Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Neeltje Maria Min

‘The house remembers me.’

The house remembers me.

This is where I learnt to walk.

This room was the start of a run-up

that ended with a mighty leap.

 

Here is the kitchen stripped of stacked

dishes and implements.

I washed my face at this tap.

Stiff with old age, table  

and chair are clearly in the right.

Mat and lino have long since

become attached.

 

The attic stairs come to life

when I rest my foot on them.

Each step gives a cosy creak:

upstairs, child, and to bed.

 

And the bed, once as big as a boat

with me at the helm

is now as big as it is:

a linen or blanket chest.

The billowing sea from back then:

a varnished floor, 3 x 5.

On the shelves, old toys endure

the lack of childish interest.

 

The past stalks me back

to the ground floor. In the hall

it brings me down.

I reach home base on hands

and knees. It’s dark.  

The fire’s off. The rooms all do

what the house commands.

 

I’ve lost what was:

context, order, place.

Everything I encountered

while exploring last night

took me further from home.

The longer I look back,  

the tighter the knot in time.

"Het huis herinnert zich mij."

Het huis herinnert zich mij.

Hier heb ik lopen geleerd.

In deze kamer begon

de aanloop die eindigde in

een ontzettende sprong.

 

Hier is de keuken ontdaan

van gestapelde vaat en gerei.

Bij deze kraan waste ik mij.

Stram van ouderdom staan

tafel en stoel in hun recht.

Mat en zeil zijn al lang

aan elkaar gehecht.

 

De trap naar zolder leeft op

als ik mijn voet erop zet.

Behaaglijk kraakt elke tree:

naar boven mijn kind en naar bed.

 

En het bed, eens zo groot als een boot

waar ik mij stuurman op wist,

is nu zo groot als het is:

een deken- of aardappelkist.

De golvende zee van destijds:

een gebeitste vloer, 3 x 5.

Op de planken gerangschikt verdraagt

speelgoed  van vroeger

dat er geen kind meer naar vraagt.

 

Terug naar beneden besluipt

het verleden mij. Op de gang

haalt het mij onderuit.

Kruipend bereik ik het honk.

Het is donker. De kachel is uit.

Het huis is zijn kamers de baas.

 

Wat is geweest ben ik kwijt:

volgorde, samenhang, plaats.

Alles waarop ik vannacht

op mijn tocht ben gestuit

bracht mij verder van huis.

Hoe langer ik terugkijk hoe

strakker de knoop in de tijd.

Close

‘The house remembers me.’

The house remembers me.

This is where I learnt to walk.

This room was the start of a run-up

that ended with a mighty leap.

 

Here is the kitchen stripped of stacked

dishes and implements.

I washed my face at this tap.

Stiff with old age, table  

and chair are clearly in the right.

Mat and lino have long since

become attached.

 

The attic stairs come to life

when I rest my foot on them.

Each step gives a cosy creak:

upstairs, child, and to bed.

 

And the bed, once as big as a boat

with me at the helm

is now as big as it is:

a linen or blanket chest.

The billowing sea from back then:

a varnished floor, 3 x 5.

On the shelves, old toys endure

the lack of childish interest.

 

The past stalks me back

to the ground floor. In the hall

it brings me down.

I reach home base on hands

and knees. It’s dark.  

The fire’s off. The rooms all do

what the house commands.

 

I’ve lost what was:

context, order, place.

Everything I encountered

while exploring last night

took me further from home.

The longer I look back,  

the tighter the knot in time.

‘The house remembers me.’

The house remembers me.

This is where I learnt to walk.

This room was the start of a run-up

that ended with a mighty leap.

 

Here is the kitchen stripped of stacked

dishes and implements.

I washed my face at this tap.

Stiff with old age, table  

and chair are clearly in the right.

Mat and lino have long since

become attached.

 

The attic stairs come to life

when I rest my foot on them.

Each step gives a cosy creak:

upstairs, child, and to bed.

 

And the bed, once as big as a boat

with me at the helm

is now as big as it is:

a linen or blanket chest.

The billowing sea from back then:

a varnished floor, 3 x 5.

On the shelves, old toys endure

the lack of childish interest.

 

The past stalks me back

to the ground floor. In the hall

it brings me down.

I reach home base on hands

and knees. It’s dark.  

The fire’s off. The rooms all do

what the house commands.

 

I’ve lost what was:

context, order, place.

Everything I encountered

while exploring last night

took me further from home.

The longer I look back,  

the tighter the knot in time.

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