Ilya Kaminsky
DEAFNESS, AN INSURGENCY, BEGINS
DOOFHEID, EEN OPSTAND, BEGINT
De volgende morgen ontwaakte ons land en weigerde het soldaten te horen.
In naam van Petya weigeren wij.
Om zes uur ’s ochtends, als soldaten meisjes vleien in de steeg, schuiven de meisjes
voorbij, hun oren gespitst. Om acht uur wordt de deur van de bakkerij in het gezicht van
soldaat Ivanoff dichtgesmeten, al is hij hun beste klant. Om tien uur kalkt moeder Galya
niemand hoort jullie op de hekken van de soldatenbarakken.
Tegen elf uur beginnen de arrestaties.
Ons gehoor verslechtert niet, maar iets stils in ons staalt.
Na de avondklok hangen families van de gearresteerden zelfgemaakte poppen uit hun
ramen. De straten verlaten, op het piepen van snaren na, en het kloppen van houten vuisten en
voeten tegen gebouwen.
In de oren van de stad valt sneeuw.
Stad
Publisher: 2022, Voor het eerst gepubliceerd op PoetryInternational.com,
DEAFNESS, AN INSURGENCY, BEGINS
DEAFNESS, AN INSURGENCY, BEGINS
Our country woke up next morning and refused to hear soldiers.
In the name of Petya, we refuse.
At six a.m., when soldiers compliment girls in the alley, the girls
slide by, pointing to their ears. At eight, the bakery door is shut in
soldier Ivanoff’s face, though he’s their best customer. At ten,
Momma Galya chalks NO ONE HEARS YOU on the gates of the
soldiers’ baracks.
By eleven a.m., arrests begin.
Our hearing doesn’t weaken, but something silent in us
strengthens.
After curfew, families of the arrested hang homemade puppets
out of their windows. The streets empty but for the squeaks of strings
and the tap tap, against the buildings, of wooden fists and feet.
In the ears of the town, snow falls.
Town
From: Deaf Republic
Publisher: Graywolf Press,
DEAFNESS, AN INSURGENCY, BEGINS
DEAFNESS, AN INSURGENCY, BEGINS
Our country woke up next morning and refused to hear soldiers.
In the name of Petya, we refuse.
At six a.m., when soldiers compliment girls in the alley, the girls
slide by, pointing to their ears. At eight, the bakery door is shut in
soldier Ivanoff’s face, though he’s their best customer. At ten,
Momma Galya chalks NO ONE HEARS YOU on the gates of the
soldiers’ baracks.
By eleven a.m., arrests begin.
Our hearing doesn’t weaken, but something silent in us
strengthens.
After curfew, families of the arrested hang homemade puppets
out of their windows. The streets empty but for the squeaks of strings
and the tap tap, against the buildings, of wooden fists and feet.
In the ears of the town, snow falls.
Town
DEAFNESS, AN INSURGENCY, BEGINS
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