Theophilus Kwek
KONG
KONG
i.m. Emile George Zeimes, ‘King Kong’
(geb. Hongarije, 1909; gest. Singapore, 1970)
Ze noemden hem King. Andere namen volgden –
Samson, Hercules – maar deze bleef, een naam
die hij door de lucht kon zwieren onder luid gejuich,
één met een eigen gewichtsklasse. Niet langer Emile;
ze beefden van de plof als hij de mat op liep,
korte metten maakte met de rest (Tiger Ahmad,
Gorilla Wong…), heel de Great World ging
overeind staan. Zelfs Wildcat Hassan, die in ’47
tegenover de ster van de Britse basis had gestaan,
was kansloos: iedereen wist dat de ring behoorde
aan de jongen uit Boedapest met de brute handen.
Achter de schermen werd een nieuwe wereld geschapen
in de scherpe schaduwen van die stadionlampen,
iedere greep en worp een echo van de houvast van
de nacht, die stellig de ochtend in slipte. Tegen de tijd
dat hij aankwam in si-pai-por, gered uit de stalen
grip van een auto, zijn eigen knoestige vingers verslapt,
had het hem bekende rijk de titel vergeven aan een ander.
Een nette omslag, het gebeurde vlak voor zijn ogen.
Jaren later zeiden ze dat ze ’t niet aan zagen komen.
Publisher: 2023, Voor het eerst gepubliceerd op PoetryInternational.com,
KONG
i.m. Emile George Zeimes, ‘King Kong’
b. Hungary, 1909; d. Singapore, 1970)
They called him King. Other names came later –
Samson, Hercules – but this one stuck, a name
he could twirl overhead as the crowd cheered,
one with its own weight class. No longer Emile,
they trembled at the thud as he took the stage,
made short work of the others (Tiger Ahmad,
Gorilla Wong…), the whole Great World rising
to their feet. Even Wildcat Hassan, who in ’47
had gone up against the star of the British base
was no match: everyone knew the ring belonged
to the boy from Budapest with the brazen hands.
Backstage, another world was being formed
in the sharp shadows of those stadium lamps,
each lock and throw an echo of the long night’s
hold, slipping surely into morning. By the time
he wound up at si-pai-por, pulled from a car’s
steel grip, his own gnarled fingers loosening,
the realm he knew had ceded title to another.
A clean flip, it happened right before his eyes.
Years later they said they hadn’t seen it coming.
Publisher: First published on poetryinternational.com,
KONG
i.m. Emile George Zeimes, ‘King Kong’
b. Hungary, 1909; d. Singapore, 1970)
They called him King. Other names came later –
Samson, Hercules – but this one stuck, a name
he could twirl overhead as the crowd cheered,
one with its own weight class. No longer Emile,
they trembled at the thud as he took the stage,
made short work of the others (Tiger Ahmad,
Gorilla Wong…), the whole Great World rising
to their feet. Even Wildcat Hassan, who in ’47
had gone up against the star of the British base
was no match: everyone knew the ring belonged
to the boy from Budapest with the brazen hands.
Backstage, another world was being formed
in the sharp shadows of those stadium lamps,
each lock and throw an echo of the long night’s
hold, slipping surely into morning. By the time
he wound up at si-pai-por, pulled from a car’s
steel grip, his own gnarled fingers loosening,
the realm he knew had ceded title to another.
A clean flip, it happened right before his eyes.
Years later they said they hadn’t seen it coming.
KONG
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