Poem
Hans Tentije
BERLIN – ANSBACHER STRAßE
This is the key in your hand, these are the double doorsof 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?
© Translation: 2020, Jonathan Reeder
BERLIJN – ANSBACHER STRASSE
BERLIJN – ANSBACHER STRASSE
Dit is de sleutel in je hand, dit is de vleugeldeurvan 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?
© 2004, Hans Tentije
Poems
Poems of Hans Tentije
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BERLIN – ANSBACHER STRAßE
This is the key in your hand, these are the double doorsof 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?
© 2020, Jonathan Reeder
BERLIN – ANSBACHER STRAßE
This is the key in your hand, these are the double doorsof 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?
© 2020, Jonathan Reeder
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