deed de schoolpoort open en vertrok. ook de
jongen die in vaders schuif tastte, raderen en veren en wijzers betastte,
verdween finaal tussen de onderdelen voor vader zijn vingers kon
pletten. ook de jongen die zijn schooleten plette, ook die knipt hij uit.
en de jongen die ooit in de kleedkamer met zijn handdoek tegen
guusts blote kont kletste, is al lang gesmolten. en de jongen die een
krekel had gevangen, heeft ook de lente niet gehaald. en de jongen die
wou lopen met een pet over zijn ogen maar al na drie meter viel en de
enige lange broek scheurde die zijn ouders zich konden veroorloven,
is ver van huis. en ik die het warm kreeg achter in mijn broek en de
jongen die zijn mond vulde met crème glace in ruil voor zijn
amandelen en de jongen die bij het kippenhok regenwater oplepelde,
wij die ooit samen met guust rondhuppelden in de sneeuw, zien nu
onze sporen uitgewist. knip. knip. knip. en dan prikt hij nog van haar
bank de non die hem klappen gaf omdat hij te rommelig knutselde,
waarna moeder hem klappen gaf omdat hij klappen had gekregen. en
de plukjes hemel. en de bank als brandhout. en het gras. hij houdt
slechts zichzelf over, houdt zelfs zichzelf niet over.
jongen die als straf na school de sjaal moest zoeken die hij nochtans
niet verstopt had, niet hij, deed de schoolpoort open en vertrok. ook de
jongen die in vaders schuif tastte, raderen en veren en wijzers betastte,
verdween finaal tussen de onderdelen voor vader zijn vingers kon
pletten. ook de jongen die zijn schooleten plette, ook die knipt hij uit.
en de jongen die ooit in de kleedkamer met zijn handdoek tegen
guusts blote kont kletste, is al lang gesmolten. en de jongen die een
krekel had gevangen, heeft ook de lente niet gehaald. en de jongen die
wou lopen met een pet over zijn ogen maar al na drie meter viel en de
enige lange broek scheurde die zijn ouders zich konden veroorloven,
is ver van huis. en ik die het warm kreeg achter in mijn broek en de
jongen die zijn mond vulde met crème glace in ruil voor zijn
amandelen en de jongen die bij het kippenhok regenwater oplepelde,
wij die ooit samen met guust rondhuppelden in de sneeuw, zien nu
onze sporen uitgewist. knip. knip. knip. en dan prikt hij nog van haar
bank de non die hem klappen gaf omdat hij te rommelig knutselde,
waarna moeder hem klappen gaf omdat hij klappen had gekregen. en
de plukjes hemel. en de bank als brandhout. en het gras. hij houdt
slechts zichzelf over, houdt zelfs zichzelf niet over.
© 2018, Xavier Roelens
From: Onze kinderjaren
Publisher: Atlas Contact, Amsterdam/Antwerpen
From: Onze kinderjaren
Publisher: Atlas Contact, Amsterdam/Antwerpen
Poems
Poems of Xavier Roelens
Close
1952
gaston cuts out and tears whoever’s been forgotten from thephotographs, and more. like the boy who for his school
detention had to retrieve the scarf he hadn’t hidden, not him at
least, opened the school gates and took off. like the boy who
rummaged through father’s drawer, felt cogs and springs and
hands vanished among the parts before father could squash his
fingers. like the boy who squashed his school dinners, he cuts
him out too. and the boy who slapped gaston’s naked arse
with his towel in the changing rooms has long since faded.
and the boy who caught a cricket, he never made it to the
spring. and the boy who wanted to saunter with a cap deep
over his eyes but stumbled three steps in and tore the only
good pair of trousers his parents could afford, he too is far
from home. and I, who felt the heat in the back of my pants,
and the boy who traded his tonsils for a mouthful of ice cream
and the boy who spooned up rainwater by the chicken coup,
we who once skipped about in the snow with gaston, we see
our traces erased. snip. snip. snip. and then he pinpricks the
non from her bench, who had slapped him for being messy in
art, after which mother had slapped him because he’d been
slapped. next the tufts of sky. and the bench as firewood. and
the grass. the remainder is only himself, doesn’t retain even
himself.
© 2018, Astrid Alben
From: Onze kinderjaren
From: Onze kinderjaren
1952
gaston cuts out and tears whoever’s been forgotten from thephotographs, and more. like the boy who for his school
detention had to retrieve the scarf he hadn’t hidden, not him at
least, opened the school gates and took off. like the boy who
rummaged through father’s drawer, felt cogs and springs and
hands vanished among the parts before father could squash his
fingers. like the boy who squashed his school dinners, he cuts
him out too. and the boy who slapped gaston’s naked arse
with his towel in the changing rooms has long since faded.
and the boy who caught a cricket, he never made it to the
spring. and the boy who wanted to saunter with a cap deep
over his eyes but stumbled three steps in and tore the only
good pair of trousers his parents could afford, he too is far
from home. and I, who felt the heat in the back of my pants,
and the boy who traded his tonsils for a mouthful of ice cream
and the boy who spooned up rainwater by the chicken coup,
we who once skipped about in the snow with gaston, we see
our traces erased. snip. snip. snip. and then he pinpricks the
non from her bench, who had slapped him for being messy in
art, after which mother had slapped him because he’d been
slapped. next the tufts of sky. and the bench as firewood. and
the grass. the remainder is only himself, doesn’t retain even
himself.
© 2018, Astrid Alben
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