Poem
Arjen Duinker
K. Schippers, listen to this!
There was a report.Someone stood in a colourful
Little field and said: the truth is so bitter
That part of it is withheld.
During the party
In honour of language,
Recently held at one
Of the mundane meeting places
My hometown features too,
People discovered behind an orange drape
A family without words.
While the word ‘the’ spluttered slyly and bloodily,
Although the word ‘a’ spoke tardily and haggardly,
Because the word ‘it’ reasoned squarely and unyieldingly.
A man said to the family: go to hell, you lot!
The family pulled a cord,
A hatch opened,
The truth fell into the water.
No,
It concerned only part of the truth,
That one hand, that mouth, that muscle,
Gruesome language
In the body.
The man’s wife meanwhile
Looked at a painting
That hung from the wall
And saw colours
Of which she didn’t know the names outright.
I do still know all kinds of songs,
She seemed to want to say.
I could surely sing them halfway,
But most of the endings I’ve forgotten.
A little house hung from the wall
With lots of sky and sun above.
Look, there’s a little house,
A little house, a little house,
And the sun laughed up its sleeve…
The woman looked if anyone was listening,
Looked the way a definite article can.
The air embraces a little bird…
The woman looked if anyone saw her be quiet,
Looked the way curtains look
And saw the family looking without language
At the painting.
She found the orange
Immediately interesting.
There was a report
From Chechnya or Amboina
And someone in a field said:
The truth is so bitter
That part of it is
Withheld.
The family didn’t wear their Sunday best,
Yet was far from colourless.
Would you like wine,
Or would you rather have beer or tea,
The man said who had
Climbed back up again.
He went over to his wife
And whispered something in her ear.
Yes, his wife said, the war is everywhere,
Look, it’s there, too.
Without looking she pointed at the painting
That hung from the wall.
The man saw a little house
With a few windows shut
And a window with something sticking out.
Nice colour blue, he said,
And that brown is nice, too.
The black is a little too sarcastic
And the red I find quite overdone.
But that watery yellowpinkgreen
Really makes me laugh.
The family ate from a huge cake
That was on the table.
The table had the shape
Of a present participle.
The curtains moved a little
In the wind
Blowing through the window.
There’s a window open,
The man said.
Yes, the woman said, it’s time
To sing songs.
In the painting on the wall
People were crawling
To and fro.
They made yelling gestures.
The air stifles a little bird,
With a one…two…three!
The most attributive daughter in the family
Walked towards the mirror
And looked back.
Her mother sat drinking tea.
You’re all wet,
The woman said to her husband.
No, he said, that’s about to.
© Translation: 2003, Willem Groenewegen
K. SCHIPPERS, MOET JE HOREN!
K. SCHIPPERS, MOET JE HOREN!
Er was een reportage.Iemand stond in een veldje
Vol kleuren en zei: de waarheid is zo bitter
Dat ze voor een deel wordt verzwegen.
Tijdens het feest
Ter ere van de taal,
Onlangs georganiseerd in één
Van de mondaine ontmoetingscentra
Die ook mijn woonplaats rijk is,
Ontdekte men achter een oranje gordijn
Een gezin zonder woorden.
Terwijl het woordje ‘de’ sluw en bloederig sputterde,
Ofschoon het woordje ‘een’ traag en uitgemergeld sprak,
Doordat het woordje ‘het’ geblokt en onbeweeglijk redeneerde.
Een man zei tegen het gezin: donder op, jullie!
Het gezin trok aan een koord,
Een luik ging open,
De waarheid viel in het water.
Nee,
Het ging om een deel van de waarheid,
Die ene hand, die mond, die spier,
IJzingwekkende taal
In het lichaam.
De vrouw van de man
Keek ondertussen naar een schilderij
Dat aan de muur hing
En zag kleuren
Waarvan ze niet eentweedrie de namen wist.
Ik weet nog wel allerlei liedjes,
Het leek of ze dat wilde zeggen.
Ik kan ze zeker voor de helft zingen,
Maar de meeste einden ben ik vergeten.
Aan de muur hing een klein huis
Met veel lucht en een zon erboven.
Kijk, er staat een huisje,
Een huisje, een huisje,
En de zon lacht in haar vuistje...
De vrouw keek of iemand luisterde,
Keek zoals een lidwoord kan kijken.
De lucht omarmt een vogeltje...
De vrouw keek of iemand haar zag zwijgen,
Keek zoals een gordijn kijkt
En zag het gezin zonder taal kijken
Naar het schilderij.
Ze vond het oranje
Onmiddellijk boeiend.
Er was een reportage
Uit Tsjetsjenië of Ambon
En iemand in een veldje zei:
De waarheid is zo bitter
Dat ze voor een deel wordt
Verzwegen.
Het gezin droeg geen zondagse kleren,
Maar was verre van kleurloos.
Houden jullie van wijn,
Of hebben jullie liever bier of thee,
Zei de man die weer
Omhoog was geklommen.
Hij ging bij zijn vrouw staan
En fluisterde iets in haar oor.
Ja, zei zijn vrouw, het is overal oorlog,
Kijk maar, daar ook.
Ze wees zonder te kijken naar het schilderij
Dat aan de muur hing.
De man zag een klein huis
Met een paar dichte ramen
En een raam waaruit iets naar buiten stak.
Mooie kleur blauw, zei hij,
En dat bruin is ook mooi.
Het zwart is me wat te sarcastisch
En het rood vind ik echt overdreven.
Maar om dat waterige geelrozegroen
Moet ik lachen.
Het gezin at van de reusachtige taart
Die op tafel stond.
De tafel had de vorm
Van een onvoltooid deelwoord.
Het gordijn bewoog een beetje
In de wind
Die door het raam blies.
Er staat een raam open,
Zei de man.
Ja, zei de vrouw, het is tijd
Om liedjes te zingen.
Op het schilderij aan de muur
Kropen mensen
Heen en weer.
Ze maakten schreeuwende gebaren.
De lucht verstikt een vogeltje,
Van je een... twee... drie!
De bijvoeglijkste dochter van het gezin
Liep naar een spiegel
En keek achterom.
Haar moeder dronk thee.
Je bent helemaal nat,
Zei de vrouw tegen haar man.
Nee, zei die, dat komt zo.
© 2003, Arjen Duinker
Publisher: First published on PIW,
Publisher: First published on PIW,
Poems
Poems of Arjen Duinker
Close
K. Schippers, listen to this!
There was a report.Someone stood in a colourful
Little field and said: the truth is so bitter
That part of it is withheld.
During the party
In honour of language,
Recently held at one
Of the mundane meeting places
My hometown features too,
People discovered behind an orange drape
A family without words.
While the word ‘the’ spluttered slyly and bloodily,
Although the word ‘a’ spoke tardily and haggardly,
Because the word ‘it’ reasoned squarely and unyieldingly.
A man said to the family: go to hell, you lot!
The family pulled a cord,
A hatch opened,
The truth fell into the water.
No,
It concerned only part of the truth,
That one hand, that mouth, that muscle,
Gruesome language
In the body.
The man’s wife meanwhile
Looked at a painting
That hung from the wall
And saw colours
Of which she didn’t know the names outright.
I do still know all kinds of songs,
She seemed to want to say.
I could surely sing them halfway,
But most of the endings I’ve forgotten.
A little house hung from the wall
With lots of sky and sun above.
Look, there’s a little house,
A little house, a little house,
And the sun laughed up its sleeve…
The woman looked if anyone was listening,
Looked the way a definite article can.
The air embraces a little bird…
The woman looked if anyone saw her be quiet,
Looked the way curtains look
And saw the family looking without language
At the painting.
She found the orange
Immediately interesting.
There was a report
From Chechnya or Amboina
And someone in a field said:
The truth is so bitter
That part of it is
Withheld.
The family didn’t wear their Sunday best,
Yet was far from colourless.
Would you like wine,
Or would you rather have beer or tea,
The man said who had
Climbed back up again.
He went over to his wife
And whispered something in her ear.
Yes, his wife said, the war is everywhere,
Look, it’s there, too.
Without looking she pointed at the painting
That hung from the wall.
The man saw a little house
With a few windows shut
And a window with something sticking out.
Nice colour blue, he said,
And that brown is nice, too.
The black is a little too sarcastic
And the red I find quite overdone.
But that watery yellowpinkgreen
Really makes me laugh.
The family ate from a huge cake
That was on the table.
The table had the shape
Of a present participle.
The curtains moved a little
In the wind
Blowing through the window.
There’s a window open,
The man said.
Yes, the woman said, it’s time
To sing songs.
In the painting on the wall
People were crawling
To and fro.
They made yelling gestures.
The air stifles a little bird,
With a one…two…three!
The most attributive daughter in the family
Walked towards the mirror
And looked back.
Her mother sat drinking tea.
You’re all wet,
The woman said to her husband.
No, he said, that’s about to.
© 2003, Willem Groenewegen
K. Schippers, listen to this!
There was a report.Someone stood in a colourful
Little field and said: the truth is so bitter
That part of it is withheld.
During the party
In honour of language,
Recently held at one
Of the mundane meeting places
My hometown features too,
People discovered behind an orange drape
A family without words.
While the word ‘the’ spluttered slyly and bloodily,
Although the word ‘a’ spoke tardily and haggardly,
Because the word ‘it’ reasoned squarely and unyieldingly.
A man said to the family: go to hell, you lot!
The family pulled a cord,
A hatch opened,
The truth fell into the water.
No,
It concerned only part of the truth,
That one hand, that mouth, that muscle,
Gruesome language
In the body.
The man’s wife meanwhile
Looked at a painting
That hung from the wall
And saw colours
Of which she didn’t know the names outright.
I do still know all kinds of songs,
She seemed to want to say.
I could surely sing them halfway,
But most of the endings I’ve forgotten.
A little house hung from the wall
With lots of sky and sun above.
Look, there’s a little house,
A little house, a little house,
And the sun laughed up its sleeve…
The woman looked if anyone was listening,
Looked the way a definite article can.
The air embraces a little bird…
The woman looked if anyone saw her be quiet,
Looked the way curtains look
And saw the family looking without language
At the painting.
She found the orange
Immediately interesting.
There was a report
From Chechnya or Amboina
And someone in a field said:
The truth is so bitter
That part of it is
Withheld.
The family didn’t wear their Sunday best,
Yet was far from colourless.
Would you like wine,
Or would you rather have beer or tea,
The man said who had
Climbed back up again.
He went over to his wife
And whispered something in her ear.
Yes, his wife said, the war is everywhere,
Look, it’s there, too.
Without looking she pointed at the painting
That hung from the wall.
The man saw a little house
With a few windows shut
And a window with something sticking out.
Nice colour blue, he said,
And that brown is nice, too.
The black is a little too sarcastic
And the red I find quite overdone.
But that watery yellowpinkgreen
Really makes me laugh.
The family ate from a huge cake
That was on the table.
The table had the shape
Of a present participle.
The curtains moved a little
In the wind
Blowing through the window.
There’s a window open,
The man said.
Yes, the woman said, it’s time
To sing songs.
In the painting on the wall
People were crawling
To and fro.
They made yelling gestures.
The air stifles a little bird,
With a one…two…three!
The most attributive daughter in the family
Walked towards the mirror
And looked back.
Her mother sat drinking tea.
You’re all wet,
The woman said to her husband.
No, he said, that’s about to.
© 2003, Willem Groenewegen
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