Poem
Willem Jan Otten
THAT ONE BEAT
When my father came out of the comaafter having died
and being pneumatically pounded back,
his sternum cracked while they were at it,
he told me during a visiting hour
out of the blue, that there
where he now no longer was
but hadn’t arrived either,
he’d heard a choir.
A choir, that’s right.
Mixed. Invisible.
But singing.
Even he, who knew the what and when
of all music
couldn’t say who was singing
or which composer.
But still he knew the piece.
It sounded and he understood
that all he had to do was wait
and listen for that one beat
and then join in.
All eyes, he said,
were fixed on me,
I knew the music
and felt that beat
approach – that rest
in which my entrance was expected,
and yes, if I didn’t –
He looked at me with shoulders raised,
as if apologetically.
I hadn’t asked him ‘And?’
The monitors in ICU all hummed
a one-beat rest.
He smiled and said
I didn’t do it.
Ah, good murderer,
not this evening, no,
yesterday, you already
went into the kingdom,
you waiter for that
always approaching beat.
© Translation: 2018, David Colmer
From: Genadeklap
Publisher: Van Oorschot, Amsterdam, 2018
From: Genadeklap
Publisher: Van Oorschot, Amsterdam, 2018
De ene tel
De ene tel
Toen mijn vader bijkwam uit de comavolgend op gestorven zijn
en weer pneumatisch teruggebeukt
waarbij zijn borstbeen werd gekraakt,
heeft hij mij tijdens een bezoekuur
plotseling verteld dat daar,
waar hij dus niet meer was,
maar aangekomen was hij evenmin,
dat daar een koor geklonken had.
Een koor, jawel.
Gemengd. Onzichtbaar.
Maar het zong.
Zelfs hij, die alle muziek
bij naam en toenaam kende,
wist niet wie zongen,
noch de componist.
Toch kende hij het stuk.
Het klonk, en hij begreep
dat hij alleen maar op moest letten
wachtend op de ene tel
waarop hij in kon vallen.
Aller ogen, zei hij,
waren nu op mij gericht,
ik kende de muziek
en voelde hoe de ene tel
mij naderde – de ene rust
waarin mijn inzet werd verwacht,
en ja, deed ik het niet –
Hij keek me met opgetrokken schouders aan,
verontschuldigend.
Ik had niet ‘en?’ gezegd.
De apparaten van Intensive Care
zoemden een tel rust.
Toen zei hij glimlachend
ik heb het niet gedaan.
Ach, goede moordenaar,
niet hedenavond, nee,
al gisteren ben jij
in het koninkrijk gegaan,
jij wachtende op de voorgoed
jou naderende tel.
© 2018, Willem Jan Otten
From: Genadeklap
Publisher: Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
From: Genadeklap
Publisher: Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Willem Jan Otten
Close
THAT ONE BEAT
When my father came out of the comaafter having died
and being pneumatically pounded back,
his sternum cracked while they were at it,
he told me during a visiting hour
out of the blue, that there
where he now no longer was
but hadn’t arrived either,
he’d heard a choir.
A choir, that’s right.
Mixed. Invisible.
But singing.
Even he, who knew the what and when
of all music
couldn’t say who was singing
or which composer.
But still he knew the piece.
It sounded and he understood
that all he had to do was wait
and listen for that one beat
and then join in.
All eyes, he said,
were fixed on me,
I knew the music
and felt that beat
approach – that rest
in which my entrance was expected,
and yes, if I didn’t –
He looked at me with shoulders raised,
as if apologetically.
I hadn’t asked him ‘And?’
The monitors in ICU all hummed
a one-beat rest.
He smiled and said
I didn’t do it.
Ah, good murderer,
not this evening, no,
yesterday, you already
went into the kingdom,
you waiter for that
always approaching beat.
© 2018, David Colmer
From: Genadeklap
Publisher: 2018, Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
From: Genadeklap
Publisher: 2018, Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
THAT ONE BEAT
When my father came out of the comaafter having died
and being pneumatically pounded back,
his sternum cracked while they were at it,
he told me during a visiting hour
out of the blue, that there
where he now no longer was
but hadn’t arrived either,
he’d heard a choir.
A choir, that’s right.
Mixed. Invisible.
But singing.
Even he, who knew the what and when
of all music
couldn’t say who was singing
or which composer.
But still he knew the piece.
It sounded and he understood
that all he had to do was wait
and listen for that one beat
and then join in.
All eyes, he said,
were fixed on me,
I knew the music
and felt that beat
approach – that rest
in which my entrance was expected,
and yes, if I didn’t –
He looked at me with shoulders raised,
as if apologetically.
I hadn’t asked him ‘And?’
The monitors in ICU all hummed
a one-beat rest.
He smiled and said
I didn’t do it.
Ah, good murderer,
not this evening, no,
yesterday, you already
went into the kingdom,
you waiter for that
always approaching beat.
© 2018, David Colmer
From: Genadeklap
Publisher: 2018, Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
From: Genadeklap
Publisher: 2018, Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
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