Poem
Marieke Lucas Rijneveld
Childline
Problems are just like hedges, said the man on the line, you have toprune them before they grow over your head. And I saw him before me
with the hedge trimmers in hand, ready for battle, I felt
the tears burning in my eye sockets: he was the gardener of my
fears. All that overgrowth is like a weed, so I attempted to start with
something small: that I would like to own a cat or perhaps
a guinea pig – something I could stroke when my hand was seeking the warmth
of a body or that I sometimes lisp so badly no one wants to understand me, it’s as if
I’m standing in the desert and calling for a glass of water. Except when I use homo
as a slur but that’s only to conceal that I secretly like boys with curly hair,
night after night I play football with them and think of snogging. Grief is often
buried deep into the earth when really, you ought to be sowing it.
I let silence fall, thought about how yesterday in the schoolyard I’d kicked someone
in the stomach, simply because I was bored, how it loosens your legs,
nothing to be done about it. Now I’m suspended, sitting in my room,
longing for a cat or a guinea pig, a boy with curls. And so many
questions Mr. Gardener: why am I actually here on earth? Why
are there holes in donuts? Why are snails never confused by their
hermaphroditism? Why am I so quick to anger? I’m just like Mario from
that computer game: if I run up against anything, I become a head shorter.
In bed, sometimes I whisper to myself all the things I’ve ever said to another:
Loser. Cry-baby. Monkey-face. Half-baked. And then, what I want most
is to die. Where it began? One day I was sitting in class, looked at
my favourite Disney sweater and thought: am I not too old for this? Suddenly,
it itched on all fronts, seemed to have shrunk, and without realizing
it, I had grown out of childhood, out of myself. I didn’t even have
the chance to say goodbye. After that, I no longer wrote between the
lines and I became a scribble, standing skew-whiff in the world.
© Translation: 2019, Sarah Timmer Harvey
Kindertelefoon
Kindertelefoon
Problemen zijn net taxushagen, zei de man aan de lijn, die moet jesnoeien voordat ze je boven het hoofd groeien. En ik zag hem voor
me met de heggenschaar in de hand, klaar voor de slag, ik voelde
de tranen in mijn oogkassen branden: hij was de tuinman van mijn
angsten. Alles wat overwoekert, is onkruid, probeerde daarom met iets
kleins te beginnen, over dat ik graag een kat of anders een cavia zou
willen, iets wat ik kan aaien als mijn hand de warmte van een lichaam
zoekt, dat ik soms zo slis dat niemand me wil verstaan, alsof ik in de
woestijn sta en roep om een glas water. Behalve als ik scheld met homo,
enkel om te verbloemen dat ik zelf stiekem van jongens met krullen houd,
nachtenlang voetbal ik met ze en denk aan tongen. Verdriet zit vaak in
het wroeten in de aarde terwijl je er eigenlijk iets hoort te zaaien.
Ik liet een stilte vallen, dacht na over hoe ik gisteren iemand op het
schoolplein in zijn buik trapte, gewoon uit verveling, daar krijg je losse
benen van, niets aan te doen. Nu ben ik geschorst, zit op mijn kamer met
het verlangen naar een kat of cavia, een jongen met krullen. En zoveel
vragen meneer de tuinman: waarom ben ik eigenlijk op aarde? Waarom
zitten er gaten in donuts? Waarom raken slakken nooit in de war van hun
tweeslachtigheid? Waarom ben ik zo snel boos? Ik ben net als Mario uit
het computerspel: als ik ergens tegenaan loop word ik een kopje kleiner.
Soms fluister ik in bed tegen mezelf alles wat ik ooit tegen een ander
zei: Loser. Huilebalk. Homo. Apenkop. Halvegare. En dan wil ik het
liefst dood. Waar het begon? Op een dag zat ik in de klas, keek naar
mijn lievelings-Disneytrui en dacht: ben ik hier niet te oud voor? Ineens
kriebelde hij aan alle kanten, leek hij gekrompen en zonder het te
beseffen, was ik uit het kind gegroeid, uit mezelf. Ik had niet eens
de kans om afscheid te nemen. Vanaf toen schreef ik niet meer binnen de
lijntjes en werd ik een hanenpoot, schots en scheef sta ik in de wereld.
© 2019, Marieke Lucas Rijneveld
From: Fantoommerrie
Publisher: Atlas Contact, Amsterdam
From: Fantoommerrie
Publisher: Atlas Contact, Amsterdam
Marieke Lucas Rijneveld
(The Netherlands, 1991)
Marieke Lucas Rijneveld is considered one of the rising stars in contemporary Dutch literature. In 2015 Rijneveld published Kalfsvlies ('Calf's Caul'), a collection of poetry which was awarded the C. Buddingh’ Prize for best Dutch-language poetry debut, prompting the daily newspaper de Volkskrant to proclaim her the national literary talent of the year. In 2020 she has been awarded the Interna...
Poems
Poems of Marieke Lucas Rijneveld
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Childline
Problems are just like hedges, said the man on the line, you have toprune them before they grow over your head. And I saw him before me
with the hedge trimmers in hand, ready for battle, I felt
the tears burning in my eye sockets: he was the gardener of my
fears. All that overgrowth is like a weed, so I attempted to start with
something small: that I would like to own a cat or perhaps
a guinea pig – something I could stroke when my hand was seeking the warmth
of a body or that I sometimes lisp so badly no one wants to understand me, it’s as if
I’m standing in the desert and calling for a glass of water. Except when I use homo
as a slur but that’s only to conceal that I secretly like boys with curly hair,
night after night I play football with them and think of snogging. Grief is often
buried deep into the earth when really, you ought to be sowing it.
I let silence fall, thought about how yesterday in the schoolyard I’d kicked someone
in the stomach, simply because I was bored, how it loosens your legs,
nothing to be done about it. Now I’m suspended, sitting in my room,
longing for a cat or a guinea pig, a boy with curls. And so many
questions Mr. Gardener: why am I actually here on earth? Why
are there holes in donuts? Why are snails never confused by their
hermaphroditism? Why am I so quick to anger? I’m just like Mario from
that computer game: if I run up against anything, I become a head shorter.
In bed, sometimes I whisper to myself all the things I’ve ever said to another:
Loser. Cry-baby. Monkey-face. Half-baked. And then, what I want most
is to die. Where it began? One day I was sitting in class, looked at
my favourite Disney sweater and thought: am I not too old for this? Suddenly,
it itched on all fronts, seemed to have shrunk, and without realizing
it, I had grown out of childhood, out of myself. I didn’t even have
the chance to say goodbye. After that, I no longer wrote between the
lines and I became a scribble, standing skew-whiff in the world.
© 2019, Sarah Timmer Harvey
From: Fantoommerrie
From: Fantoommerrie
Childline
Problems are just like hedges, said the man on the line, you have toprune them before they grow over your head. And I saw him before me
with the hedge trimmers in hand, ready for battle, I felt
the tears burning in my eye sockets: he was the gardener of my
fears. All that overgrowth is like a weed, so I attempted to start with
something small: that I would like to own a cat or perhaps
a guinea pig – something I could stroke when my hand was seeking the warmth
of a body or that I sometimes lisp so badly no one wants to understand me, it’s as if
I’m standing in the desert and calling for a glass of water. Except when I use homo
as a slur but that’s only to conceal that I secretly like boys with curly hair,
night after night I play football with them and think of snogging. Grief is often
buried deep into the earth when really, you ought to be sowing it.
I let silence fall, thought about how yesterday in the schoolyard I’d kicked someone
in the stomach, simply because I was bored, how it loosens your legs,
nothing to be done about it. Now I’m suspended, sitting in my room,
longing for a cat or a guinea pig, a boy with curls. And so many
questions Mr. Gardener: why am I actually here on earth? Why
are there holes in donuts? Why are snails never confused by their
hermaphroditism? Why am I so quick to anger? I’m just like Mario from
that computer game: if I run up against anything, I become a head shorter.
In bed, sometimes I whisper to myself all the things I’ve ever said to another:
Loser. Cry-baby. Monkey-face. Half-baked. And then, what I want most
is to die. Where it began? One day I was sitting in class, looked at
my favourite Disney sweater and thought: am I not too old for this? Suddenly,
it itched on all fronts, seemed to have shrunk, and without realizing
it, I had grown out of childhood, out of myself. I didn’t even have
the chance to say goodbye. After that, I no longer wrote between the
lines and I became a scribble, standing skew-whiff in the world.
© 2019, Sarah Timmer Harvey
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