Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Øyvind Rimbereid

CAMOUFLAGE

On his newly stolen Kawasaki
our high heroin-neighbour also soars
into spring which now rises
through the camouflage of the rosehip bush
that we think at this moment
that we could vanish into,
as seen with the sleep-drugged eyes of a cat.
A total oblivion,
where the war’s soldier blown to smithereens and an unsettled memory
can be lifted away by a petal’s
sudden flash!
On the veranda’s
open bed we discuss the soul of the wasp
fighting in the wind
for its blind, unknown queen
and therefore never losing its way.
Oh, life in the perfect state!
I look into
your black hair. A silver stripe
grows there. Does it grow
towards its uniqueness
farthest out there? Or is it just waiting
for its thousand sisters?
Laburnum-yellow, rhododendron-
pollen, “Wild horses”
and the signal from a mobile phone
that arches in from a third
or fourth world (Ole?).
But here no one answers.
Here everything already exists.
In the Parmenides-
hour the hair grows
into the wasp, the wind
into the state and silent
we hide in the vacuum of the thought.
A picture
which looks like a picture
of a life. A picture,
even with this smoke from the meat on the grill
that now glides past
and disappears like a kiss
against the sky’s
boundless theft.

CAMOUFLAGE

Op zijn pas gestolen Kawasaki
zweeft ook onze heroïnebuurman high
de lente binnen,
die nu opstijgt
door de camouflage van een rozenbottelstruik
waarin we op dit moment
zelf denken te zullen verdwijnen,
als gezien door de ogen van een slaapdronken kat.
Een gemis totaal,
waar de in stukken gereten oorlogssoldaat en een onbesloten herinnering
weggedragen kunnen worden door de plotselinge flash
van een kroonblad!
Op het open bed
op de veranda bespreken we de ziel van de wesp
die vecht in de wind
voor zijn blinde, onbekende koningin
en daardoor nooit kan verdwalen.
Ach, het leven in de perfecte staat!
Ik kijk
in je zwarte haren. Er groeit
een streepje zilver. Groeit hij
naar zijn uniekheid,
daarbuiten? Of wacht hij gewoon
op zijn duizend zusters?
Goudenregengoud, rhododendron-
zaad, “Wild horses”
en het signaal van een mobiel
die een boog maakt vanuit een derde
of vierde wereld (Ole?).
Maar hier antwoordt niemand.
Alles is hier al.
In het Parmenides-
uur groeit het haar
bij de wesp naar binnen, de wind
in de staat en stil
verbergen we ons in het vacuüm van de gedachte.
Een beeld
dat lijkt op een beeld
van een leven. Een beeld,
zelfs met deze rook van het vlees op de barbecue
die nu voorbijtrekt
en verdwijnt als een kus
tegen de grenzenloze roof
van de hemel.

KAMUFLASJE

På sin nystjålne Kawasaki
sveve òg vår heroinhøge nabo
inn i våren
som nå stige
gjønå nypebuskens kamuflasje
me i dette øyeblikket tenke
me ska kunna forsvinna inn i,
som sett med ein katts søvndrukne øyne.
Ein glømsel total,
der krigens ifillersprengte soldat og et uoppgjort minne
kan lyftast vekk av et kronblads
plutselige flash.
På verandaens
åbne seng drøfte me vepsens sjel
som slåss i vinden
for si blinde, ukjende dronning
og derfor aldri kan fly seg vill.
Å, livet i den perfekte stat!
Eg ser inn
i det svarta håret ditt. Der gror
ei striba sølv. Vokse hu
mod sitt eineståande
lengst der ude? Eller vente hu bare
på sine tusen systre?
Gullregngult, rododendron-
støv, “Wild horses”
og signalet fra ein mobiltelefon
som slår ein bue inn fra ein tredje
eller fjerde verden (Ole?).
Men her svare ingen.
Her finnes allerede alt.
I Parmenides-
timen vokse håret
inn i vepsen, vinden
inn i staten og stille
gjømme me oss i tankens vakuum.
Et bilde
som likne et bilde
på et liv. Et bilde,
sjøl med denne røygen fra kjøttet på grillen
som nå glir forbi
og forsvinne som et kyss
mod himmelens
grenselause tyveri.
Close

CAMOUFLAGE

On his newly stolen Kawasaki
our high heroin-neighbour also soars
into spring which now rises
through the camouflage of the rosehip bush
that we think at this moment
that we could vanish into,
as seen with the sleep-drugged eyes of a cat.
A total oblivion,
where the war’s soldier blown to smithereens and an unsettled memory
can be lifted away by a petal’s
sudden flash!
On the veranda’s
open bed we discuss the soul of the wasp
fighting in the wind
for its blind, unknown queen
and therefore never losing its way.
Oh, life in the perfect state!
I look into
your black hair. A silver stripe
grows there. Does it grow
towards its uniqueness
farthest out there? Or is it just waiting
for its thousand sisters?
Laburnum-yellow, rhododendron-
pollen, “Wild horses”
and the signal from a mobile phone
that arches in from a third
or fourth world (Ole?).
But here no one answers.
Here everything already exists.
In the Parmenides-
hour the hair grows
into the wasp, the wind
into the state and silent
we hide in the vacuum of the thought.
A picture
which looks like a picture
of a life. A picture,
even with this smoke from the meat on the grill
that now glides past
and disappears like a kiss
against the sky’s
boundless theft.

CAMOUFLAGE

On his newly stolen Kawasaki
our high heroin-neighbour also soars
into spring which now rises
through the camouflage of the rosehip bush
that we think at this moment
that we could vanish into,
as seen with the sleep-drugged eyes of a cat.
A total oblivion,
where the war’s soldier blown to smithereens and an unsettled memory
can be lifted away by a petal’s
sudden flash!
On the veranda’s
open bed we discuss the soul of the wasp
fighting in the wind
for its blind, unknown queen
and therefore never losing its way.
Oh, life in the perfect state!
I look into
your black hair. A silver stripe
grows there. Does it grow
towards its uniqueness
farthest out there? Or is it just waiting
for its thousand sisters?
Laburnum-yellow, rhododendron-
pollen, “Wild horses”
and the signal from a mobile phone
that arches in from a third
or fourth world (Ole?).
But here no one answers.
Here everything already exists.
In the Parmenides-
hour the hair grows
into the wasp, the wind
into the state and silent
we hide in the vacuum of the thought.
A picture
which looks like a picture
of a life. A picture,
even with this smoke from the meat on the grill
that now glides past
and disappears like a kiss
against the sky’s
boundless theft.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère