Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Marieke Lucas Rijneveld

The elders

On Sundays, Libelle magazine could be released from its plastic just as I was from my
school clothes, a packet of cornflakes on the kitchen table, lonely words I shoveled in
unsweetened, cold milk pouring over the edges: it’s never been proven that a full
stomach balances a heavy heart or that avocados are tangible in their

right to exist. Are spirit and matter like two cows in heat who, against all better
judgment, want to get each other pregnant? Or is it like the large rabbit I once let
cover a much smaller one – which obviously resulted in death? Mama flipped faster

through me than the magazine, lingering only when I stood in front of her one day
and said:  I’m calling upon my readers, responses are permitted. As I spoke
my body seemed to become a sieve through which only the finest thoughts could
come while the greatest and grossest formed clumps inside of me, Mama answered that

there were tractors that could flatten you like a hare and that it didn’t matter to her
if tomorrow they ended up in the wayside, eyes of glass. Gathered the elders,
those who had gotten the best seats, with views of the horizon, the unsuspecting horizon
which must each day stretch out every reflection.  The writer in you makes people sick, everything

you’re saying is so edited it could be published they said, while covertly keeping
an eye on the hare, who was sitting stock-still at the table as if her crossing over
had already happened, they said that cornflakes were invented to give
children the strength to find love not within themselves, but to find it in another:

don’t wriggle on your teddy, girls aren’t here to be thought about, they’re only
for you to confer with. Once the elders had been sent off, Mama forgot about
the wayside just as you often must forget about the wayside in order to endure the turns,
and she gave me Libelle magazine, with the staples in mind, let me thank my listeners, the things.

Ouderlingen

Ouderlingen

Op zondag mocht de Libelle uit het plastic net als ik uit mijn schoolkleding, op de
keukentafel een pak cornflakes, eenzame woorden die ik ongesuikerd naar binnen
werkte, koude melk plensde over de randen: het is nooit bewezen dat een volle
maag het verzwaarde hart in evenwicht brengt of dat avocado’s tactiel zijn in hun

bestaansrecht, zijn geest en materie als twee tochtige koeien die elkaar tegen
beter weten in willen bevruchten, of is het als het grote konijn dat ik een veel kleiner
liet dekken waarop vanzelfsprekend de dood volgde? Mama bladerde vluchtiger door

mij heen dan door het blad, bleef pas hangen toen ik op een dag voor haar ging
staan en zei: ik doe een oproep aan mijn lezers, reageren is toegestaan. Terwijl ik
sprak leek mijn lichaam een zeef te worden waardoor alleen de fijne gedachten naar
buiten kwamen en de grote, grove in mij samenklonterden, mama antwoordde dat er

tractoren bestonden die je pletten als een haas, en dat het haar niet meer uitmaakte als
ze morgen in de berm ogen van glas. Riep de ouderlingen bijeen die de beste
stoelen kregen met uitzicht op de verte, de nietsvermoedende verte die iedere dag
alle overpeinzingen moet uitrekken. De schrijver in je maakt de mens ziek, alles wat

je zegt is zo geredigeerd dat het gebundeld kan worden zeiden ze terwijl ze de
haas onoplettend in de gaten hielden die stokstijf aan tafel zat alsof het oversteken
haar al was overkomen, ze vertelden dat cornflakes ooit waren uitgevonden om
kinderen kracht te geven niet de geliefde in zichzelf, maar in de ander te vinden:

niet op je knuffel bewegen, meisjes zijn er niet om aan te denken maar om mee te
overleggen. Ouderlingen eenmaal uitgezwaaid was mama de berm vergeten zoals
je vaker de berm moet vergeten om de bochten te kunnen verdragen, en ze gaf me
de Libelle met oog op de nietjes, liet me mijn luisteraars bedanken, de dingen.
Close

The elders

On Sundays, Libelle magazine could be released from its plastic just as I was from my
school clothes, a packet of cornflakes on the kitchen table, lonely words I shoveled in
unsweetened, cold milk pouring over the edges: it’s never been proven that a full
stomach balances a heavy heart or that avocados are tangible in their

right to exist. Are spirit and matter like two cows in heat who, against all better
judgment, want to get each other pregnant? Or is it like the large rabbit I once let
cover a much smaller one – which obviously resulted in death? Mama flipped faster

through me than the magazine, lingering only when I stood in front of her one day
and said:  I’m calling upon my readers, responses are permitted. As I spoke
my body seemed to become a sieve through which only the finest thoughts could
come while the greatest and grossest formed clumps inside of me, Mama answered that

there were tractors that could flatten you like a hare and that it didn’t matter to her
if tomorrow they ended up in the wayside, eyes of glass. Gathered the elders,
those who had gotten the best seats, with views of the horizon, the unsuspecting horizon
which must each day stretch out every reflection.  The writer in you makes people sick, everything

you’re saying is so edited it could be published they said, while covertly keeping
an eye on the hare, who was sitting stock-still at the table as if her crossing over
had already happened, they said that cornflakes were invented to give
children the strength to find love not within themselves, but to find it in another:

don’t wriggle on your teddy, girls aren’t here to be thought about, they’re only
for you to confer with. Once the elders had been sent off, Mama forgot about
the wayside just as you often must forget about the wayside in order to endure the turns,
and she gave me Libelle magazine, with the staples in mind, let me thank my listeners, the things.

The elders

On Sundays, Libelle magazine could be released from its plastic just as I was from my
school clothes, a packet of cornflakes on the kitchen table, lonely words I shoveled in
unsweetened, cold milk pouring over the edges: it’s never been proven that a full
stomach balances a heavy heart or that avocados are tangible in their

right to exist. Are spirit and matter like two cows in heat who, against all better
judgment, want to get each other pregnant? Or is it like the large rabbit I once let
cover a much smaller one – which obviously resulted in death? Mama flipped faster

through me than the magazine, lingering only when I stood in front of her one day
and said:  I’m calling upon my readers, responses are permitted. As I spoke
my body seemed to become a sieve through which only the finest thoughts could
come while the greatest and grossest formed clumps inside of me, Mama answered that

there were tractors that could flatten you like a hare and that it didn’t matter to her
if tomorrow they ended up in the wayside, eyes of glass. Gathered the elders,
those who had gotten the best seats, with views of the horizon, the unsuspecting horizon
which must each day stretch out every reflection.  The writer in you makes people sick, everything

you’re saying is so edited it could be published they said, while covertly keeping
an eye on the hare, who was sitting stock-still at the table as if her crossing over
had already happened, they said that cornflakes were invented to give
children the strength to find love not within themselves, but to find it in another:

don’t wriggle on your teddy, girls aren’t here to be thought about, they’re only
for you to confer with. Once the elders had been sent off, Mama forgot about
the wayside just as you often must forget about the wayside in order to endure the turns,
and she gave me Libelle magazine, with the staples in mind, let me thank my listeners, the things.
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
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