Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jacob Groot

WIMPLED ONE

Not you or me
but they who are now
we, and especially excluded
she, by not being allowed to bare herself, from
Giotto’s faces her eyes in which
split light grinds up the Asian iris below
their approaching sky of jumbos shot through

with rosy red until the arrows welt the white
back that wants to save her but lowers itself
into the sea, already nicely filling up
the caverns underneath that descent
of the breathing one on
their pavements to make the tongues

rattle against the dark without
equal when the day concludes the stations
with the deposition. A tomb I call it
nor a gift of nature leaving
Casablanca lying by the Amstel river
in the final phase. So sweetly

will has paired salvation with
the shroud on which the parade is borne, that
her marble blue goes arm
in arm with the resolute look on the way
to the expensive house. Aside I glance as much
as possible. To paint on the plaster

the same with these watercolours what
came to pass in Padua, namely that this stands
still and founds the incredible
hue that makes it fine. We gladly
henceforth together but the wimpled one
she especially, before it is
too late to see her already

BEWIMPELDE

BEWIMPELDE

Niet jij of ik
maar jullie die nu wij
zijn, en vooral de verstoken
zij, door zich niet te mogen ontbloten, uit
Giotto’s gelaten haar ogen waarin
splijtlicht de iris aziatisch fijnmaalt onder
hun komende hemel der jumbo’s rozerood

doorschoten tot de pijlen striemen de blanke
rug die haar verlossen wil maar zich neerlaat
in de zee, al heerlijk raken vol
de spelonken onder dat dalen
van de ademhalende op
hun trottoirs om de tongen te laten

ratelen tegen het donker zonder
weerga wanneer de dag besluit de statie
met de afname. Een tombe noem ik het
noch een gave van de natuur door
Casablanca te laten liggen aan de Amstel
in de slotfase. Zo lief heeft

de wil de redding gepaard aan
het doek waarop de parade wordt gedragen, dat
haar marmerblauw gaat arm
in arm met de doelbewuste blik op weg naar
het dure huis. Terzijde kijk ik zoveel
mogelijk. Om op de kalk te schilderen

hetzelfde met deze waterverf wat
in Padua kon gebeuren, namelijk dat dit stil
staat en sticht de onbegrijpelijke
kleur die schoon maakt. Wij dolgraag
voortaan samen maar de bewimpelde
zij met name, voor het
te laat is haar al te zien
Close

WIMPLED ONE

Not you or me
but they who are now
we, and especially excluded
she, by not being allowed to bare herself, from
Giotto’s faces her eyes in which
split light grinds up the Asian iris below
their approaching sky of jumbos shot through

with rosy red until the arrows welt the white
back that wants to save her but lowers itself
into the sea, already nicely filling up
the caverns underneath that descent
of the breathing one on
their pavements to make the tongues

rattle against the dark without
equal when the day concludes the stations
with the deposition. A tomb I call it
nor a gift of nature leaving
Casablanca lying by the Amstel river
in the final phase. So sweetly

will has paired salvation with
the shroud on which the parade is borne, that
her marble blue goes arm
in arm with the resolute look on the way
to the expensive house. Aside I glance as much
as possible. To paint on the plaster

the same with these watercolours what
came to pass in Padua, namely that this stands
still and founds the incredible
hue that makes it fine. We gladly
henceforth together but the wimpled one
she especially, before it is
too late to see her already

WIMPLED ONE

Not you or me
but they who are now
we, and especially excluded
she, by not being allowed to bare herself, from
Giotto’s faces her eyes in which
split light grinds up the Asian iris below
their approaching sky of jumbos shot through

with rosy red until the arrows welt the white
back that wants to save her but lowers itself
into the sea, already nicely filling up
the caverns underneath that descent
of the breathing one on
their pavements to make the tongues

rattle against the dark without
equal when the day concludes the stations
with the deposition. A tomb I call it
nor a gift of nature leaving
Casablanca lying by the Amstel river
in the final phase. So sweetly

will has paired salvation with
the shroud on which the parade is borne, that
her marble blue goes arm
in arm with the resolute look on the way
to the expensive house. Aside I glance as much
as possible. To paint on the plaster

the same with these watercolours what
came to pass in Padua, namely that this stands
still and founds the incredible
hue that makes it fine. We gladly
henceforth together but the wimpled one
she especially, before it is
too late to see her already
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère