Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Anna Enquist

A NEW YEAR II

This is here, you think, this is now.
Dry weeds, bear’s breech dead
by the asphalt. Desirous of place

you read the sky as a map.
You feel the hours. Midnight,
winter? It’s now, it’s here.

Snow had fallen, roof tiles
showed shadowy grey through white, you could hear
sparrows’ beaks tapping on stone.

The boy on the platform, you see
the bag by his shoes, how he moves
his shoulders, yawns, eats.

Till the train squeals past concrete,
the wind's pull fondles his hair. You think
a station in Germany, is it this late

you think. It’s all happening in grey convolutions
hissing beneath your skull. All,
all of it: the watery course of the tracks,

the stalks bled dry, tolling bells,
fireworks, the boy. It’s nothing,
a quivering cell wall, explosion, nothing.

EEN NIEUW JAAR II

EEN NIEUW JAAR II

Dit is hier, denk je, dit is nu.
Het dorre onkruid, de dode bereklauw
langs het asfalt. Begerig naar plaats

lees je de hemel als een landkaart.
Je voelt de uren. Middernacht,
winter? Het is nu, het is hier.

Er was sneeuw gevallen, dakpannen
schemerden grijs door het wit, je kon
mussensnavels op steen horen tikken.

De jongen op het perron, je ziet
de tas bij zijn schoenen, hoe hij
zijn schouders beweegt, geeuwt en eet.

Tot de trein langs beton scheert,
de zuigwind zijn haar streelt. Je denkt
een station in Duitsland, zo laat al

denk je. Het gebeurt in de grijze windingen
die sissen onder je schedel. Alles,
alles: de waterige loop van de sporen,

de leeggebloede stengels, luidende klokken,
vuurwerk, de jongen. Het is niets,
een trillende celwand, explosie, niets.
Close

A NEW YEAR II

This is here, you think, this is now.
Dry weeds, bear’s breech dead
by the asphalt. Desirous of place

you read the sky as a map.
You feel the hours. Midnight,
winter? It’s now, it’s here.

Snow had fallen, roof tiles
showed shadowy grey through white, you could hear
sparrows’ beaks tapping on stone.

The boy on the platform, you see
the bag by his shoes, how he moves
his shoulders, yawns, eats.

Till the train squeals past concrete,
the wind's pull fondles his hair. You think
a station in Germany, is it this late

you think. It’s all happening in grey convolutions
hissing beneath your skull. All,
all of it: the watery course of the tracks,

the stalks bled dry, tolling bells,
fireworks, the boy. It’s nothing,
a quivering cell wall, explosion, nothing.

A NEW YEAR II

This is here, you think, this is now.
Dry weeds, bear’s breech dead
by the asphalt. Desirous of place

you read the sky as a map.
You feel the hours. Midnight,
winter? It’s now, it’s here.

Snow had fallen, roof tiles
showed shadowy grey through white, you could hear
sparrows’ beaks tapping on stone.

The boy on the platform, you see
the bag by his shoes, how he moves
his shoulders, yawns, eats.

Till the train squeals past concrete,
the wind's pull fondles his hair. You think
a station in Germany, is it this late

you think. It’s all happening in grey convolutions
hissing beneath your skull. All,
all of it: the watery course of the tracks,

the stalks bled dry, tolling bells,
fireworks, the boy. It’s nothing,
a quivering cell wall, explosion, nothing.
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