Poem
Willem van Toorn
sonsbeek, stereo photography
Layer after layer of vitrified time,misted dim with distance so that I’m
surmising more than I see: your foot must be there,
hiding behind the plants by the path, your hair
blending with golden threads of autumn. But where
’s the angle from which this can be read for sure?
In photos still tantalisingly unclear:
On the Bridge of Swans. The Belvedere.
Assembled places, from Lorentz to the Great
Falls. But all the images retreat
in double illegibility. Here, between
all this sepia, there’s no life to be seen.
Maybe I need to change the way I gaze.
If I stare without expectation, it clicks into place.
Depth. Pin-sharp – the fathomless park.
Feet chastely together, you stand beside
the Pavilion. Six silver buttons shine
on your winter coat. A serious little face
beneath your fur hat. Your hands at your back.
Excursion, almost eighty years before.
I see the child who in her already bore
what she couldn’t imagine: the big girl
the young woman, the bride, the mother, all
she would be. So enlarged it takes my breath
away, I see the smile coming which you’ll
not have again till seconds before your death.
sonsbeek, stereophotographie
sonsbeek, stereophotographie
Verglaasde lagen tijd achter elkaar,troebel van afstand zodat ik meer vermoed
dan zie: wegglippen van je voet
achter groen langs het pad, je haar
opgaand in gouden herfstdraden. Er moet
een hoek zijn die dit voorgoed leesbaar maakt.
Op deze foto\'s nu nog tergend vaag:
De Belvédère. Op de Zwanenbrug.
Van Lorentz tot de Grote Waterval
plekken vergaard. Maar ieder beeld wijkt terug
in dubbele onleesbaarheid. Er valt
geen leven te ontwaren in zoveel sepia.
Ik moet iets met mijn blik doen. Als ik staar
zonder verwachting klikt het op zijn plaats.
Diepte. Het peilloos park haarscherp. Je staat
bij het Paviljoen. Voeten kuis naast elkaar.
Zes zilveren knopen op je winterjas.
Je bontmuts op, een ernstig klein gelaat
daaronder. Je handen op je rug.
Uitstapje van voor haast tachtig jaar.
Ik zie het kind dat toen al in zich droeg
wat het niet kon vermoeden: het grote
meisje, de vrouw, de bruid, de moeder
die het zou worden. Adembenemend vergroot
zie ik de glimlach komen die je pas
weer had in de seconden voor je dood.
Poems
Poems of Willem van Toorn
Close
sonsbeek, stereo photography
Layer after layer of vitrified time,misted dim with distance so that I’m
surmising more than I see: your foot must be there,
hiding behind the plants by the path, your hair
blending with golden threads of autumn. But where
’s the angle from which this can be read for sure?
In photos still tantalisingly unclear:
On the Bridge of Swans. The Belvedere.
Assembled places, from Lorentz to the Great
Falls. But all the images retreat
in double illegibility. Here, between
all this sepia, there’s no life to be seen.
Maybe I need to change the way I gaze.
If I stare without expectation, it clicks into place.
Depth. Pin-sharp – the fathomless park.
Feet chastely together, you stand beside
the Pavilion. Six silver buttons shine
on your winter coat. A serious little face
beneath your fur hat. Your hands at your back.
Excursion, almost eighty years before.
I see the child who in her already bore
what she couldn’t imagine: the big girl
the young woman, the bride, the mother, all
she would be. So enlarged it takes my breath
away, I see the smile coming which you’ll
not have again till seconds before your death.
sonsbeek, stereo photography
Layer after layer of vitrified time,misted dim with distance so that I’m
surmising more than I see: your foot must be there,
hiding behind the plants by the path, your hair
blending with golden threads of autumn. But where
’s the angle from which this can be read for sure?
In photos still tantalisingly unclear:
On the Bridge of Swans. The Belvedere.
Assembled places, from Lorentz to the Great
Falls. But all the images retreat
in double illegibility. Here, between
all this sepia, there’s no life to be seen.
Maybe I need to change the way I gaze.
If I stare without expectation, it clicks into place.
Depth. Pin-sharp – the fathomless park.
Feet chastely together, you stand beside
the Pavilion. Six silver buttons shine
on your winter coat. A serious little face
beneath your fur hat. Your hands at your back.
Excursion, almost eighty years before.
I see the child who in her already bore
what she couldn’t imagine: the big girl
the young woman, the bride, the mother, all
she would be. So enlarged it takes my breath
away, I see the smile coming which you’ll
not have again till seconds before your death.
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