Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Paul Demets

‘She is gone. She has come again.’ The yarn rolls off the spool.

‘She is gone. She has come again.’ The yarn rolls off the spool.
This is how you dangle by a thread. It follows you round the room,      
summons you, drags you along like a rag doll.
It stays silent when it catches in your voice. You sing it out,
 
after all that longing for that scream. You let it sound. 
Your singing sets it dancing underneath the sheets. It
gurgles, hankers after your voice. Next it has forgotten             
your song. It resides here now, deaf to all your tones.                                
 
From its early words it braids a hammock                                          
like the sparrows in the privet hedge. They fly
up to the mangers, not waiting for hunger to come.
It sees how like shadows we continue to glide                                
 
across one another. It can’t get by on us,
and sucks us drier than a wet nurse. It looks
and looks and claws for a reflection. And continues
to eat. The mirror feeds and pillages.
 
It is incurable when it finds its face here.

‘Ze is weg. Ze is er weer.’ Van de klos rolt het garen af.

‘Ze is weg. Ze is er weer.’ Van de klos rolt het garen af.
Zo hang je aan een draadje in de kamer. Het loopt je na,
het roept je op, het sleept jou weer aan als ledenpop.
Het zwijgt als het klem geraakt in je stem. Je zingt het uit,

zo heb je naar die schreeuw verlangd. En geeft het nu gehoor.
Jouw zang doet het dansen onder het laken. Het ligt
kraaiend op jouw stem in te haken. Dan is het jouw lied
vergeten. Het woont hier nu, voor al je klanken doof.

Van zijn eigen vroege woorden vlecht het een hangmat
als buiten de mussen in de liguster. Ze vliegen
op naar de ruiven en wachten niet tot de honger komt.
Het ziet hoe wij als schaduwen boven elkaar

zijn blijven schuiven. Het geraakt met ons niet rond,
het vreet ons leger dan een min. Het kijkt
en kijkt en verlangt hevig naar zijn beeltenis. En blijft
maar eten. De spiegel voedt en rooft.

Het blijft onheelbaar als het zijn gezicht hier vindt.
Close

‘She is gone. She has come again.’ The yarn rolls off the spool.

‘She is gone. She has come again.’ The yarn rolls off the spool.
This is how you dangle by a thread. It follows you round the room,      
summons you, drags you along like a rag doll.
It stays silent when it catches in your voice. You sing it out,
 
after all that longing for that scream. You let it sound. 
Your singing sets it dancing underneath the sheets. It
gurgles, hankers after your voice. Next it has forgotten             
your song. It resides here now, deaf to all your tones.                                
 
From its early words it braids a hammock                                          
like the sparrows in the privet hedge. They fly
up to the mangers, not waiting for hunger to come.
It sees how like shadows we continue to glide                                
 
across one another. It can’t get by on us,
and sucks us drier than a wet nurse. It looks
and looks and claws for a reflection. And continues
to eat. The mirror feeds and pillages.
 
It is incurable when it finds its face here.

‘She is gone. She has come again.’ The yarn rolls off the spool.

‘She is gone. She has come again.’ The yarn rolls off the spool.
This is how you dangle by a thread. It follows you round the room,      
summons you, drags you along like a rag doll.
It stays silent when it catches in your voice. You sing it out,
 
after all that longing for that scream. You let it sound. 
Your singing sets it dancing underneath the sheets. It
gurgles, hankers after your voice. Next it has forgotten             
your song. It resides here now, deaf to all your tones.                                
 
From its early words it braids a hammock                                          
like the sparrows in the privet hedge. They fly
up to the mangers, not waiting for hunger to come.
It sees how like shadows we continue to glide                                
 
across one another. It can’t get by on us,
and sucks us drier than a wet nurse. It looks
and looks and claws for a reflection. And continues
to eat. The mirror feeds and pillages.
 
It is incurable when it finds its face here.
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