Poem
Esther Jansma
by the way
Death turns us into a spot.The spot where the man was: the body
(how the hairs of your neck, how,
how etc.) that forgot itself
on the stones of that street, in that town.
Later, it is night, there\'s a playground
(we: shoulder to shoulder, unhurried,
a friendship, more silent now) I\'m still asking
have things memory? Point to a couple
of all the tiles that lie here.
Little stone coffins. Lacking memory,
they just lie there, I say, they\'re not this,
here, not side by side. Nothing.
It\'s silent where I\'m standing. Later too.
It\'s this: in the street, no, anywhere:
what makes a spot no spot can know.
tussen twee haakjes
tussen twee haakjes
De dood maakt van mensen een plek.De plek waar de man was: het lichaam
(hoe de haartjes in je nek, en hoe
en hoe) dat zich vergat
op de stenen in die straat, in die stad.
Later, het is nacht, er is een speelpleintje
(wij: schouder aan schouder, ongehaast,
een vriendschap zwijgzamer) vraag ik nog
hebben dingen een geheugen? Wijs
op twee van alle tegels die er liggen.
Stenen kistjes. Zonder geheugen
liggen ze er maar, zeg ik, zijn ze niet dit
hier, niet naast elkaar. Niets.
Het is stil waar ik sta. Later ook.
Het is op straat, nee, waar dan ook
dit: wat een plek maakt, weet die plek niet.
© 1998, De Arbeiderspers
From: Hier is de tijd
Publisher: De Arbeiderspers,
From: Hier is de tijd
Publisher: De Arbeiderspers,
Poems
Poems of Esther Jansma
Close
by the way
Death turns us into a spot.The spot where the man was: the body
(how the hairs of your neck, how,
how etc.) that forgot itself
on the stones of that street, in that town.
Later, it is night, there\'s a playground
(we: shoulder to shoulder, unhurried,
a friendship, more silent now) I\'m still asking
have things memory? Point to a couple
of all the tiles that lie here.
Little stone coffins. Lacking memory,
they just lie there, I say, they\'re not this,
here, not side by side. Nothing.
It\'s silent where I\'m standing. Later too.
It\'s this: in the street, no, anywhere:
what makes a spot no spot can know.
From: Hier is de tijd
by the way
Death turns us into a spot.The spot where the man was: the body
(how the hairs of your neck, how,
how etc.) that forgot itself
on the stones of that street, in that town.
Later, it is night, there\'s a playground
(we: shoulder to shoulder, unhurried,
a friendship, more silent now) I\'m still asking
have things memory? Point to a couple
of all the tiles that lie here.
Little stone coffins. Lacking memory,
they just lie there, I say, they\'re not this,
here, not side by side. Nothing.
It\'s silent where I\'m standing. Later too.
It\'s this: in the street, no, anywhere:
what makes a spot no spot can know.
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère