Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Adonis

A SONG OF TEMPTATION FOR NOTHING

I do not believe in the minds of the crowd
I believe in light—
                        radiating and penetrating, pointing toward a direction.
O tree of wisdom
how can I brother the Jerusalem woods to me?
And who is this One who is never present
                        except in a funeral or on a throne?
 
Not yet. The disaster has not arrived.
                                                The flood has yet to burst.
The Mediterranean is readying itself. The oceans stamp and shudder.
Who will gift this head to the king of trades? Who will say to Hannibal:
“Rome defeated you, but you are the victor? And from your skull another dawn rises now.”
 
My body is not ether. My body is dust and bone. A physics of arteries and veins. I live
in a hut of smoke, and I wear clouds for clothes. Endlessly and without ever succeeding, I try to heal the sky.
What a criminal I must be, living innocently like rain. My only sin is that I compete with light.
Shut yourself up before my face then, O sky. I vow you will never see my face at your door again.
And you, O planets, I will not ask you again to be
                                    a ladder for my steps. Inside me countless planets abide.
 
And now, lover, strike up your song!
 
Is your throat your lover? Is your lover your throat?
Don’t answer. Just sing.
Time tumbles, a stone in the hands of its god.
His children are mountains of weeping.
I note a star above your head, a star dimming.
I sense sails being torn in the lakes of your dreams.
Sing!
 
Waves take shape in your features. You sing the tide’s ebb and flow.
Praise to song.
Praise to love: right and wrong are a pair of twins between them,
            and the truth is their shared wound.
 
            Here he is ringing the bell of meaning,
            but is there anyone to listen?
What is the hand you reach out toward us, O sun?
 
Sing, lover,
prophecies scamper away from you jealously.
To you belongs life’s ageless allure.

LIED IN VUUR EN VLAM VOOR NIETS (fragment)

Ik geloof niet in het verstand van de massa
ik geloof in licht – dat schijnt, doorboort, wenkt
Boom van wijsheid
hoe verbroeder ik met het woud van Jeruzalem
wie komt alleen voor een begrafenis of een troon?
 
Er is nog geen ramp gebeurd, nog geen overstroming geweest
De Middellandse Zee maakt zich gereed. De oceanen brullen en woeden
Wie gaf deze marmeren kop aan de koning der ambachten? Wie zei tegen Hannibal:
Rome heeft je verslagen maar jij hebt gewonnen? Uit je hoofd rijst een nieuwe morgen
 
Mijn lichaam is geen ether. Mijn lichaam is stof en botten, aders en slagaders. Ik woon in een hut van rook, ben gehuld in wolkenpak en probeer vergeefs de hemel te helen
Wat ben ik misdadig om vrij als de regen te leven. Mijn zonde, in deze tijden, is dat ik mij meet met het licht
Hemel, sluit daarom je deur in mijn gezicht. Ik beloof je dat je me nooit aan je deur zult vinden
en jullie, sterren, zal ik nooit vragen een trap voor mijn stappen te zijn. Wat heb ik veel sterren in mijn darmen
 
Zing, beste verliefde
 
Is je keel je geliefde? Is je geliefde je keel?
Antwoord niet, zing
de tijd rolt rots na rots uit de handen van zijn meester
zijn kinderen zijn bergen van huilen
boven uw hoofd zie ik een ster doven
ik zie zeilen scheuren in de meren van je dromen
zing
 
Golven maken een afdruk op je leden. Je zang is eb en vloed
Lof zij de zang
Lof zij de liefde: Recht en slecht zijn tweelingen en de werkelijkheid is hun beider wond
            Daar wordt de bel van wat het betekent geluid
            maar is er wel iemand die luistert?
Zon, wat is het nut dat jij je hand naar ons uitsteekt?
 
Zing, jij die verliefd bent
profetieën ontvluchten  je uit jaloezie
het eeuwige twistvuur is van jou

من" نشيد إفتتانٍ للاشيء "

 
نشيد افتتانٍ لِلاشيء
لا أُومن بعقل الجموع
أومن بالضوء – يشعُّ ، ويخترقُ ، ويُشير .
يا شجرةَ الحكمة ،
كيف أتآخى مع غابة القدس ؟
وما هذا الواحد الذي لا يحضر إلا في جنازةٍ ، أو على عرش ؟
 
بَعدُ ، لم تأت الكارثة. بعد لم يَحِن الطوفان .
البحر الأبيض يتهيّأ ، والمحيطات تجأرُ وتضطرب.
من يَمْنحُ هذا الرّأس الرُّخاميَّ لملك الصّناعات؟ من يقول لهنيبعل:
غلبتكَ روما. لكن أنت الذي انتصرتَ؟ ومِن رأسكَ يطلعُ فجرٌ آخر.
 
ليس جسدي أثيراً. جسدي ترابٌ وعظمً . فيزياء أوردةٍ وشرايين.
أسكنُ في كوخِ دخانٍ ، وأتدثّر بتوب غيمٍ ، وعبثاً أحاولُ أن أداويَ
السّماء .
يا ليَ من مجرمٍ يعيش بريئاً كالمطر. وذنبي، هذه الآونة ، أنّني أنافسُ
الضّوء.
انغلقي، إذاً ، في وجهي ، أيتها السماء. ولكِ العَهد : لن تريني
على بابكِ أبداً .
وأنتِ ، أيتها الكواكب ، لن أطلبَ أن تكوني سلّماً لخطواتي.
ما أكثر الكواكبَ في أحشائي .
 
غنِّ أيّها العاشق .
 
هل حنجرتكَ هي عشيقتك ؟ هل عشيقتكَ هي حنجرتكَ ؟
لا تُجبْ. غنِّ.
الزَّمنُ يتدحرجُ صخرةً من بين يدي ربّه ،
وأطفالهُ جبالٌ من البكاء.
ألمح فوق رأسكَ نجمةً تنطفيء .
أَستشفُّ أشرعةً تتمزّق في بحيرات أحلامكَ .
غَنِّ.
 
مَوْجٌ يرتسمُ في تقاطيعكَ. غناؤكَ مدٌّ وجزرٌ .
حمداً للغناء.
حمداً للعشق: الصّوابُ والخطأ فيهما توأمان ، والحقيقة جرحهما
المُشترَك.
          وها هو يُقرعُ جرسُ المعنى ،
         لكن، هل هناك مَن يُصغي ؟
   وماذا يُجدي أن تمدّي يَدكِ إلينا ، أيّتها الشّمس ؟
 
غَنِّ ، أيّها العاشق ،
النّبوءات تفرّ غيرةً منكَ ،
وإليك تنتمي فتنةُ الدّهر .
 
.
Close

A SONG OF TEMPTATION FOR NOTHING

I do not believe in the minds of the crowd
I believe in light—
                        radiating and penetrating, pointing toward a direction.
O tree of wisdom
how can I brother the Jerusalem woods to me?
And who is this One who is never present
                        except in a funeral or on a throne?
 
Not yet. The disaster has not arrived.
                                                The flood has yet to burst.
The Mediterranean is readying itself. The oceans stamp and shudder.
Who will gift this head to the king of trades? Who will say to Hannibal:
“Rome defeated you, but you are the victor? And from your skull another dawn rises now.”
 
My body is not ether. My body is dust and bone. A physics of arteries and veins. I live
in a hut of smoke, and I wear clouds for clothes. Endlessly and without ever succeeding, I try to heal the sky.
What a criminal I must be, living innocently like rain. My only sin is that I compete with light.
Shut yourself up before my face then, O sky. I vow you will never see my face at your door again.
And you, O planets, I will not ask you again to be
                                    a ladder for my steps. Inside me countless planets abide.
 
And now, lover, strike up your song!
 
Is your throat your lover? Is your lover your throat?
Don’t answer. Just sing.
Time tumbles, a stone in the hands of its god.
His children are mountains of weeping.
I note a star above your head, a star dimming.
I sense sails being torn in the lakes of your dreams.
Sing!
 
Waves take shape in your features. You sing the tide’s ebb and flow.
Praise to song.
Praise to love: right and wrong are a pair of twins between them,
            and the truth is their shared wound.
 
            Here he is ringing the bell of meaning,
            but is there anyone to listen?
What is the hand you reach out toward us, O sun?
 
Sing, lover,
prophecies scamper away from you jealously.
To you belongs life’s ageless allure.

A SONG OF TEMPTATION FOR NOTHING

I do not believe in the minds of the crowd
I believe in light—
                        radiating and penetrating, pointing toward a direction.
O tree of wisdom
how can I brother the Jerusalem woods to me?
And who is this One who is never present
                        except in a funeral or on a throne?
 
Not yet. The disaster has not arrived.
                                                The flood has yet to burst.
The Mediterranean is readying itself. The oceans stamp and shudder.
Who will gift this head to the king of trades? Who will say to Hannibal:
“Rome defeated you, but you are the victor? And from your skull another dawn rises now.”
 
My body is not ether. My body is dust and bone. A physics of arteries and veins. I live
in a hut of smoke, and I wear clouds for clothes. Endlessly and without ever succeeding, I try to heal the sky.
What a criminal I must be, living innocently like rain. My only sin is that I compete with light.
Shut yourself up before my face then, O sky. I vow you will never see my face at your door again.
And you, O planets, I will not ask you again to be
                                    a ladder for my steps. Inside me countless planets abide.
 
And now, lover, strike up your song!
 
Is your throat your lover? Is your lover your throat?
Don’t answer. Just sing.
Time tumbles, a stone in the hands of its god.
His children are mountains of weeping.
I note a star above your head, a star dimming.
I sense sails being torn in the lakes of your dreams.
Sing!
 
Waves take shape in your features. You sing the tide’s ebb and flow.
Praise to song.
Praise to love: right and wrong are a pair of twins between them,
            and the truth is their shared wound.
 
            Here he is ringing the bell of meaning,
            but is there anyone to listen?
What is the hand you reach out toward us, O sun?
 
Sing, lover,
prophecies scamper away from you jealously.
To you belongs life’s ageless allure.
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