Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Ester Naomi Perquin

SONG

Being small hurts. Being small prods
at you with vicious pangs of change,
for instance on the chin, in your shins.
Growing always knocks you down. 

Being new hurts. Or dumb. You see it all
but stay invisible. Being grown-up hurts,
weighs on your shoulders late at night.
Or ugly, though you get used to that. 

Being old hurts in different places all at once.
For instance in your lower back and in the room
where you now sleep without your partner’s snoring
and how it bothered you. 

Being gone hurts the same way being hurts:
at the level of fate, a soft, unrepeatable song
that never stops.

LIEDJE

LIEDJE

Klein zijn doet pijn. Klein zijn schiet venijnig
op je in, met felle scheuten van verandering
bijvoorbeeld in je lurven, je hurken.
Groeien duwt je telkens om. 

Nieuw zijn doet pijn. Of dom. Alles zien maar
zelf onzichtbaar zijn. Volwassen zijn doet pijn,
drukt ’s nachts op de schouders. Of lelijk,
hoewel lelijk went. 

Oud zijn doet pijn op diverse plekken tegelijk.
Onder in de rug bijvoorbeeld en in de kamer
waar je voortaan slaapt zonder het gesnurk
van je man en je last daarvan. 

Weg zijn doet pijn zoals er zijn pijn doet:
ter hoogte van het lot, een zacht, traag,
volkomen onherhaalbaar zingen
dat nooit stopt.

Close

SONG

Being small hurts. Being small prods
at you with vicious pangs of change,
for instance on the chin, in your shins.
Growing always knocks you down. 

Being new hurts. Or dumb. You see it all
but stay invisible. Being grown-up hurts,
weighs on your shoulders late at night.
Or ugly, though you get used to that. 

Being old hurts in different places all at once.
For instance in your lower back and in the room
where you now sleep without your partner’s snoring
and how it bothered you. 

Being gone hurts the same way being hurts:
at the level of fate, a soft, unrepeatable song
that never stops.

SONG

Being small hurts. Being small prods
at you with vicious pangs of change,
for instance on the chin, in your shins.
Growing always knocks you down. 

Being new hurts. Or dumb. You see it all
but stay invisible. Being grown-up hurts,
weighs on your shoulders late at night.
Or ugly, though you get used to that. 

Being old hurts in different places all at once.
For instance in your lower back and in the room
where you now sleep without your partner’s snoring
and how it bothered you. 

Being gone hurts the same way being hurts:
at the level of fate, a soft, unrepeatable song
that never stops.

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
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère