Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Hans Tentije

BERLIN – ANSBACHER STRAßE

This is the key in your hand, these are the double doors
of the entryway, the broad staircase
offering you its plush runner and ushering you
to stately floors above

not a rod out of place, the darkness creeps up
from the wainscot and the blood clots, exhausted,
in the chilly veins of the marble

the faint cracks date from when the light fixtures
swung fearsomely and shook themselves bare
above parquet and table linen, when the alarm
sounded and the last of the crystal shattered ―

come, shut the door behind you, mindful of intruders
and autumn leaves, sniff the stale, almost bygone
scents of silk and serge, of that one, so often

overpowering perfume, of pigskin luggage
or cheap cardboard cases and listen
as back-then’s thawing snow once again
drips from a sable-fur collar

and how, on these but frugally lit landings
haircurlered mistrust and housecoat-clammy
untalcked hot flashes, scuttlebutt

and innuendos, veiled or not, could thrive ―
outside, the knotroot’s feelers cling to iron
filigree, loggias, and balconies, embracing
even strangling the years

it was here, wasn’t it?

BERLIJN – ANSBACHER STRASSE

BERLIJN – ANSBACHER STRASSE

Dit is de sleutel in je hand, dit is de vleugeldeur
van de entree, de brede trapopgang
die zijn pluchen loper voor je uitlegt en je naar statige
verdiepingen omhoogvoert

geen roede ligt er scheef, het duister
kruipt uit de lambrizering op en in de kille aderen
van het marmer stremt, vermoeid, het bloed

de lichte scheuren dateren van die keren
dat de luchters vervaarlijk zwaaiden en zich leegschudden
boven tafelkleden en parket, toen het alarm
afging en het laatste kristal versplinterde –

kom, sluit de deur achter je, denk om indringers
en najaarsblad, snuif de verschaalde, bijna vervlogen
geuren van zijde en serge, van dat ene, alles

zo vaak verpestende parfum op, van varkensleren
of goedkope kartonnen koffers en hoor
hoe de sneeuw van toen, dooiend, andermaal
van een kraag van sabelbont druipt

en hoe op de slechts spaarzaam verlichte overlopen
het gekrulspelde wantrouwen en zulke ochtendjasklamme
ongepoederde opvliegers, roddels

en al of niet bedekte toespelingen konden gedijen –
buitenom vergrijpen de tengels van de bosandoorn zich
aan lofwerk, loggia’s en balkons, omstrengelen
tot wurgens toe de jaren

hier was het toch?
Close

BERLIN – ANSBACHER STRAßE

This is the key in your hand, these are the double doors
of the entryway, the broad staircase
offering you its plush runner and ushering you
to stately floors above

not a rod out of place, the darkness creeps up
from the wainscot and the blood clots, exhausted,
in the chilly veins of the marble

the faint cracks date from when the light fixtures
swung fearsomely and shook themselves bare
above parquet and table linen, when the alarm
sounded and the last of the crystal shattered ―

come, shut the door behind you, mindful of intruders
and autumn leaves, sniff the stale, almost bygone
scents of silk and serge, of that one, so often

overpowering perfume, of pigskin luggage
or cheap cardboard cases and listen
as back-then’s thawing snow once again
drips from a sable-fur collar

and how, on these but frugally lit landings
haircurlered mistrust and housecoat-clammy
untalcked hot flashes, scuttlebutt

and innuendos, veiled or not, could thrive ―
outside, the knotroot’s feelers cling to iron
filigree, loggias, and balconies, embracing
even strangling the years

it was here, wasn’t it?

BERLIN – ANSBACHER STRAßE

This is the key in your hand, these are the double doors
of the entryway, the broad staircase
offering you its plush runner and ushering you
to stately floors above

not a rod out of place, the darkness creeps up
from the wainscot and the blood clots, exhausted,
in the chilly veins of the marble

the faint cracks date from when the light fixtures
swung fearsomely and shook themselves bare
above parquet and table linen, when the alarm
sounded and the last of the crystal shattered ―

come, shut the door behind you, mindful of intruders
and autumn leaves, sniff the stale, almost bygone
scents of silk and serge, of that one, so often

overpowering perfume, of pigskin luggage
or cheap cardboard cases and listen
as back-then’s thawing snow once again
drips from a sable-fur collar

and how, on these but frugally lit landings
haircurlered mistrust and housecoat-clammy
untalcked hot flashes, scuttlebutt

and innuendos, veiled or not, could thrive ―
outside, the knotroot’s feelers cling to iron
filigree, loggias, and balconies, embracing
even strangling the years

it was here, wasn’t it?
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