Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Adonis

DESERT II

In a time that confronts me, “You do not belong to me,”
I retort back, “I’m not of you,” and struggle to understand it . . .
 
I am now a hue, a silhouette
displaced among its tasks, a puzzle
camped inside a skull.
 
Space is a shrinking horizon, a window trudging away
and the day is threads
that tear inside my lungs and ruffle the sky.
A rock under my head.
Everything I said about my life and its death
repeats itself in silence.

Do I contradict myself? That’s true.
For I am now a shoot today and I was a harvest yesterday.
And I am between water and fire
and I am embers and roses
and I am sun and shade
and I am not a god.
 
Do I contradict myself? That is certainly true...
Closed is my house door
and darkness is my mattress,
a pale moon carrying
a handful of light.
My words failed to send
my gratitude to him.
 
He closed the door, not to chain his joys
. . . but to release his grief.
 
Everything will arrive, already old.
Find another companion, not this madness. Groom yourself
to remain as a stranger.
 
The sun no longer rises: she sneaks past frightened
then disappears,
covering her feet with straw . . .
 
I expect death to come at night,
and to cushion a rose
in his embrace
I am tired of this dust that covers the brow of wonder.
I am tired of people’s exhales.

WOESTIJN II

. . . eens zei hij openhartig: Je bent niet van mij
ik zei ongeveinsd: ben ik niet van jou en spande me in het te begrijpen . . .
 
Ik ben een spooksel
dat nu ronddoolt in een woestijn
en kampeert in zijn kop
 
De kosmos is een krimpende ruimte, een venster dat zich verwijdert
de dag is draden
die in mijn longen in stukjes worden gesneden en de nacht mazen
Er ligt een rots onder mijn hoofd
alles wat ik zei over mijn leven en dood
herhaalt zich in zwijgen
 
Word ik tegengesproken? Het is waar
ik ben nu zaaizaad en was gisteren oogst
ik sta nu tussen water en vuur
ik ben nu een gloeiende kool en een roos
ik ben nu zon en schaduw
en niet god
Word ik tegengesproken? Het is waar
 
De deur van mijn huis is gesloten
het duister een deken
            een bleke maan draagt
            een handjevol licht
            mijn woorden schieten tekort
            om haar te danken
 
Hij sloot de deur niet om zijn vreugde vast te houden
. . . om zijn verdriet los te laten
 
Alles wat nieuw komt, is oud
neem iets anders mee dan deze waanzin – bereid je voor
            een vreemde te blijven
 
De zon is nog niet op: Zij sluipt stiekem weg
en bedekt
haar voeten met stro
 
Ik verwacht dat de dood ’s nachts komt
zijn lichaam neerlegt
als een roos
            die moe is van het stof op het voorhoofd van de morgen
            moe van het zuchten van mensen

صحراء ، II


....في زمانٍ يُصارحني: لَسْتَ مِنّي
وأصارحُه : لستُ منكَ ، وأَجهد أن أفهَمَهْ...
 
وأنا الآنَ طيفٌ
يَتشرَّدُ في مَهْمَهٍ
ويُخيّم في جمجمهْ.
 
ألفضاء مدىً يَتضاءَلُ ، نافذةٌ تناءَى،
والنّهارُ خيوطٌ
تتقطّع في رئتيَّ وتَرْفو المساءَ.
صخرةٌ تحت رأسي ، -
كلّ ما قلتُه عن حياتي وعن مَوتِها
يتكرّر في صمتِها.
 
أتناقضُ؟ هذا صحيحٌ
فأنا الآن زرعٌ وبالأمس كنتُ حَصاداً
وأنا بين ماءٍ ونارٍ
وأنا الآن جمرٌ ووردٌ
وأنا الآن شمسٌ وظِلٌ
وأنا لستُ ربّاً
    أتناقَضُ ؟ هذا صحيحٌ ....
 
مُغلَقٌ بابُ بيتي
والظّلام لِحافٌ ، -
    قمرٌ شاحبٌ حاملٌ في يديهْ
حفنةً من ضياءٍ ،
عجزت كلماتي
أن توجّهَ شكري إليهْ.
 
أغلقَ البابَ ، لا ليقيّدَ أفراحَهُ
.... لِيُحرِّرَ أحزانَهُ.
 
كلّ شيءٍ سيأتي ، قديمٌ
فاصْطحب غيرَ هذا الجنون – تهيّأْ
     كي تَظلّ غريباً ...
 
لم تعد تُشرقُ الشمسُ : تَنْسلّ في خِفْيَةٍ
وَتُواري
قدميها بِقشٍّ ...
 
أتَوقّع أن يأتي الموتُ ، ليلاً
أن يُوَسّد أحضانَهُ
وردةً
    تعبتْ من غبارٍ يُغطّي جبينَ السَّحَرْ
    تعبتْ مِن زفير البشَرْ.
Close

DESERT II

In a time that confronts me, “You do not belong to me,”
I retort back, “I’m not of you,” and struggle to understand it . . .
 
I am now a hue, a silhouette
displaced among its tasks, a puzzle
camped inside a skull.
 
Space is a shrinking horizon, a window trudging away
and the day is threads
that tear inside my lungs and ruffle the sky.
A rock under my head.
Everything I said about my life and its death
repeats itself in silence.

Do I contradict myself? That’s true.
For I am now a shoot today and I was a harvest yesterday.
And I am between water and fire
and I am embers and roses
and I am sun and shade
and I am not a god.
 
Do I contradict myself? That is certainly true...
Closed is my house door
and darkness is my mattress,
a pale moon carrying
a handful of light.
My words failed to send
my gratitude to him.
 
He closed the door, not to chain his joys
. . . but to release his grief.
 
Everything will arrive, already old.
Find another companion, not this madness. Groom yourself
to remain as a stranger.
 
The sun no longer rises: she sneaks past frightened
then disappears,
covering her feet with straw . . .
 
I expect death to come at night,
and to cushion a rose
in his embrace
I am tired of this dust that covers the brow of wonder.
I am tired of people’s exhales.

DESERT II

In a time that confronts me, “You do not belong to me,”
I retort back, “I’m not of you,” and struggle to understand it . . .
 
I am now a hue, a silhouette
displaced among its tasks, a puzzle
camped inside a skull.
 
Space is a shrinking horizon, a window trudging away
and the day is threads
that tear inside my lungs and ruffle the sky.
A rock under my head.
Everything I said about my life and its death
repeats itself in silence.

Do I contradict myself? That’s true.
For I am now a shoot today and I was a harvest yesterday.
And I am between water and fire
and I am embers and roses
and I am sun and shade
and I am not a god.
 
Do I contradict myself? That is certainly true...
Closed is my house door
and darkness is my mattress,
a pale moon carrying
a handful of light.
My words failed to send
my gratitude to him.
 
He closed the door, not to chain his joys
. . . but to release his grief.
 
Everything will arrive, already old.
Find another companion, not this madness. Groom yourself
to remain as a stranger.
 
The sun no longer rises: she sneaks past frightened
then disappears,
covering her feet with straw . . .
 
I expect death to come at night,
and to cushion a rose
in his embrace
I am tired of this dust that covers the brow of wonder.
I am tired of people’s exhales.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère