Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Tomas Lieske

CARAVAN OF SALT

A caravan of salt has vanished. Much like
a girl of fourteen might well vanish. Forever
they kept walking, the camels passing through
the eye. The riders of the animals had been
reduced by their desire for purity to an
impossible reunion and were lost between
the grains of sand. At least in the eye
of the camels, as they felt enlarged,
and merged into swaying star ships, huge
enough to fill the sky; they rose transparently.
Their grass-whistling breath froze into galaxies.
A caravan vanished, just the salt
flew up in clouds, was found all around.

Much like a girl of fourteen. Her socks
with round-eared bears, but born
to vanish into a night-time sky.
Hasn’t had a period yet, but pregnant
with a miracle: the salt, all that salt.
A room that will remain unfinished;
a road to school with places to alight;
a final train, an inadvertent station, the salt
of an old shirt that lay beside the shoe polish.
There’s post each day, but never a message;
a sudden face among the masses in a strange city:
all those wounds, the whistling breath over a phone,
her star ship hanging against the walls.

ZOUTKARAVAAN

ZOUTKARAVAAN

Er is een zoutkaravaan verdwenen. Zoals een meisje
van veertien kan verdwijnen. Eeuwig
zijn ze doorgelopen, zijn de kamelen door het oog
gekropen. De berijders van de dieren waren
in hun verlangen naar zuiverheid verkleind
tot onmogelijk weerzien en tussen de zandkorrels
verloren geraakt. Dat althans in het oog
van de kamelen, want die voelden zich uitvergroot,
vergroeid tot schommelende sterrenschepen, tot hemel
vullende proporties; doorzichtig zijn ze opgestegen.
Hun adem van fluitgras bevroor tot melkwegen.
Een karavaan verdween, alleen het zout
stoof naar alle kanten, werd overal gevonden.

Zoals een meisje van veertien. Sokjes
met ronde-oren-beren, maar geboren
om te verdwijnen naar een nachtelijke hemel.
Nog nooit ongesteld, maar wel zwanger
van een wonder: zout, al dat zout.
Een kamer die nooit zal worden afgebouwd;
een weg naar school met afstapmogelijkheid;
een laatste trein, een onbedoeld station, het zout
van een oud shirt dat bij de schoenpoets lag.
Iedere dag komt de post, nooit een bericht;
een plots gezicht tussen de massa in een vreemde stad:
al die wonden, het fluitend ademen in een telefoon,
haar sterrenschip dat tegen de muren hangt.
Close

CARAVAN OF SALT

A caravan of salt has vanished. Much like
a girl of fourteen might well vanish. Forever
they kept walking, the camels passing through
the eye. The riders of the animals had been
reduced by their desire for purity to an
impossible reunion and were lost between
the grains of sand. At least in the eye
of the camels, as they felt enlarged,
and merged into swaying star ships, huge
enough to fill the sky; they rose transparently.
Their grass-whistling breath froze into galaxies.
A caravan vanished, just the salt
flew up in clouds, was found all around.

Much like a girl of fourteen. Her socks
with round-eared bears, but born
to vanish into a night-time sky.
Hasn’t had a period yet, but pregnant
with a miracle: the salt, all that salt.
A room that will remain unfinished;
a road to school with places to alight;
a final train, an inadvertent station, the salt
of an old shirt that lay beside the shoe polish.
There’s post each day, but never a message;
a sudden face among the masses in a strange city:
all those wounds, the whistling breath over a phone,
her star ship hanging against the walls.

CARAVAN OF SALT

A caravan of salt has vanished. Much like
a girl of fourteen might well vanish. Forever
they kept walking, the camels passing through
the eye. The riders of the animals had been
reduced by their desire for purity to an
impossible reunion and were lost between
the grains of sand. At least in the eye
of the camels, as they felt enlarged,
and merged into swaying star ships, huge
enough to fill the sky; they rose transparently.
Their grass-whistling breath froze into galaxies.
A caravan vanished, just the salt
flew up in clouds, was found all around.

Much like a girl of fourteen. Her socks
with round-eared bears, but born
to vanish into a night-time sky.
Hasn’t had a period yet, but pregnant
with a miracle: the salt, all that salt.
A room that will remain unfinished;
a road to school with places to alight;
a final train, an inadvertent station, the salt
of an old shirt that lay beside the shoe polish.
There’s post each day, but never a message;
a sudden face among the masses in a strange city:
all those wounds, the whistling breath over a phone,
her star ship hanging against the walls.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère