Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Cecilie Løveid

THE ENGRAVER

Once we could interpret all signs
It was not a dream, but resembling one.
We were magicians, we could interpret
the hand which moved to a position
the word which hit home.
We knew what it means to pour with
the left hand. What everything meant. What
no one knows anymore.
We had the most beautiful pearls around
our necks.
The water’s memory was in us.
Everything, also that which gave us tears and a desire
to kiss or move into a telephone booth.
Then it became more unclear to me.
I had to take my soul by the hand down the road
while I asked everyone to say who they were
for I couldn’t see them, and
would rather not seem arrogant.
But I woke up to light. The world was
still full of signs and messages.
Tears, foxes, bells, hands
were waiting for me.
Then I stopped with playing cards, calendars
and religious images.

SKRIFTSTØPERSKEN

SKRIFTSTØPERSKEN

En gang kunne vi tyde alle tegn.
Det var ingen drøm men det lignet.
Vi var sortekunstnere, vi kunne tyde
hånden som beveget seg til en positur,
ordet som satt.
Vi visste hva det betyr å skjenke med
venstre hånd. Hva alt betydde. Hva
ingen vet lenger.
De skjønneste perler hadde vi om
halsen.
Vannets hukommelse var i oss.
Alt, også det som ga oss tårer og lyst til
å kysse eller flytte inn i en telefonkiosk.
Så ble det mer utydelig for meg.
Sjelen måtte leies nedover veien
mens jeg ba alle om å si hvem de var
for jeg kunne ikke se dem, og
ville nødig virke arrogant.
Men jeg våknet til lys. Verden var
fortsatt full av tegn og beskjeder.
Tårer, rever, bjeller, hender
sto og ventet på meg.
Da sluttet jeg med spillkort, almanakker
og religiøse bilder.
Close

THE ENGRAVER

Once we could interpret all signs
It was not a dream, but resembling one.
We were magicians, we could interpret
the hand which moved to a position
the word which hit home.
We knew what it means to pour with
the left hand. What everything meant. What
no one knows anymore.
We had the most beautiful pearls around
our necks.
The water’s memory was in us.
Everything, also that which gave us tears and a desire
to kiss or move into a telephone booth.
Then it became more unclear to me.
I had to take my soul by the hand down the road
while I asked everyone to say who they were
for I couldn’t see them, and
would rather not seem arrogant.
But I woke up to light. The world was
still full of signs and messages.
Tears, foxes, bells, hands
were waiting for me.
Then I stopped with playing cards, calendars
and religious images.

THE ENGRAVER

Once we could interpret all signs
It was not a dream, but resembling one.
We were magicians, we could interpret
the hand which moved to a position
the word which hit home.
We knew what it means to pour with
the left hand. What everything meant. What
no one knows anymore.
We had the most beautiful pearls around
our necks.
The water’s memory was in us.
Everything, also that which gave us tears and a desire
to kiss or move into a telephone booth.
Then it became more unclear to me.
I had to take my soul by the hand down the road
while I asked everyone to say who they were
for I couldn’t see them, and
would rather not seem arrogant.
But I woke up to light. The world was
still full of signs and messages.
Tears, foxes, bells, hands
were waiting for me.
Then I stopped with playing cards, calendars
and religious images.
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