Poem
Hans Tentije
ORVIETO
Serpentine road and hairpinturns lift the tuff plateau ever higher
past crumbly, overgrown ramparts, to the portal
of a city reawakened later in the afternoon
at the cathedral you briefly shut your eyes
in disbelief and its brilliance, the gilt of an entire past
unfurls across your eyelids
tempered, wine-yellow light falls
through windowpanes as though of marble, with a nervature
of charred lightning bolts, of lives curdled
centuries back, of floodmarks, blood
thrust upward and still gurgling underground, caught
and buried below mountains –
someone brings a funeral posy, abundant with
greenery and arum lilies, to the side chapel, where even
audible, vaguely over-articulated prayer is forbidden
a hearse, its pennants hanging, pulls onto
the church square, squanders its immense horsepower
on the haulage of a single casket, the requiem
will be celebrated shortly
four pilasters, enframed by grapevines
and acanthus leaves, display a series of chiseled
biblical scenes – you seek out your own face at Judgement Day
among the throngs of the unredeemed –
it’s not there, for now
© Translation: 2020, Jonathan Reeder
ORVIETO
ORVIETO
Een slingerende weg en haarspeldscherpelussen tillen langs brokkelige, overgroeide weringen
het tufstenen plateau hoger en hoger, tot voor de poorten
van een later in de middag weer ontwaakte stad
voor de kathedraal sluit je vol ongeloof
je ogen even en over je oogleden strijkt zijn schittering
het goud van een heel verleden uit
getemperd, wijngeel licht valt
door wat marmeren ruiten lijken, met een nervatuur
van verkoolde bliksemschichten, van eeuwen terug geronnen
levenslopen, van vloedlijnen, opgestuwd
en onderaards nagolvend bloed, dat in gebergten
strandde, zich daar begroef –
iemand brengt een grafstuk, vol overdadig
groen en aronskelken, naar de zijkapel, waar hardop, iets
te loslippig bidden zelfs verboden is
een lijkwagen draait met hangende vaantjes
het domplein op, verspilt zijn enorme motorvermogen
aan het vervoer van een simpele kist, het requiem
zal dadelijk worden opgedragen
vier pilasters laten, door druivenranken
en acanthusblad omlijst, een reeks uitgehouwen
bijbelse taferelen zien – bij de jongste dag zoek je je gezicht
tussen dat van de vele, vele verdoemden –
je vindt het niet, vooralsnog
© 2003, Hans Tentije
From: Wat het licht doet
Publisher: De Harmonie, Amsterdam
From: Wat het licht doet
Publisher: De Harmonie, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Hans Tentije
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ORVIETO
Serpentine road and hairpinturns lift the tuff plateau ever higher
past crumbly, overgrown ramparts, to the portal
of a city reawakened later in the afternoon
at the cathedral you briefly shut your eyes
in disbelief and its brilliance, the gilt of an entire past
unfurls across your eyelids
tempered, wine-yellow light falls
through windowpanes as though of marble, with a nervature
of charred lightning bolts, of lives curdled
centuries back, of floodmarks, blood
thrust upward and still gurgling underground, caught
and buried below mountains –
someone brings a funeral posy, abundant with
greenery and arum lilies, to the side chapel, where even
audible, vaguely over-articulated prayer is forbidden
a hearse, its pennants hanging, pulls onto
the church square, squanders its immense horsepower
on the haulage of a single casket, the requiem
will be celebrated shortly
four pilasters, enframed by grapevines
and acanthus leaves, display a series of chiseled
biblical scenes – you seek out your own face at Judgement Day
among the throngs of the unredeemed –
it’s not there, for now
© 2020, Jonathan Reeder
From: Wat het licht doet
From: Wat het licht doet
ORVIETO
Serpentine road and hairpinturns lift the tuff plateau ever higher
past crumbly, overgrown ramparts, to the portal
of a city reawakened later in the afternoon
at the cathedral you briefly shut your eyes
in disbelief and its brilliance, the gilt of an entire past
unfurls across your eyelids
tempered, wine-yellow light falls
through windowpanes as though of marble, with a nervature
of charred lightning bolts, of lives curdled
centuries back, of floodmarks, blood
thrust upward and still gurgling underground, caught
and buried below mountains –
someone brings a funeral posy, abundant with
greenery and arum lilies, to the side chapel, where even
audible, vaguely over-articulated prayer is forbidden
a hearse, its pennants hanging, pulls onto
the church square, squanders its immense horsepower
on the haulage of a single casket, the requiem
will be celebrated shortly
four pilasters, enframed by grapevines
and acanthus leaves, display a series of chiseled
biblical scenes – you seek out your own face at Judgement Day
among the throngs of the unredeemed –
it’s not there, for now
© 2020, Jonathan Reeder
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