Poem
Stefan Hertmans
THE GLASSES
Picking red currantsOn an empty day,
Black clouds, a windy afternoon,
Her fingers gleaming from the juice,
She thinks of scars and sugar,
Bitter stalks and nectar.
Then she obediently fills
The hot rinsed glasses,
Jar after shining fluted jar.
She sets her sobs in bowls
Carefully stacked to the brim
For long warm winters stored
on ancient racks of patience.
© Translation: 2016, Donald Gardner
De glazen
De glazen
Het rissen van de rode bessenOp een lege dag,
Met wind en zwarte wolken,
Haar vingers blinkend van het sap,
Denkt ze aan littekens en suiker,
Bittere stengels, godendrank.
Gehoorzaam vult ze dan
De heet gespoelde glazen,
Glas na doorschijnend rillenglas.
Ze zet het snikken in bokalen
Zorgvuldig afgevuld
Voor lange warme winters
Op oude rekken van geduld.
© 2015, Stefan Hertmans
From: Neem en lees
Publisher: CPNB,
From: Neem en lees
Publisher: CPNB,
Poems
Poems of Stefan Hertmans
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THE GLASSES
Picking red currantsOn an empty day,
Black clouds, a windy afternoon,
Her fingers gleaming from the juice,
She thinks of scars and sugar,
Bitter stalks and nectar.
Then she obediently fills
The hot rinsed glasses,
Jar after shining fluted jar.
She sets her sobs in bowls
Carefully stacked to the brim
For long warm winters stored
on ancient racks of patience.
© 2016, Donald Gardner
From: Neem en lees
From: Neem en lees
THE GLASSES
Picking red currantsOn an empty day,
Black clouds, a windy afternoon,
Her fingers gleaming from the juice,
She thinks of scars and sugar,
Bitter stalks and nectar.
Then she obediently fills
The hot rinsed glasses,
Jar after shining fluted jar.
She sets her sobs in bowls
Carefully stacked to the brim
For long warm winters stored
on ancient racks of patience.
© 2016, Donald Gardner
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