Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Les Murray

THE HOLY SHOW

DE HEILIGE VERTONING

Ik was een kleuter, natgekamd
met mijn broek aan mijn hemdje geknoopt
en er waren roze en groene lichtjes, leuk
’s middags, een kerstboomfeest
achter in de winkel van het dorp.

Ik holde eropaf, maar grote droevige mensen
stapten naar voren. Boven me zeiden ze ’t Is eh
voor de kinderen van hier
en laat hem toch meedoen;
de kindertjes keken verschrikt
en mijn ouders, net even niet op hun hoede

één pas achter me, pakten me alweer op
in de grote schaamte van hun armoe
waar ze elkaar vaak gek mee maakten.
Ze bloosden en glimlachten, me binnensmonds
verwensend Kleine donder stoute jongen!

omdat ik dacht dat je vrolijk Kerstmis samen vierde
terwijl het allemaal bezit is, te koop in pakjes
om thuis te hebben; omdat ik nog niet doorhad
dat je geen vertoning maakt van je eigen familie;
elders is alles façade en afweer.

Buiten lieten ze zich nijdig vermurwen
door mijn gebrul: ik was tenslotte toch hun jochie
en had het bij het rechte eind over die heilige vertoning
die verbeeldt hoe de wereld zou moeten zijn
en kunnen zijn, flonkerend van heel dichtbij

in het land tot aan Seksgrens.

THE HOLY SHOW

I was a toddler, wet-combed
with my pants buttoned to my shirt
and there were pink and green lights, pretty
in the day, a Christmas-tree party
up the back of the village store.

I ran towards it, but big sad people
stepped out. They said over me It’s just, like,
for local kiddies and but let him join in;
the kiddies looked frightened
and my parents, caught off guard

one beat behind me, grabbed me up
in the great shame of our poverty
that they talked about to upset themselves.
They were blushing and smiling, cursing me
in low voices Little bugger bad boy!

for thinking happy Christmas undivided,
whereas it’s all owned, to buy in parcels
and have at home; for still not knowing
you don’t make a holy show of your family;
outside it, there’s only parry and front.

Once away, they angrily softened to
me squalling, because I was their kiddie
and had been right about the holy show
that models how the world should be
and could be, shared, glittering in near focus

right out to the Sex frontier.
Close

THE HOLY SHOW

I was a toddler, wet-combed
with my pants buttoned to my shirt
and there were pink and green lights, pretty
in the day, a Christmas-tree party
up the back of the village store.

I ran towards it, but big sad people
stepped out. They said over me It’s just, like,
for local kiddies and but let him join in;
the kiddies looked frightened
and my parents, caught off guard

one beat behind me, grabbed me up
in the great shame of our poverty
that they talked about to upset themselves.
They were blushing and smiling, cursing me
in low voices Little bugger bad boy!

for thinking happy Christmas undivided,
whereas it’s all owned, to buy in parcels
and have at home; for still not knowing
you don’t make a holy show of your family;
outside it, there’s only parry and front.

Once away, they angrily softened to
me squalling, because I was their kiddie
and had been right about the holy show
that models how the world should be
and could be, shared, glittering in near focus

right out to the Sex frontier.

THE HOLY SHOW

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
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