Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

K. Satchidanandan

SELF

My mother didn’t believe
when, in 1945, I appeared to her
in a dream and told her
I would be born to her the following year.

My father recognised me
as soon as he saw
the mole below my left thumb.
But mother believed to the very end
that someone else had been born to her
masquerading as me.

Father and I pleaded with her,
but dreams are not reliable witnesses.
She went on waiting for that
promised son till she died

Only when she was reborn as my daughter
did she admit it had really been me.

But by then I had begun to doubt:
it was someone else’s heart
beating within my body.

One day I will retrieve my heart;
my language too.

ZELF

Mijn moeder geloofde ’t niet
toen ik, in 1945, op een nacht in een droom
verscheen en haar vertelde
dat ik het volgend jaar als haar zoon geboren zou worden.
 
Mijn vader herkende me
zodra hij de moedervlek
onder mijn linkerduim zag.
Maar moeder geloofde tot haar dood
dat ze iemand anders had gebaard
die zich voordeed als mij.
 
Vader en ik probeerden haar te overtuigen;
maar zij bleef wachten op de geboorte
van de zoon die in haar droom
verschenen was, tot ze stierf.
 
Pas toen ze als mijn dochter herboren werd
begreep ze dat ik het werkelijk was.
 
Maar toen was ik zelf al gaan twijfelen
of het het hart van iemand anders was
dat in mijn lijf sloeg.
 
Op een dag zal ik mijn hart hervinden,
alsook mijn taal.

Close

SELF

My mother didn’t believe
when, in 1945, I appeared to her
in a dream and told her
I would be born to her the following year.

My father recognised me
as soon as he saw
the mole below my left thumb.
But mother believed to the very end
that someone else had been born to her
masquerading as me.

Father and I pleaded with her,
but dreams are not reliable witnesses.
She went on waiting for that
promised son till she died

Only when she was reborn as my daughter
did she admit it had really been me.

But by then I had begun to doubt:
it was someone else’s heart
beating within my body.

One day I will retrieve my heart;
my language too.

SELF

My mother didn’t believe
when, in 1945, I appeared to her
in a dream and told her
I would be born to her the following year.

My father recognised me
as soon as he saw
the mole below my left thumb.
But mother believed to the very end
that someone else had been born to her
masquerading as me.

Father and I pleaded with her,
but dreams are not reliable witnesses.
She went on waiting for that
promised son till she died

Only when she was reborn as my daughter
did she admit it had really been me.

But by then I had begun to doubt:
it was someone else’s heart
beating within my body.

One day I will retrieve my heart;
my language too.
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