Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Sonia Bueno

The house and the birds

                                                                                               we leave the house
                                                                                               with a candle
                                                                                               lighted
                                                                                               under the rain.

                                                                                                s.b.





                                                  IRON BARS OF THE SKIN

                                          not many birds
                                          in the house of cold

                                          too many folds
                                          between your cutting page

                                          and december



the wind is
march in the branches
they are
beams of silence which is
the house
where tremorous birds dwell

         SNOW WAS A LIE AS WELL





                                                                                SUMMER

                                                                                    the sun sets
                                                                                    on both sides
                                                                                    of the house

                                                                                    some birds
                                                                                    return

                                                                                            SPRING

                                                                                    the whole secret
                                                                                    of the house
                                                                                    on the rooftop

                                                                                    the birds
                                                                                    want to see



IF THE BIRD CALLS

eyes can breathe
in the cracks
of the mirror

the dead walk past
with their ashes
in their hands

for a moment
you know yourself



                                                                                   NO BOWS NO NOAHS

                                                                             it is not the rain
                                                                             it is the sound of rain
                                                                             that cuts to the bone

                                                                             it is not the bird
                                                                             it is the tiny
                                                                             resistance

                                                                            of the wound
                                                                            underwater




                         the roof
                         melting
                         the snow

                         this is the house

                         its splendour

MOVEMENT OF A FINGERPRINT

Het huis en de vogels

                                                                                                  we verlieten het huis
                                                                                                  met een kaars
                                                                                                  brandend
                                                                                                  in de regen.

                                                                                                   s. b.





                                         TRALIE VAN DE HUID

                                   weinig vogels
                                   in het huis van de kou

                                   te veel plooien
                                   tussen jouw stalen blad

                                   en december



de wind is
maart in de takken
zijn
balken van de stilte wat is
het huis
bevolkt met huiverige vogels

       OOK DE SNEEUW WAS GELOGEN





                                                           ZOMER

                                                                  de zon gaat onder
                                                                  aan beide kanten
                                                                  van het huis

                                                                  sommige vogels
                                                                  komen terug

                                                                              LENTE

                                                                  heel het geheim
                                                                  van het huis
                                                                  op het platte dak

                                                                 de vogels
                                                                 willen zien



ALS DE VOGEL ROEPT

ademen ogen
in de kieren
van de spiegel

paraderen de doden
met hun as
in hun handen

heel even
herken je jezelf



                                                                  ZONDER ARKEN OF NOACHS

                                                           het is niet de regen
                                                           het is zijn geluid
                                                           dat het bot oprakelt

                                                          het is niet de vogel
                                                          het is de nietige
                                                          weerstand

                                                         van de wond
                                                         in het water




                    het dak
                   smeltend
                   de sneeuw

                   zo het huis

                   zijn schittering

DE BEWEGING VAN EEN SPOOR

La casa y los pájaros

                                                                                          abandonamos la casa
                                                                                          con una vela
                                                                                          encendida
                                                                                          bajo la lluvia.

                                                                                         s. b.





                           REJA DE LA PIEL

            pocos pájaros
            en la casa del frío

           demasiados pliegues
           entre tu hoja acerada

           y diciembre



el viento es
marzo en las ramas
son
vigas del silencio qué es
la casa
poblada de pájaros temblorosos

        TAMBIÉN LA NIEVE ERA MENTIRA





                                                          VERANO

                                                                el sol se pone
                                                                en ambos lados
                                                                de la casa

                                                                 algunos pájaros
                                                                 vuelven

                                                                               PRIMAVERA

                                                                todo el secreto
                                                                de la casa
                                                                en la azotea

                                                                los pájaros
                                                                quieren ver



SI EL PÁJARO LLAMA

ojos respiran
en las grietas
del espejo

desfilan los muertos
con sus cenizas
entre las manos

por un momento
te reconoces



                                                                   SIN ARCAS NI NOÉS

                                                            no es la lluvia
                                                            es su sonido
                                                            que hurga el hueso

                                                            no es el pájaro
                                                            es la minúscula
                                                            resistencia

                                                           de la herida
                                                           en el agua




                            el tejado
                            derritiendo
                            la nieve

                            así la casa

                            su esplendor

EL MOVIMIENTO DE UNA HUELLA

Close

The house and the birds

                                                                                               we leave the house
                                                                                               with a candle
                                                                                               lighted
                                                                                               under the rain.

                                                                                                s.b.





                                                  IRON BARS OF THE SKIN

                                          not many birds
                                          in the house of cold

                                          too many folds
                                          between your cutting page

                                          and december



the wind is
march in the branches
they are
beams of silence which is
the house
where tremorous birds dwell

         SNOW WAS A LIE AS WELL





                                                                                SUMMER

                                                                                    the sun sets
                                                                                    on both sides
                                                                                    of the house

                                                                                    some birds
                                                                                    return

                                                                                            SPRING

                                                                                    the whole secret
                                                                                    of the house
                                                                                    on the rooftop

                                                                                    the birds
                                                                                    want to see



IF THE BIRD CALLS

eyes can breathe
in the cracks
of the mirror

the dead walk past
with their ashes
in their hands

for a moment
you know yourself



                                                                                   NO BOWS NO NOAHS

                                                                             it is not the rain
                                                                             it is the sound of rain
                                                                             that cuts to the bone

                                                                             it is not the bird
                                                                             it is the tiny
                                                                             resistance

                                                                            of the wound
                                                                            underwater




                         the roof
                         melting
                         the snow

                         this is the house

                         its splendour

MOVEMENT OF A FINGERPRINT

The house and the birds

                                                                                               we leave the house
                                                                                               with a candle
                                                                                               lighted
                                                                                               under the rain.

                                                                                                s.b.





                                                  IRON BARS OF THE SKIN

                                          not many birds
                                          in the house of cold

                                          too many folds
                                          between your cutting page

                                          and december



the wind is
march in the branches
they are
beams of silence which is
the house
where tremorous birds dwell

         SNOW WAS A LIE AS WELL





                                                                                SUMMER

                                                                                    the sun sets
                                                                                    on both sides
                                                                                    of the house

                                                                                    some birds
                                                                                    return

                                                                                            SPRING

                                                                                    the whole secret
                                                                                    of the house
                                                                                    on the rooftop

                                                                                    the birds
                                                                                    want to see



IF THE BIRD CALLS

eyes can breathe
in the cracks
of the mirror

the dead walk past
with their ashes
in their hands

for a moment
you know yourself



                                                                                   NO BOWS NO NOAHS

                                                                             it is not the rain
                                                                             it is the sound of rain
                                                                             that cuts to the bone

                                                                             it is not the bird
                                                                             it is the tiny
                                                                             resistance

                                                                            of the wound
                                                                            underwater




                         the roof
                         melting
                         the snow

                         this is the house

                         its splendour

MOVEMENT OF A FINGERPRINT

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