Poem
Elma van Haren
NEW SECOND STREET
You have to start looking for a point of departure somewhere,so all lines of approach are possible.
More troublesome is getting free
of the word ‘arbitrary’.
You are still attached to fragmentation.
Hundreds of streets wind round your pointing finger.
Seek the axis of the city the heart of the city, fortress
around the flowering inner courtyard with cesspit;
the brain of the city; tortuous
conglomeration of energy pinpricks,
surfacing on all sides and
searching for an exit as access
to their safe havens.
Like a sailor on shore leave
you roll down the street.
But the streets are behind you now.
You have an address.
Left right turn criss-cross up the gutter round the corner cross
distracted suddenly down at heel twisted ankle in the tram track.
You fish out your foot. Rambling through no man’s land,
no man’s island.
Not a man in sight.
No hat to lay, no bird in the hand,
no dog to feed, no chickens to come home to roost.
Once this was a block. Now it’s a street.
And there, where no one ever lived, is your assigned address.
The crown on your registration and
the confirmation of your name as alibi
for committing all those accumulated years.
There, in transparent layers, five floors lie stacked.
All imaginable furniture; contents refrigerator smell of bedding,
drone of washing television play corner ceiling lights pot plants.
And your body opposite, tenuous,
still on the threshold, lethargic.
The seeking has to go with you, there where
glittering panes have descended in the misty wall.
The façade’s false teeth.
Reflecting outside to make the reflection
startle itself and seeing from inside
how your glass self stumbles.
The clatter!
© Translation: 2006, David Colmer
De nieuwe 2e Leeghwaterstraat
De nieuwe 2e Leeghwaterstraat
Omdat je ergens beginnen moet het uitgangspunt te vindenis iedere invalshoek mogelijk.
Lastiger is het je los te maken
van het woord ‘willekeurig’.
Je hecht nog aan versplintering.
Zo winden honderden straten zich rond je wijzende vinger.
Zoek de as van de stad is het hart van de stad, vesting
rond de bloeiende binnenkoer met de beerput;
is het brein van de stad; kronkelig
samenkleven van energiespeldenprikpunten,
die aan alle kanten de kop opsteken en
een uitweg zoeken als
oprit naar hun veilige haven.
Alsof je een binnenschipper bent
zwalk je op je benen over straat.
Maar je bent van de straten af.
Nu heb je een adres.
Links rechts inslaan kriskras hoek om stoep op en af
achteloos ingehaakte omgeklapte enkel in de tramrail.
Je vist je voet eruit. Dwaaltocht door niemands land.
Bent niemands kind meer,
niemands kraai.
Geen vogel in de hand, geen hond in de lucht,
geen paard op de rug, geen kip op de stok van je slaap.
Hier was ooit een blok. Nu staat er een straat.
En daar, waar nooit gewoond werd, is je toegewezen adres.
De kroon op je registratie en
de bevestiging van je naam als alibi
voor het plegen van al die verworven jaren.
Daar ligt in transparante lagen vijf hoog op elkaar.
Elke huisraad voorstelbaar; inhoud ijskast geur van beddengoed,
geronk van de was speelhoek televisie plafondspots kamerplant.
En jouw lichaam daar ijl tegenover,
nog op de drempel, traag in beweging.
Het zoeken moet met je mee, daar waar
de ruiten zijn gevallen in de mistige muur en glinsteren.
Het gebit van de gevel.
Het buiten weerspiegelen om het spiegelbeeld
te doen schrikken van zichzelf en van binnenuit
het struikelen te zien van je verglazing.
Het rinkelen!
© 2005, Elma van Haren
From: Zacht gat in broekzak
Publisher: De Harmonie,
From: Zacht gat in broekzak
Publisher: De Harmonie,
Poems
Poems of Elma van Haren
Close
NEW SECOND STREET
You have to start looking for a point of departure somewhere,so all lines of approach are possible.
More troublesome is getting free
of the word ‘arbitrary’.
You are still attached to fragmentation.
Hundreds of streets wind round your pointing finger.
Seek the axis of the city the heart of the city, fortress
around the flowering inner courtyard with cesspit;
the brain of the city; tortuous
conglomeration of energy pinpricks,
surfacing on all sides and
searching for an exit as access
to their safe havens.
Like a sailor on shore leave
you roll down the street.
But the streets are behind you now.
You have an address.
Left right turn criss-cross up the gutter round the corner cross
distracted suddenly down at heel twisted ankle in the tram track.
You fish out your foot. Rambling through no man’s land,
no man’s island.
Not a man in sight.
No hat to lay, no bird in the hand,
no dog to feed, no chickens to come home to roost.
Once this was a block. Now it’s a street.
And there, where no one ever lived, is your assigned address.
The crown on your registration and
the confirmation of your name as alibi
for committing all those accumulated years.
There, in transparent layers, five floors lie stacked.
All imaginable furniture; contents refrigerator smell of bedding,
drone of washing television play corner ceiling lights pot plants.
And your body opposite, tenuous,
still on the threshold, lethargic.
The seeking has to go with you, there where
glittering panes have descended in the misty wall.
The façade’s false teeth.
Reflecting outside to make the reflection
startle itself and seeing from inside
how your glass self stumbles.
The clatter!
© 2006, David Colmer
From: Zacht gat in broekzak
From: Zacht gat in broekzak
NEW SECOND STREET
You have to start looking for a point of departure somewhere,so all lines of approach are possible.
More troublesome is getting free
of the word ‘arbitrary’.
You are still attached to fragmentation.
Hundreds of streets wind round your pointing finger.
Seek the axis of the city the heart of the city, fortress
around the flowering inner courtyard with cesspit;
the brain of the city; tortuous
conglomeration of energy pinpricks,
surfacing on all sides and
searching for an exit as access
to their safe havens.
Like a sailor on shore leave
you roll down the street.
But the streets are behind you now.
You have an address.
Left right turn criss-cross up the gutter round the corner cross
distracted suddenly down at heel twisted ankle in the tram track.
You fish out your foot. Rambling through no man’s land,
no man’s island.
Not a man in sight.
No hat to lay, no bird in the hand,
no dog to feed, no chickens to come home to roost.
Once this was a block. Now it’s a street.
And there, where no one ever lived, is your assigned address.
The crown on your registration and
the confirmation of your name as alibi
for committing all those accumulated years.
There, in transparent layers, five floors lie stacked.
All imaginable furniture; contents refrigerator smell of bedding,
drone of washing television play corner ceiling lights pot plants.
And your body opposite, tenuous,
still on the threshold, lethargic.
The seeking has to go with you, there where
glittering panes have descended in the misty wall.
The façade’s false teeth.
Reflecting outside to make the reflection
startle itself and seeing from inside
how your glass self stumbles.
The clatter!
© 2006, David Colmer
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