Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Mourid Barghouti

OLD AGE

There are some inventions
that do not exist.
Old age is one of them.
Those who go ‘there’
take childhood with them,
hold its dimpled little fingers
in their hands,
tell it their stories.
They take with them their silly little habits,
their tricks to get around restrictions,
their sly, meaningful glances,
the way they blame a friend,
the way they complain,
their impressions of the last conference
or of the coming elections.
(I have seen many of them
on their deathbeds).
They want us to play with them,
they fight against an enemy of a sort,
they doubt ideas and people.
Their hands, when they hear the name
of a cherished person,
joyfully snatch the telephone
or, with lazy, cinematic gestures,
draw their instructions in the air:
“Say I am asleep.”
They issue their familiar orders,
they steal a cigarette from their visitors
and hide it under the pillow,
they discuss with you their future plans,
they misunderstand you,
keep arguing until you
are dismissed from the room.
They take with them
the way they pronounce their Rs,
their desire to be admired,
their style of interrupting your sentences.
They take with them their slippers,
their loved ones,
their razors, their make-up,
and all the things they don’t need
on their last journey.
Even we who love them,
we, who, since birth
have thought life was made up of them,
just as it is of water, air, fire and earth,
we, who at that particular moment,
want to accompany them,
just as we once did to the funfair,
are left behind.
For they, gently, cleverly,
and for reasons only they know,
refuse to take us
with them.

OUDERDOM

Er zijn niet bestaande uitvindingen
zoals de ouderdom

Wie er naartoe gaan
nemen hun babytijd mee
pakken de vingers
met kuiltjes
en vertellen verhalen

Ze nemen hun kleine hebbelijkheden mee
trucjes om aan regels te ontsnappen
sluwe, veelbetekenende blikken
plannen voor komende dagen
verwijten aan een vriend
klachten over onverdraaglijke dingen
en personen
meningen over een eerdere bijeenkomst
of over de volgende verkiezingen

Ik heb gezien dat ze
tot op hun doodsbed
willen dat we met hen spelen
dat ze tegen één of andere vijand vechten
ideeën of mensen wantrouwen
dat hun handen blij de telefoon grijpen
als ze een geliefde naam horen
of
theatraal loom gebaren
"zeg dat hij slaapt"

Ze geven de gebruikelijke bevelen
pikken een sigaret van hun bezoek
die ze onder hun kussen verstoppen

Ze praten over hun plannen
ze begrijpen je niet
en maken ruzie tot je de kamer wordt uitgezet

Ze nemen hun manier om de ‘r’ te zeggen
met zich mee
en hun behoefte aan bewondering
hun gewoonte om iemand te onderbreken
ze pakken hun sloffen
hun gewoonten en geliefden
hun scheerapparaat – een poederdoos
en alles wat ze op de laatste reis
niet nodig hebben

Zelfs wij
die van hen houden
en die vanaf onze komst op de wereld
meenden dat de wereld uit hen bestond
en uit aarde, lucht en sterren  
wij wilden toen het zover was
mee naar de andere wereld
net zoals wij vroeger vroegen
naar een pretpark te gaan
maar zij weigerden
met slimme uitvluchten
en om redenen die zij alleen kennen
ons mee te nemen

Close

OLD AGE

There are some inventions
that do not exist.
Old age is one of them.
Those who go ‘there’
take childhood with them,
hold its dimpled little fingers
in their hands,
tell it their stories.
They take with them their silly little habits,
their tricks to get around restrictions,
their sly, meaningful glances,
the way they blame a friend,
the way they complain,
their impressions of the last conference
or of the coming elections.
(I have seen many of them
on their deathbeds).
They want us to play with them,
they fight against an enemy of a sort,
they doubt ideas and people.
Their hands, when they hear the name
of a cherished person,
joyfully snatch the telephone
or, with lazy, cinematic gestures,
draw their instructions in the air:
“Say I am asleep.”
They issue their familiar orders,
they steal a cigarette from their visitors
and hide it under the pillow,
they discuss with you their future plans,
they misunderstand you,
keep arguing until you
are dismissed from the room.
They take with them
the way they pronounce their Rs,
their desire to be admired,
their style of interrupting your sentences.
They take with them their slippers,
their loved ones,
their razors, their make-up,
and all the things they don’t need
on their last journey.
Even we who love them,
we, who, since birth
have thought life was made up of them,
just as it is of water, air, fire and earth,
we, who at that particular moment,
want to accompany them,
just as we once did to the funfair,
are left behind.
For they, gently, cleverly,
and for reasons only they know,
refuse to take us
with them.

OLD AGE

There are some inventions
that do not exist.
Old age is one of them.
Those who go ‘there’
take childhood with them,
hold its dimpled little fingers
in their hands,
tell it their stories.
They take with them their silly little habits,
their tricks to get around restrictions,
their sly, meaningful glances,
the way they blame a friend,
the way they complain,
their impressions of the last conference
or of the coming elections.
(I have seen many of them
on their deathbeds).
They want us to play with them,
they fight against an enemy of a sort,
they doubt ideas and people.
Their hands, when they hear the name
of a cherished person,
joyfully snatch the telephone
or, with lazy, cinematic gestures,
draw their instructions in the air:
“Say I am asleep.”
They issue their familiar orders,
they steal a cigarette from their visitors
and hide it under the pillow,
they discuss with you their future plans,
they misunderstand you,
keep arguing until you
are dismissed from the room.
They take with them
the way they pronounce their Rs,
their desire to be admired,
their style of interrupting your sentences.
They take with them their slippers,
their loved ones,
their razors, their make-up,
and all the things they don’t need
on their last journey.
Even we who love them,
we, who, since birth
have thought life was made up of them,
just as it is of water, air, fire and earth,
we, who at that particular moment,
want to accompany them,
just as we once did to the funfair,
are left behind.
For they, gently, cleverly,
and for reasons only they know,
refuse to take us
with them.
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