Alfred Schaffer
MY FAITH HAS A SHAPE THAT I CAN PICK UP WITH BOTH HANDS THAT I CAN SMELL AND RECOGNIZE WHICH MEANS I’M OBSERVING IT
you lie across the bed your face pressed into the pillow.
the sounds of the city, in the morning and the evening.
poetry is more than words on paper
yet symbolism withstanding: at some point it stops.
how can I wake you up when you’re not sleeping?
within the boundaries of your own incomprehensibility
and outside of the diversity of circumstances?
I didn’t want to write about you, for various reasons.
last night I couldn’t really tell
whether you were still alive, but now it’s day.
MIJN GELOOF HEEFT EEN VORM DIE IK MET BEIDE HANDEN PAKKEN KAN DIE IK KAN RUIKEN EN HERKENNEN DAT BETEKENT DAT IK HET WAARNEEM
MIJN GELOOF HEEFT EEN VORM DIE IK MET BEIDE HANDEN PAKKEN KAN DIE IK KAN RUIKEN EN HERKENNEN DAT BETEKENT DAT IK HET WAARNEEM
u ligt dwars op bed uw gezicht in het kussen gedrukt.
de geluiden van de stad, ’s ochtends en ’s avonds.
poëzie is meer dan woorden op papier
maar alle symboliek ten spijt: het houdt een keer op.
hoe moet ik u wekken wanneer u niet slaapt?
binnen de grenzen van uw eigen onbegrijpelijkheid
en buiten de veelheid aan omstandigheden?
ik wilde niet over u schrijven, om verschillende redenen.
vannacht kon ik niet goed zien
of u nog leefde, inmiddels is het dag.
From: wie was ik. strafregels.
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
MY FAITH HAS A SHAPE THAT I CAN PICK UP WITH BOTH HANDS THAT I CAN SMELL AND RECOGNIZE WHICH MEANS I’M OBSERVING IT
you lie across the bed your face pressed into the pillow.
the sounds of the city, in the morning and the evening.
poetry is more than words on paper
yet symbolism withstanding: at some point it stops.
how can I wake you up when you’re not sleeping?
within the boundaries of your own incomprehensibility
and outside of the diversity of circumstances?
I didn’t want to write about you, for various reasons.
last night I couldn’t really tell
whether you were still alive, but now it’s day.
From: wie was ik. strafregels.
MY FAITH HAS A SHAPE THAT I CAN PICK UP WITH BOTH HANDS THAT I CAN SMELL AND RECOGNIZE WHICH MEANS I’M OBSERVING IT
you lie across the bed your face pressed into the pillow.
the sounds of the city, in the morning and the evening.
poetry is more than words on paper
yet symbolism withstanding: at some point it stops.
how can I wake you up when you’re not sleeping?
within the boundaries of your own incomprehensibility
and outside of the diversity of circumstances?
I didn’t want to write about you, for various reasons.
last night I couldn’t really tell
whether you were still alive, but now it’s day.
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