Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Leonard Nolens

THE POET TO HIMSELF

Go on, just you try, unclothe me
To the bone, I’ll remain the final cut
Of your suit, the rested rectangle
Of your bed, your handiest form of hope.

And you, you’re nothing but a glimpse
Of me, oh you, my chain-smoking shadow
Between two trains, my moaning phantom

With suitcases, you, my hobbling ghost
Who will wash away through the slow revolving door
Of a derelict station.

Go on, just you try, forget me,
My friend, my frank absent slave.
I am your whip, you bleed from my hours.
I am your work and you are my servant.

De dichter tegen zichzelf

De dichter tegen zichzelf

Toe maar, probeer het maar, kleed mij maar uit
Tot op het bot, ik blijf de laatste snit
Van je pak, de uitgeslapen rechthoek
Van je bed, je handigste vorm van hoop.

En jij, jij bent toch maar een glimp
Van mij, ach jij, mijn kettingrokende schaduw
Tussen twee treinen, mijn kreunende schim

Met koffers, jij, mijn hinkend spook
Dat weg zal spoelen in de trage draaideur
Van een afgedankt station.

Toe maar, probeer het maar, vergeet me maar,
Mijn vriend, mijn volmondig afwezige slaaf
Ik ben je zweep, jij bloedt mijn uren uit.
Ik ben je werk en jij bent mijn bediende.
Close

THE POET TO HIMSELF

Go on, just you try, unclothe me
To the bone, I’ll remain the final cut
Of your suit, the rested rectangle
Of your bed, your handiest form of hope.

And you, you’re nothing but a glimpse
Of me, oh you, my chain-smoking shadow
Between two trains, my moaning phantom

With suitcases, you, my hobbling ghost
Who will wash away through the slow revolving door
Of a derelict station.

Go on, just you try, forget me,
My friend, my frank absent slave.
I am your whip, you bleed from my hours.
I am your work and you are my servant.

THE POET TO HIMSELF

Go on, just you try, unclothe me
To the bone, I’ll remain the final cut
Of your suit, the rested rectangle
Of your bed, your handiest form of hope.

And you, you’re nothing but a glimpse
Of me, oh you, my chain-smoking shadow
Between two trains, my moaning phantom

With suitcases, you, my hobbling ghost
Who will wash away through the slow revolving door
Of a derelict station.

Go on, just you try, forget me,
My friend, my frank absent slave.
I am your whip, you bleed from my hours.
I am your work and you are my servant.
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