Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Andriana Škunca

How Quickly She Forgets It All

       As it passes her unheard, mother spins time onto a stick, tents it as she walks. She calls from here and there, tests, questions. And as she walks her stick’s a feeler, with which she probes and peers.
        How quickly she forgets it all, always repeating and repeating: how, when, where? The present flows through her like absence. All she recalls harks back to childhood and on to the parts to come. She speaks of it to us, the same anew.
        When she climbs the stairs, behind her time spins an invisible carpet. At every step she asks: “You down there? Are you down there?”
        No one. Nothing.

Kako sve brzo zaboravlja

Kako sve brzo zaboravlja

        Kako joj nečujno prolazi, majka namata vrijeme na štap, razvlači ga u hodu. Doziva iz raznih udaljenosti, provjerava, pita. I dok šeta, štap je ticalo kojim ispituje – gleda.
        Kako sve brzo zaboravlja, neprestano ponavlja isto: kako, kada, zašto?         Sadašnjost protječe kroz nju kao nešto neprisutno. Sve čega se sjeća dolazi iz djetinjstva i nekih budućih predjela. O tome nam priča svagda isto.
        Kad se uspinje stubištem, vrijeme za njom zamata nevidljivi sag. Sa svake stube pita: – Jesi doli? – Jesi dolika?
        Nikoga. Ništa.
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How Quickly She Forgets It All

       As it passes her unheard, mother spins time onto a stick, tents it as she walks. She calls from here and there, tests, questions. And as she walks her stick’s a feeler, with which she probes and peers.
        How quickly she forgets it all, always repeating and repeating: how, when, where? The present flows through her like absence. All she recalls harks back to childhood and on to the parts to come. She speaks of it to us, the same anew.
        When she climbs the stairs, behind her time spins an invisible carpet. At every step she asks: “You down there? Are you down there?”
        No one. Nothing.

How Quickly She Forgets It All

       As it passes her unheard, mother spins time onto a stick, tents it as she walks. She calls from here and there, tests, questions. And as she walks her stick’s a feeler, with which she probes and peers.
        How quickly she forgets it all, always repeating and repeating: how, when, where? The present flows through her like absence. All she recalls harks back to childhood and on to the parts to come. She speaks of it to us, the same anew.
        When she climbs the stairs, behind her time spins an invisible carpet. At every step she asks: “You down there? Are you down there?”
        No one. Nothing.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère