Benno Barnard
The Poets
We,
sightless voyeurs under the petticoats
of the heavens,
deaf philosophers scratching away
at violins,
living authorities on our death –
we are mad with desire
for you,
but have nothing but froth
under skirts, catgut art,
pointless evocations of great
mysteries;
our desire lacks an all-
encompassing music.
“Narrative! Narrative!” you cry.
And so there’s love and death:
someone strings an impossible bow;
another assumes the cloak of madness
to avenge his begetter,
in middle age the third looks up
in the old chaos of the sun.
We’ve held out up till now,
because, despite it all, the anecdote
needs the sublime and the sublime,
the anecdote. Forgive us our pitiful
fiddling with commas and colons.
In the hope that the wind will blow through our work
we write our lovesick poems
to you.
From: Sirena, Poesia, arte y critica 2007/1
Publisher: John Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, 2007
De dichters
De dichters
Wij,blinde gluurders onder de petticoat
van het hemelruim,
dove filosofen die toegewijd krabben
op een viool,
levende deskundigen van onze dood –
we zijn gek van verlangen
naar jullie,
maar hebben niets anders dan onderrokschuim,
kattendarmkunst, zinloos gewag
van de grote mysteries
te bieden;
het ontbreekt ons verlangen aan een muziek
die alles vermag.
Vertelling, vertelling, zeuren jullie.
Dus wordt er liefgehad en doodgegaan.
Weet iemand een onmogelijke boog
te spannen, wreekt een ander
onder het mom van gekte
zijn verwekker; later in zijn leven
komt de derde voor een stervend paard te staan.
We hebben het uitgezongen tot nu,
want ondanks alles heeft de anekdote
het sublieme nodig, en het sublieme
de anekdote. Vergeef ons
ons ontroerend geknoei met dt’s en details.
In de hoop dat de wind zich vermengt met ons werk
schrijven wij onze verliefde gedichten
aan jullie.
From: Het tongbotje
Publisher: Atlas, Amsterdam
The Poets
We,
sightless voyeurs under the petticoats
of the heavens,
deaf philosophers scratching away
at violins,
living authorities on our death –
we are mad with desire
for you,
but have nothing but froth
under skirts, catgut art,
pointless evocations of great
mysteries;
our desire lacks an all-
encompassing music.
“Narrative! Narrative!” you cry.
And so there’s love and death:
someone strings an impossible bow;
another assumes the cloak of madness
to avenge his begetter,
in middle age the third looks up
in the old chaos of the sun.
We’ve held out up till now,
because, despite it all, the anecdote
needs the sublime and the sublime,
the anecdote. Forgive us our pitiful
fiddling with commas and colons.
In the hope that the wind will blow through our work
we write our lovesick poems
to you.
From: Sirena, Poesia, arte y critica 2007/1
Publisher: 2007, John Hopkins University Press, Baltimore
The Poets
We,
sightless voyeurs under the petticoats
of the heavens,
deaf philosophers scratching away
at violins,
living authorities on our death –
we are mad with desire
for you,
but have nothing but froth
under skirts, catgut art,
pointless evocations of great
mysteries;
our desire lacks an all-
encompassing music.
“Narrative! Narrative!” you cry.
And so there’s love and death:
someone strings an impossible bow;
another assumes the cloak of madness
to avenge his begetter,
in middle age the third looks up
in the old chaos of the sun.
We’ve held out up till now,
because, despite it all, the anecdote
needs the sublime and the sublime,
the anecdote. Forgive us our pitiful
fiddling with commas and colons.
In the hope that the wind will blow through our work
we write our lovesick poems
to you.
From: Sirena, Poesia, arte y critica 2007/1
Publisher: 2007, John Hopkins University Press, Baltimore
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