Poem
Willem van Toorn
hans memling: portrait of a young woman
Maybe Maria Moreel. We see her, at least.She’s held safe in her frame, too chaste
for words. So pale and burgerlijk, so
aloof and distantly well-to-do
that someone later went and gave her
the name of Sibyl. Wished it on her, rather –
thought her to Persia, so mythically far
that we can’t reach her any more.
But she just wants to be here. Her hand - see
how it lies over the frame, as if she’s been
waiting beside a stiff window that opens
suddenly, centuries later, into this moment.
hans memling: portret van een jonge vrouw
hans memling: portret van een jonge vrouw
Wellicht Maria Moreel. Wij zien haar wel.Ze is te kuis voor woorden in haar lijst
veilig gesteld. Zo van de burgerij,
zo bleek en onbereikbaar welgesteld
dat later iemand haar de naam Sybille
heeft opgelegd. Dat mocht hij willen:
zo mythisch naar Perzië weggedacht
dat niets ons meer toegang tot haar verschaft.
Terwijl zij hier wil zijn. Kijk, haar hand ligt
over de lijst, als in de vensterbank
van een star raam dat plotseling open kan,
na eeuwen wachten, naar dit ogenblik.
© 1997, Querido
From: Tegen de tijd
Publisher: Querido,
From: Tegen de tijd
Publisher: Querido,
Poems
Poems of Willem van Toorn
Close
hans memling: portrait of a young woman
Maybe Maria Moreel. We see her, at least.She’s held safe in her frame, too chaste
for words. So pale and burgerlijk, so
aloof and distantly well-to-do
that someone later went and gave her
the name of Sibyl. Wished it on her, rather –
thought her to Persia, so mythically far
that we can’t reach her any more.
But she just wants to be here. Her hand - see
how it lies over the frame, as if she’s been
waiting beside a stiff window that opens
suddenly, centuries later, into this moment.
From: Tegen de tijd
hans memling: portrait of a young woman
Maybe Maria Moreel. We see her, at least.She’s held safe in her frame, too chaste
for words. So pale and burgerlijk, so
aloof and distantly well-to-do
that someone later went and gave her
the name of Sibyl. Wished it on her, rather –
thought her to Persia, so mythically far
that we can’t reach her any more.
But she just wants to be here. Her hand - see
how it lies over the frame, as if she’s been
waiting beside a stiff window that opens
suddenly, centuries later, into this moment.
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