Poem
Maria Barnas
Midden
I listen to my bodybut don’t understand it.
Maybe it is too pale.
Does it pour too hard from the head
too cold full of squashed-flat
thought braids gushing
and does it splash from the arms
tautly so as not to touch the curtain
the tiles the joints weary of
the search for lives in other
bodies. While the soap roars
a prelude in the waste pipe
the body speaks so we move
strange estranged
and I see ever more bodies
estranging themselves from me.
© Translation: 2018, Donald Gardner
From: Nachtboot
Publisher: Van Oorschot, Amsterdam, 2018
From: Nachtboot
Publisher: Van Oorschot, Amsterdam, 2018
Midden
Midden
Ik luister naar mijn lichaammaar versta het niet.
Misschien is het te bleek.
Stroomt het te hard uit de kop
te koud vol platgeslagen
gedachten strengen gutsend
en spat het op van de armen
strak om het gordijn niet te raken
de tegels de voegen het zoeken
van levens in andere lichamen
moe. Terwijl de zeep een aanhef
briest in het afvoerputje
spreekt het lichaam zo bewegen
wij ons vreemd vervreemd
en zie ik steeds meer lichamen
van mij vervreemden.
© 2018, Maria Barnas
From: Nachtboot
Publisher: Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
From: Nachtboot
Publisher: Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Maria Barnas
Close
Midden
I listen to my bodybut don’t understand it.
Maybe it is too pale.
Does it pour too hard from the head
too cold full of squashed-flat
thought braids gushing
and does it splash from the arms
tautly so as not to touch the curtain
the tiles the joints weary of
the search for lives in other
bodies. While the soap roars
a prelude in the waste pipe
the body speaks so we move
strange estranged
and I see ever more bodies
estranging themselves from me.
© 2018, Donald Gardner
From: Nachtboot
Publisher: 2018, Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
From: Nachtboot
Publisher: 2018, Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
Midden
I listen to my bodybut don’t understand it.
Maybe it is too pale.
Does it pour too hard from the head
too cold full of squashed-flat
thought braids gushing
and does it splash from the arms
tautly so as not to touch the curtain
the tiles the joints weary of
the search for lives in other
bodies. While the soap roars
a prelude in the waste pipe
the body speaks so we move
strange estranged
and I see ever more bodies
estranging themselves from me.
© 2018, Donald Gardner
From: Nachtboot
Publisher: 2018, Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
From: Nachtboot
Publisher: 2018, Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
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