Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Maura Dooley

The Old Masters

DE OUDE MEESTERS

Je kent de foto wel,
benen die van balken bungelen,
latino, polak, smous, paddy, nikker, spaghettivreter,
het Rockefeller Building, als spinthout oprijzend,
hoe ze, bevrijd uit welke hel dan ook
                                     door stormen geteisterd,
aanspoelden voor de gouden deur.

Er is meer dan één toren
waar de taal kan gisten.

We hadden nog nooit geweten hoeveel
tot we het in de kranten lazen,
namen uit alle landen
door het nieuws gesmeten
van alle landen.
                           De vele tongen
in één toren, in meer
dan één toren, die rondhangen,
                                           als altijd,
rondhangen in Rotterdam en Wenen,
in studentenflats, kerkportalen, cafés,
in een ander schilderij van Breughel.

Er zijn torens die goden jaloers maken
torens die mensen jaloers maken
en er zijn tongen,
                           tongen die vragen,
die tot zwijgen zijn gebracht, die nog niet zijn begrepen,
                                                                             die verloren zijn,
die ik maar met moeite kan horen,

ik die het nooit weer wil zien
Iets verbijsterends, een jongen die uit de hemel valt.

The Old Masters

You’ll know the photograph,
legs dangling from girders,
spik, polak, yid, paddy, nigger, wop,
the Rockefeller Building, rising like sap,
how, freed from one hell or another,
                                                   tempest-tost,
they washed up at the golden door.

There is more than one tower
in which language might ferment.

We never knew how many
till we saw it in the papers,
names from every land
thrown across the news
of every land.
                          The many tongues
in the one tower, in the more
than one tower, hanging,
                                              as they do,
hanging in Rotterdam and Vienna,
in student flats, church halls, cafes,
in another painting by Breughel.

There are towers that make gods jealous
towers that make men jealous
and there are tongues,
                                          those that ask,
those silenced, those not yet understood,
                                                           those lost,
those I have to strain to hear,

not wanting ever again to see
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky.
Close

The Old Masters

You’ll know the photograph,
legs dangling from girders,
spik, polak, yid, paddy, nigger, wop,
the Rockefeller Building, rising like sap,
how, freed from one hell or another,
                                                   tempest-tost,
they washed up at the golden door.

There is more than one tower
in which language might ferment.

We never knew how many
till we saw it in the papers,
names from every land
thrown across the news
of every land.
                          The many tongues
in the one tower, in the more
than one tower, hanging,
                                              as they do,
hanging in Rotterdam and Vienna,
in student flats, church halls, cafes,
in another painting by Breughel.

There are towers that make gods jealous
towers that make men jealous
and there are tongues,
                                          those that ask,
those silenced, those not yet understood,
                                                           those lost,
those I have to strain to hear,

not wanting ever again to see
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky.

The Old Masters

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère