Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jan de Roek

Jeunesse Dorée (Fragment 1)

Caught in the single-celled house of my past
and nameless, accusations scrawled across the walls
fear is fondly fostered like a pearl in its shell
between horntails and hornets.

The stag beetle lays its larvae in my wood
and hurries on
A chorus, a row of angels
stands up in me.

My brother, heal me, you can,
with your hands, with gestures,
with a word of comfort; save me,
already the graze the wound of passion is
no longer effaceable.
You know, no beast is more chaste.

Time leaves its scars, and rips off my antlers
in winter my hands are chapped.
The wrinkles write elaborately cursively and haltingly
like the elderly, and scratch
dark symbols on my forehead.

I am a ruin, hoarse from screaming.

In the blinding, burning resin of recollection
my handwriting has loudly perished.
A gall wasp has ruthlessly ravaged my home,
spoiling my wild foliage;
its spit left its traces
behind in my writings.

I will not survive this life intact, a circumcision.
The raging swarm of hours makes me unrecognisable
A stinking wound of madness bites into me.
I cannot hold out in this predicament alone,
these grim angels of patience,
I stumble over roots.

Spitefully the wild larkspur grows amidst the corn;
its claws clutch like larks
round my throat.

Like a stone I am skimmed across this water.
I submit. I can barely breathe.
I am a naked and late-blooming crop.

The pasque flower fiercely goes
wild in vain.

Jeunesse Dorée (Fragment 1)

Jeunesse Dorée (Fragment 1)

In het ééncellig huis van mijn verleden gekneld
en naamloos, de muren volgeschreven met verwijten
wordt aangrijpend de angst gekoesterd als een parel in haar schelp
tussen houtwespen en horzels.

Het vliegend hert legt in mijn hout zijn larven
en draaft verder.
Een spreekkoor, een rei van engelen
staat in mij op.

Mijn broeder, genees mij, gij kunt,
met uw handen, met gebaren,
met een woord van troost; red mij
de schram de wonde der hartstocht is
reeds niet meer te verwijderen.
Gij weet, geen dier is kuiser.

De tijd laat littekens na, en rukt mijn helmknoppen af
mijn handen zijn winters gekloven.
De rimpels schrijven uitvoerig cursief en gebrekkig
als bejaarden, en krassen
duistere tekens op mijn voorhoofd.

Ik ben een van schreeuwen hese ruïne.

In het verblindende, brandende hars der herinnering
is mijn handschrift luidkeels vergaan.
Een galwesp heeft genadeloos mijn huishouding geteisterd,
mijn wild gebladerte aangetast;
haar speeksel liet haar sporen na
in mijn geschriften.

Ik kom niet heelhuids uit dit leven, een besnijdenis.
De razende zwerm der uren maakt mij onkennelijk.
Een stinkende wonde van waanzin bijt in mij in.
Ik houd alleen geen stand in deze branding,
deze barse engelen van geduld,
ik struikel over wortels.

Nijdig groeit de wilde ridderspoor tussen het koren;
haar klauwen liggen als leeuweriken
rond mijn hals.

Als een steen word ik gekeild over dit water.
Ik laat begaan. Ik haal nog moeilijk adem.
Ik ben een naakt en laat bloeiend gewas.

Het wildemanskruid gaat vergeefs
verwoed tekeer.
Close

Jeunesse Dorée (Fragment 1)

Caught in the single-celled house of my past
and nameless, accusations scrawled across the walls
fear is fondly fostered like a pearl in its shell
between horntails and hornets.

The stag beetle lays its larvae in my wood
and hurries on
A chorus, a row of angels
stands up in me.

My brother, heal me, you can,
with your hands, with gestures,
with a word of comfort; save me,
already the graze the wound of passion is
no longer effaceable.
You know, no beast is more chaste.

Time leaves its scars, and rips off my antlers
in winter my hands are chapped.
The wrinkles write elaborately cursively and haltingly
like the elderly, and scratch
dark symbols on my forehead.

I am a ruin, hoarse from screaming.

In the blinding, burning resin of recollection
my handwriting has loudly perished.
A gall wasp has ruthlessly ravaged my home,
spoiling my wild foliage;
its spit left its traces
behind in my writings.

I will not survive this life intact, a circumcision.
The raging swarm of hours makes me unrecognisable
A stinking wound of madness bites into me.
I cannot hold out in this predicament alone,
these grim angels of patience,
I stumble over roots.

Spitefully the wild larkspur grows amidst the corn;
its claws clutch like larks
round my throat.

Like a stone I am skimmed across this water.
I submit. I can barely breathe.
I am a naked and late-blooming crop.

The pasque flower fiercely goes
wild in vain.

Jeunesse Dorée (Fragment 1)

Caught in the single-celled house of my past
and nameless, accusations scrawled across the walls
fear is fondly fostered like a pearl in its shell
between horntails and hornets.

The stag beetle lays its larvae in my wood
and hurries on
A chorus, a row of angels
stands up in me.

My brother, heal me, you can,
with your hands, with gestures,
with a word of comfort; save me,
already the graze the wound of passion is
no longer effaceable.
You know, no beast is more chaste.

Time leaves its scars, and rips off my antlers
in winter my hands are chapped.
The wrinkles write elaborately cursively and haltingly
like the elderly, and scratch
dark symbols on my forehead.

I am a ruin, hoarse from screaming.

In the blinding, burning resin of recollection
my handwriting has loudly perished.
A gall wasp has ruthlessly ravaged my home,
spoiling my wild foliage;
its spit left its traces
behind in my writings.

I will not survive this life intact, a circumcision.
The raging swarm of hours makes me unrecognisable
A stinking wound of madness bites into me.
I cannot hold out in this predicament alone,
these grim angels of patience,
I stumble over roots.

Spitefully the wild larkspur grows amidst the corn;
its claws clutch like larks
round my throat.

Like a stone I am skimmed across this water.
I submit. I can barely breathe.
I am a naked and late-blooming crop.

The pasque flower fiercely goes
wild in vain.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère