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Poem

Katia Kapovich

At the Kishinev School for Deaf and Mute Children

My first autumn after college I worked
at the Kishinev School for the Deaf and Mute,
whose voices were not speech,
yet sounded like a language.

A foreign language, muffled and unknown
to the teachers. Its strange vowels,
born in their windpipes,
burned away in their throats.

I wrote the alphabet on the blackboard,
watched them move their lips as they
tried to articulate the sounds of Russian,
but no one could help them.

Yet there was a children’s god in the classroom
who guided them across quicksand
to where the Tower of Babel stood crumbling
and filled their mouths with the ABCs.

OP DE KISHINEV SCHOOL VOOR DOOFSTOMME KINDEREN



Dat najaar stond ik voor een klas doofstommen,
vlak bij de Kaarsen, op een basisschool.
Concrete spraak onttrok zich aan hun stemmen,
hoewel er duidelijk een taal in school,
maar anders, vreemd, en moeilijk te doorgronden
zelfs voor de leraren. Geen leven was
er in hun keel-neusholte. Daar ontstonden
de woorden en verdorden weer, als gras.
’k Had op het bord het abc geschreven.
Ze lazen hardop, en ik zag het aan,
zoals ze trokken met hun schots-en-scheve
gezichten. Maar er moet een God bestaan
voor kinderen, want in hun stomheid vonden
zij toch het platgetreden drijfzand-pad
naar Babylons ruïne. Lege monden
waarin Zijn alfabet gedreven zat.

В ту осень я работала у «Свеч»
в начальной школе для глухонемых,
чьи голоса не связывались в речь,
хотя и походили на язык.
Но это был язык другой, чужой,
неведомый учителям. Слова
рождались в носоглотке неживой
и в ней же усыхали, как трава.
Я на доске писала алфавит,
смотрела, как они читают вслух,
как судорога лица их кривит,
но видно есть на свете детский Бог.
И он их вел проторенным путем
зыбучими песками немоты
туда, где осыпался Вавилон,
чтоб азбукой набить пустые рты.
Close

At the Kishinev School for Deaf and Mute Children

My first autumn after college I worked
at the Kishinev School for the Deaf and Mute,
whose voices were not speech,
yet sounded like a language.

A foreign language, muffled and unknown
to the teachers. Its strange vowels,
born in their windpipes,
burned away in their throats.

I wrote the alphabet on the blackboard,
watched them move their lips as they
tried to articulate the sounds of Russian,
but no one could help them.

Yet there was a children’s god in the classroom
who guided them across quicksand
to where the Tower of Babel stood crumbling
and filled their mouths with the ABCs.

At the Kishinev School for Deaf and Mute Children

My first autumn after college I worked
at the Kishinev School for the Deaf and Mute,
whose voices were not speech,
yet sounded like a language.

A foreign language, muffled and unknown
to the teachers. Its strange vowels,
born in their windpipes,
burned away in their throats.

I wrote the alphabet on the blackboard,
watched them move their lips as they
tried to articulate the sounds of Russian,
but no one could help them.

Yet there was a children’s god in the classroom
who guided them across quicksand
to where the Tower of Babel stood crumbling
and filled their mouths with the ABCs.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère