Poem
Elma van Haren
ONCE UPON A…
Words bubbling up; froth,glistening bubble-blowing.
The air full of grey moisture,
a misty sky above blue fields with
a glowing core of careful light
trying to break through.
Then holes appear in the sky, cold-glazed,
every gleam around you burning white.
Soap bubbles, condensing into something that tries to rise;
a razor-sharp thought,
without heart or tongue or hands.
Blowing in through the open window at night
brushing your face like an Arctic chill
carrying the smell of smoke.
Stinging.
An ice-cold smell of burning.
Somewhere a fire must be raging, somewhere
a column of heat is rising and cannot descend,
trapped by heavy freezing air beneath.
The next day you feel a PING!
when you look someone in the eye
and the cash drawer flies open.
All the gold and silver is lying there jingling.
It’s yours to grab, but dims
on your palm,
because morning light is thick and white
with an unvarnished view of what’s alive.
Now you try to keep your guessing to the night.
You can smell it, you think it moves.
Darkness is furtive and makes
everything stealthy stealthier
(and fears sharper, pain marbled),
but this boundlessness breaks the spell of confinement,
vast and vaster and all the things you ever saw,
or held in your hands or thought or said,
will remain unspoken,
because they haven’t taken place.
© Translation: 2006, David Colmer
Er was eens…
Er was eens…
Zuiver belletjesschrift; zeepbel,tinkelende bellenblazerij.
De lucht vol grijze vochtigheid,
een nevellucht boven blauwe velden met
een gloeiende kern van aandachtig licht
dat probeert door te breken.
Dan vallen er gaten in de lucht, verglaasd van kou,
elke glinstering om je heen een brandend wit.
Zeepbellen, samengebald tot iets dat zich op wil richten;
een messcherpe gedachte,
zonder hart en tong en handen.
Die ’s nachts door het open raam
langs je gezicht komt waaien als een vrieskou,
waarin een brandgeur hangt.
Indringend.
Een ijskoude brandlucht.
Ergens moet vuur woeden, ergens
stijgt een kolom hitte op die niet meer kan dalen,
vanwege de koude zware lucht eronder.
De dag daarop voel je een PING!
als je in iemands ogen kijkt en
de kassa springt open.
Daar ligt al het goud en zilver te rinkelen.
Je kan het zo pakken, maar het vervaagt,
wanneer het in je handpalm ligt,
want licht in de morgen is dik en wit
met onverbloemd zicht op wat levend is.
Nu probeer je er alleen ’s nachts naar te raden.
Je kunt het ruiken, je meent dat het beweegt.
Donker is heimelijk en al wat
steels is maakt het steelser
(en angsten scherper, pijn gemarmerd),
maar dit grenzeloze tovert de ruimte open,
wijd en weidser en al wat je ooit voor ogen zag,
of in je handen had of dacht of sprak,
zal onbesproken blijven,
want plaatsgevonden heeft het niet.
© 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
ONCE UPON A…
Words bubbling up; froth,glistening bubble-blowing.
The air full of grey moisture,
a misty sky above blue fields with
a glowing core of careful light
trying to break through.
Then holes appear in the sky, cold-glazed,
every gleam around you burning white.
Soap bubbles, condensing into something that tries to rise;
a razor-sharp thought,
without heart or tongue or hands.
Blowing in through the open window at night
brushing your face like an Arctic chill
carrying the smell of smoke.
Stinging.
An ice-cold smell of burning.
Somewhere a fire must be raging, somewhere
a column of heat is rising and cannot descend,
trapped by heavy freezing air beneath.
The next day you feel a PING!
when you look someone in the eye
and the cash drawer flies open.
All the gold and silver is lying there jingling.
It’s yours to grab, but dims
on your palm,
because morning light is thick and white
with an unvarnished view of what’s alive.
Now you try to keep your guessing to the night.
You can smell it, you think it moves.
Darkness is furtive and makes
everything stealthy stealthier
(and fears sharper, pain marbled),
but this boundlessness breaks the spell of confinement,
vast and vaster and all the things you ever saw,
or held in your hands or thought or said,
will remain unspoken,
because they haven’t taken place.
© 2006, David Colmer
From: Zacht gat in broekzak
From: Zacht gat in broekzak
ONCE UPON A…
Words bubbling up; froth,glistening bubble-blowing.
The air full of grey moisture,
a misty sky above blue fields with
a glowing core of careful light
trying to break through.
Then holes appear in the sky, cold-glazed,
every gleam around you burning white.
Soap bubbles, condensing into something that tries to rise;
a razor-sharp thought,
without heart or tongue or hands.
Blowing in through the open window at night
brushing your face like an Arctic chill
carrying the smell of smoke.
Stinging.
An ice-cold smell of burning.
Somewhere a fire must be raging, somewhere
a column of heat is rising and cannot descend,
trapped by heavy freezing air beneath.
The next day you feel a PING!
when you look someone in the eye
and the cash drawer flies open.
All the gold and silver is lying there jingling.
It’s yours to grab, but dims
on your palm,
because morning light is thick and white
with an unvarnished view of what’s alive.
Now you try to keep your guessing to the night.
You can smell it, you think it moves.
Darkness is furtive and makes
everything stealthy stealthier
(and fears sharper, pain marbled),
but this boundlessness breaks the spell of confinement,
vast and vaster and all the things you ever saw,
or held in your hands or thought or said,
will remain unspoken,
because they haven’t taken place.
© 2006, David Colmer
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère