Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

J. Slauerhoff

HOMELESS

Nowhere but in my poems can I dwell,
Nowhere else could I a shelter find;
No love of home preoccupied my mind,
A tent could be uprooted by the gale.

Nowhere but in my poems can I dwell.
While I’m still sure that in the desert bare,
In steppes, in towns or in some wooded vale
A roof can still be found, I have no care.

Though it be long, the day’ll dawn without fail
When before eve my former strength declines
And pleads in vain for the frail words and signs
I once built with, and earth will have to keep
Me enveloped and I’ll have to bend down deep
To where my grave bursts open, dark and pale.

WONINGLOOZE

WONINGLOOZE

Alleen in mijn gedichten kan ik wonen,
Nooit vond ik ergens anders onderdak;
Voor de eigen haard gevoelde ik nooit een zwak,
Een tent werd door den stormwind meegenomen.

Alleen in mijn gedichten kan ik wonen.
Zoolang ik weet dat ik in wildernis,
In steppen, stad en woud dat onderkomen
Kan vinden, deert mij geen bekommernis.

Het zal lang duren, maar de tijd zal komen
Dat vóór den nacht mij de oude kracht ontbreekt
En tevergeefs om zachte woorden smeekt,
Waarmee ’k weleer kon bouwen, en de aarde
Mij bergen moet en ik mij neerbuig naar de
Plek waar mijn graf in ’t donker openbreekt.
Close

HOMELESS

Nowhere but in my poems can I dwell,
Nowhere else could I a shelter find;
No love of home preoccupied my mind,
A tent could be uprooted by the gale.

Nowhere but in my poems can I dwell.
While I’m still sure that in the desert bare,
In steppes, in towns or in some wooded vale
A roof can still be found, I have no care.

Though it be long, the day’ll dawn without fail
When before eve my former strength declines
And pleads in vain for the frail words and signs
I once built with, and earth will have to keep
Me enveloped and I’ll have to bend down deep
To where my grave bursts open, dark and pale.

HOMELESS

Nowhere but in my poems can I dwell,
Nowhere else could I a shelter find;
No love of home preoccupied my mind,
A tent could be uprooted by the gale.

Nowhere but in my poems can I dwell.
While I’m still sure that in the desert bare,
In steppes, in towns or in some wooded vale
A roof can still be found, I have no care.

Though it be long, the day’ll dawn without fail
When before eve my former strength declines
And pleads in vain for the frail words and signs
I once built with, and earth will have to keep
Me enveloped and I’ll have to bend down deep
To where my grave bursts open, dark and pale.
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