Ruth Lasters
TRAP
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.’
Elizabeth Bishop
Loss habituation: for the first ten years you are allowed
a piece of elastic that holds your mittens together and then that's it.
At age eleven, if not before, they detach your woollen hands
probably with silver scissors
or even a samurai sword. I don't remember anything about it,
but, surely, it was quite a ceremony?
Thereafter, the losses simply happen
one after another, with an ever-greater survivor:
ultimately you or me.
Who realises in time that it's a trap?
That it's not about the retention of
what will inevitably, at sometime, be lost, but always about
the connection itself. That last mitten string,
pop it, Jackie, in your plastic tank. If needs be, place it
in your brace case, Jack. Fasten one end,
Mr J. Devliet, around your wrist, the other about
her icy cold arm and sit still until it seems
as if a thread of daylight
takes its place.
Publisher: First publication on poetryinternational.com, , 2023
STRIK
STRIK
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.’
Elizabeth Bishop
Verliesgewenning: de eerste tien jaar heb je recht
op een koordje dat je wanten samenhoudt en dat is het dan.
Ten allerlaatste op je elfde ontkoppelt men je wollen handen
met zilveren schaar vermoedelijk
of samoeraizwaard zelfs. Ik herinner me er niets meer van,
maar het was vast een hele ceremonie, toch?
Daarna geschiedt het kwijtraken
gewoonlijk één voor één, met een steeds grotere achterblijver:
ten slotte jij of ik.
Wie heeft nu op tijd door dat het een valstrik is?
Dat het niet draait om het behoud
van het ooit onvermijdelijk ontbrekende maar altijd om
de verbinding zelf. Dat laatste wantenkoordje,
stop het, Jaakje, in je plastic tank. Leg het desnoods
in je beugeldoosje, Jacques. Bind het ene uiteinde,
meneer J. Devliet, rond uw pols, het andere omheen
de ijzig koude hare en blijf zitten tot het lijkt
alsof een draad van daglicht
het vervangt.
TRAP
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.’
Elizabeth Bishop
Loss habituation: for the first ten years you are allowed
a piece of elastic that holds your mittens together and then that's it.
At age eleven, if not before, they detach your woollen hands
probably with silver scissors
or even a samurai sword. I don't remember anything about it,
but, surely, it was quite a ceremony?
Thereafter, the losses simply happen
one after another, with an ever-greater survivor:
ultimately you or me.
Who realises in time that it's a trap?
That it's not about the retention of
what will inevitably, at sometime, be lost, but always about
the connection itself. That last mitten string,
pop it, Jackie, in your plastic tank. If needs be, place it
in your brace case, Jack. Fasten one end,
Mr J. Devliet, around your wrist, the other about
her icy cold arm and sit still until it seems
as if a thread of daylight
takes its place.
Publisher: 2023, First publication on poetryinternational.com,
TRAP
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.’
Elizabeth Bishop
Loss habituation: for the first ten years you are allowed
a piece of elastic that holds your mittens together and then that's it.
At age eleven, if not before, they detach your woollen hands
probably with silver scissors
or even a samurai sword. I don't remember anything about it,
but, surely, it was quite a ceremony?
Thereafter, the losses simply happen
one after another, with an ever-greater survivor:
ultimately you or me.
Who realises in time that it's a trap?
That it's not about the retention of
what will inevitably, at sometime, be lost, but always about
the connection itself. That last mitten string,
pop it, Jackie, in your plastic tank. If needs be, place it
in your brace case, Jack. Fasten one end,
Mr J. Devliet, around your wrist, the other about
her icy cold arm and sit still until it seems
as if a thread of daylight
takes its place.
Publisher: 2023, First publication on poetryinternational.com,
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