Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Valérie Rouzeau

TRR . . .

An iliad ago I was a little girl
A finger in every pie
And so my father christened me
‘The trafficker’ – or he recalled me rather.

And with that moniker
I stood up tall tall tall as a candle flame
And everything lit up even the pissing toad
Trrapped deep inside my heart.

I trafficked microscopic elephants
And giant genuinely medieval ants
With a griffin’s grip
A lion’s mane
A fish’s tail
Elastic brushes household zoo of wiles.

A trafficker I shipped out crockery
And knives-that-cut
And granny’s teeth
Smeared my face red with birdsong geranium
Grasshopper green and sky sky-blue.

Summoned the frog and tortoise lettuce
Snail and stolen
Bright-red court-shoe quite attractive heel
From my mother also thanks to me mixed up
With needles pine-cones
Cough-drops spittle rain.

And dealt in doilies hankies
I’d embroidered got myself lathered up
With a wild boar badger brush
Hooked by the Daddy-mystery I’d climb the curtains
Terrrified up there purrched on the very edge
Pink oilcloth with kitten’s head.

And what’s more trafficked in soup not ladlelike
That floating noodle shock of angels’ hair
With its cubes of gold let its die be cast:
Run fast as I can from the boiling pan
With fire in my pants!

Likewise I trrafficked in the round round eyes
Of bears the rrag of dolls the colander the slotted spoon
The digitalis poison they call foxglove
In England deep as Wellington boots
Where I’d jump two feet at once good mornings drrenched
With water catch the miracle of passing clouds
And changing me the same.

A lonely dealer at the bottom of the garden or my head inside the wardrobe
While my parents rolled their tongues, ‘trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .’
They were the strangest creatures my Papache my Mamanche
I think I liked them
In that time of simple silly primaries
As if we really ever had a yellow sun.

And I came into their hands I grew
And what’s more soon went farther and farther than the bottom of the garden
Than the back of the wardrobe bottom of the well
There was the moon too there in my life
Not the one we trod on the other one
The luminous terrifying secret Phoebe moon.

Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
I chirped like a cricket to bring myself luck
Or whatever was trruly happy trruly trruly
Sometimes the satellite Selene of the earth would smile at me
And I’d light up swing out high
Like the smallest spider I used to believe
Suspended in emptiness.

Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
I scribble I scrunch it up
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
I note it down I chirrup my magic sounds
As long as the world astounds.
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .

TRR . . .

Homerisch hoe meer is ’t geleden was ik een meiske
En draafde er met van alles vandoor
‘Transpaardje’ doopte mijn vader me een keer
Of liever gezegd zo wees hij me terecht.

Met die bijnaam van mij nou
Werd ik trrots trots trots als een kaarsje
Alles klaarde op zelfs de pispad
Die zich onder in mijn hart verstopt had.

Ik transparadeerde micro-olifanten
Mierenreuzen uit heuse Middeleeuwen
Met graaiende griffioenenklauwen
En manen van leeuwen
Met staarten van vissen
Van buigzame bezems een tactische menagerie.

Transpaardje aangezien ik het servies versjouwde
De snij-snijmessen
Het bit van oma
En bloste me rood met geraniums met kwinkeleersels
Vergroende tot sprinkhaan blauwde me luchtluchtblauw.

Bracht de kikker de schildpad de bladsla
De tuinslak bijeen de gejatte
Glitterpump met hak van mijn moesje
Die zelf trouwens onder mijn hoede
eveneens getranspaarteerd werd
Naalden en dennekegels
Dropspuwende druppelnevel.

Transparadeerde voorts neusdoeken place-mats
Hersenschimde me een prikkelzwijn een streepjesdas
Van een scheerkwast bejujujubelend mousserende
Mysterieënpater in gordijnen geklauterd
Boven op terreur gekroonde catastrrofe
En in roze boenwas gezet met een kop van Minoes.

Transparadeerde gelijkelijk de louche lepelsoep
Die enorme drijvende pruikebol van een engel
Waarin teerlingen een slordige worp afriepen
Hoepel op bouillon
Of verschroei mijn pantalon!

Transparadeerde evenzo de ogen rond rond van de beer
De poppenlap de draadzeef de schuimspaan
Het digitale vergif genaamd vossenhandschoen
In een Engeland diepdiep als regenlaarzen
Waarin met twee voeten tegelijk op fijne moddermorgens sprong
Het wonder van de varende wolken willende vangen
En mij ik insgelijks veranderen.

Transpaardje achter in de tuin allenig met m’n neus in de kast
Knorde vadermoeder ‘trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .’
Werden het rare trrollen paPasja ma Manche
Ik hield best van ze geloof ik
In die tijd van elementaire eenvoudige idiote
Kleuren alsof de zon echt geel was.

Ik reikte hun tot de handen groeide opperst
Ging trouwens verder en verder dan achter in de tuin
Dan boven op de kast dan onder in de oude put
En de maan was er vroeg bij daar in mijn leven
Niet die waar ze op wandelen die andere
De stiekeme griezelig strrralende Phoebe.

Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
Ik krekelde om geluk te brengen
Trappelde triljoenig om de mazzel
Soms glimlachte de selenische satelliet me toe
Dan begon ik te gloeien en zweefde me omhooghoog
Zoals het spinnetje waarvan ik vroeger ooit dacht
Dat het in de hangmat hing van de leegte.

Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
Ik krekel ik krabbel
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
Ik noteer transcricribeer
Zolang het leven me intresseert
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .

TRR . . .

Voici d’iliade longtemps j’étais petite enfant
Et je touchais à tout
Alors « la trafiquante » mon père me baptisa
Ou plutôt me rappela.

Avec ce sobriquet
Je devins fière fière fière comme une bougie
Tout s’éclairait même le crapaud pisseur
Caché trrès au fond de mon cœur.

Je trafiquais des éléphants microscopiques
Des fourmis géantes du vrai Moyen-Âge
Aux pattes griffues de griffon
À la crinière de lion
À la queue de poisson
Des balais élastiques une ménagerie tactique.

Trafiquante puisque j’embarquais la porcelaine
Les couteaux-qui-coupent
Les dents de la grand-mère
Et je me rougissais au géranium au chant d’oiseau
Me verdissais en sauterelle m’ébleuissais ciel ciel.

Convoquais la grenouille la tortue la laitue
L’escargot l’escarpin
Volé vermeil talon pas mal
À ma mère elle aussi trafiquée par mes soins
Aiguilles et pommes de pin
Cachous crachats crachin.

Trafiquais encore napperons et mouchoirs
Je brodais me faisais mousser
D’un blaireau singulier sanglier
Mystère pater aux rideaux je grimpais
Là-haut terreur juchée en catastrrophe
Et ciré rose avec tête de minouche.

Je trafiquais idem la soupe c’était trrop louche
Toute cette tignasse d’ange qui y baignait
Avec les cubes en or en soit jeté le sort :
Cours à toutes jambes bouillon
Ou brûle mon pantalon !

Je trafiquais itou les yeux de l’ours ronds ronds
Le chiffon de poupée la passoire l’écumoire
La digitale poison nommée gant-de-renard
Dans l’Angleterre profonde comme les bottes de pluie
Où sautais à pieds joints les bons matins trrempés
Attraper la merveille des nuages de passage
Et changer moi pareil.

Trafiquante solitaire tout au fond du jardin ou le nez dans l’armoire
Les parents faisaient « trr . . . trr . . . trr . . . »
C’étaient d’étrranges créatures pApache ma Manche
Je crois que je les aimais bien
Dans ce temps aux couleurs simples élémentaires
Idiotes comme si vraiment le soleil était jaune.

Moi je leur arrivais aux mains grandissais bien
J’allais d’ailleurs de plus en plus loin que le fond du jardin
Que le fond de l’armoire que le fond du vieux puits
Il y avait la lune aussi là dans ma vie
Pas celle que l’on avait marché dessus l’autrre
La rayonnante l’effrayante la secrète Phoebé.

Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
Je grillonnais pour porter de la chance
Ou quoi de trrès heureux trrès trrès trrès
Parfois le satellite sélène de la terre me souriait
Alors je m’allumais je me balançais haut
Comme la plus petite araignée qu’autrefois je croyais
Suspendue dans le vide.

Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
Je crayonne je chiffonne
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
Trr . . . trr . . . trr...
Je note je grigrillonne
Tant que la vie m’étonne
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
Close

TRR . . .

An iliad ago I was a little girl
A finger in every pie
And so my father christened me
‘The trafficker’ – or he recalled me rather.

And with that moniker
I stood up tall tall tall as a candle flame
And everything lit up even the pissing toad
Trrapped deep inside my heart.

I trafficked microscopic elephants
And giant genuinely medieval ants
With a griffin’s grip
A lion’s mane
A fish’s tail
Elastic brushes household zoo of wiles.

A trafficker I shipped out crockery
And knives-that-cut
And granny’s teeth
Smeared my face red with birdsong geranium
Grasshopper green and sky sky-blue.

Summoned the frog and tortoise lettuce
Snail and stolen
Bright-red court-shoe quite attractive heel
From my mother also thanks to me mixed up
With needles pine-cones
Cough-drops spittle rain.

And dealt in doilies hankies
I’d embroidered got myself lathered up
With a wild boar badger brush
Hooked by the Daddy-mystery I’d climb the curtains
Terrrified up there purrched on the very edge
Pink oilcloth with kitten’s head.

And what’s more trafficked in soup not ladlelike
That floating noodle shock of angels’ hair
With its cubes of gold let its die be cast:
Run fast as I can from the boiling pan
With fire in my pants!

Likewise I trrafficked in the round round eyes
Of bears the rrag of dolls the colander the slotted spoon
The digitalis poison they call foxglove
In England deep as Wellington boots
Where I’d jump two feet at once good mornings drrenched
With water catch the miracle of passing clouds
And changing me the same.

A lonely dealer at the bottom of the garden or my head inside the wardrobe
While my parents rolled their tongues, ‘trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .’
They were the strangest creatures my Papache my Mamanche
I think I liked them
In that time of simple silly primaries
As if we really ever had a yellow sun.

And I came into their hands I grew
And what’s more soon went farther and farther than the bottom of the garden
Than the back of the wardrobe bottom of the well
There was the moon too there in my life
Not the one we trod on the other one
The luminous terrifying secret Phoebe moon.

Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
I chirped like a cricket to bring myself luck
Or whatever was trruly happy trruly trruly
Sometimes the satellite Selene of the earth would smile at me
And I’d light up swing out high
Like the smallest spider I used to believe
Suspended in emptiness.

Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
I scribble I scrunch it up
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
I note it down I chirrup my magic sounds
As long as the world astounds.
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .

TRR . . .

An iliad ago I was a little girl
A finger in every pie
And so my father christened me
‘The trafficker’ – or he recalled me rather.

And with that moniker
I stood up tall tall tall as a candle flame
And everything lit up even the pissing toad
Trrapped deep inside my heart.

I trafficked microscopic elephants
And giant genuinely medieval ants
With a griffin’s grip
A lion’s mane
A fish’s tail
Elastic brushes household zoo of wiles.

A trafficker I shipped out crockery
And knives-that-cut
And granny’s teeth
Smeared my face red with birdsong geranium
Grasshopper green and sky sky-blue.

Summoned the frog and tortoise lettuce
Snail and stolen
Bright-red court-shoe quite attractive heel
From my mother also thanks to me mixed up
With needles pine-cones
Cough-drops spittle rain.

And dealt in doilies hankies
I’d embroidered got myself lathered up
With a wild boar badger brush
Hooked by the Daddy-mystery I’d climb the curtains
Terrrified up there purrched on the very edge
Pink oilcloth with kitten’s head.

And what’s more trafficked in soup not ladlelike
That floating noodle shock of angels’ hair
With its cubes of gold let its die be cast:
Run fast as I can from the boiling pan
With fire in my pants!

Likewise I trrafficked in the round round eyes
Of bears the rrag of dolls the colander the slotted spoon
The digitalis poison they call foxglove
In England deep as Wellington boots
Where I’d jump two feet at once good mornings drrenched
With water catch the miracle of passing clouds
And changing me the same.

A lonely dealer at the bottom of the garden or my head inside the wardrobe
While my parents rolled their tongues, ‘trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .’
They were the strangest creatures my Papache my Mamanche
I think I liked them
In that time of simple silly primaries
As if we really ever had a yellow sun.

And I came into their hands I grew
And what’s more soon went farther and farther than the bottom of the garden
Than the back of the wardrobe bottom of the well
There was the moon too there in my life
Not the one we trod on the other one
The luminous terrifying secret Phoebe moon.

Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
I chirped like a cricket to bring myself luck
Or whatever was trruly happy trruly trruly
Sometimes the satellite Selene of the earth would smile at me
And I’d light up swing out high
Like the smallest spider I used to believe
Suspended in emptiness.

Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
I scribble I scrunch it up
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
I note it down I chirrup my magic sounds
As long as the world astounds.
Trr . . . trr . . . trr . . .
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère