Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Charlotte Van den Broeck

Bucharest

Some places are so small
they’d fit on the tip of a finger.   
I try to point at where everything was
but I can barely remember.

Among the rubble of forgetting stands
my grandfather’s bookcase and that Sunday afternoon
when we read the atlas together, his finger
resting on the capital of Romania.

‘A smashing bunch of slags’ they had, he said 
and I thought a slag was some sort of Eiffel Tower  
and resented him for never
bringing me back a miniature version.

Later I learned that borders and grandfathers are relative.
Only that afternoon is marked in the atlas
by raised alphabet letters, as the afternoon
when I still saw in him the most perfect guide.

Boekarest

Boekarest

Sommige plaatsen zijn zo klein
dat ze in een vingertop passen.
Ik probeer te wijzen waar alles is geweest
maar ik weet het zelf nog amper.

Tussen  het puin van het vergeten staat de boekenkast
van mijn grootvader en de zondagmiddag
waarop we samen de atlas lazen, zijn vinger
op de hoofdstad van Roemenië.

Dat men daar ‘een schitterende verzameling hoertjes’ had
en dat ik dacht, dat een hoer zoiets als de Eiffeltoren was
en hem verweet dat hij daarvan nooit
een miniatuurversie voor mij meebracht.

Later bleken landsgrenzen en grootvaders relatief
enkel die middag staat in reliëfalfabet
in de pagina’s van de atlas, als de middag
waarop ik in hem nog een uitstekende gids zag.
Close

Bucharest

Some places are so small
they’d fit on the tip of a finger.   
I try to point at where everything was
but I can barely remember.

Among the rubble of forgetting stands
my grandfather’s bookcase and that Sunday afternoon
when we read the atlas together, his finger
resting on the capital of Romania.

‘A smashing bunch of slags’ they had, he said 
and I thought a slag was some sort of Eiffel Tower  
and resented him for never
bringing me back a miniature version.

Later I learned that borders and grandfathers are relative.
Only that afternoon is marked in the atlas
by raised alphabet letters, as the afternoon
when I still saw in him the most perfect guide.

Bucharest

Some places are so small
they’d fit on the tip of a finger.   
I try to point at where everything was
but I can barely remember.

Among the rubble of forgetting stands
my grandfather’s bookcase and that Sunday afternoon
when we read the atlas together, his finger
resting on the capital of Romania.

‘A smashing bunch of slags’ they had, he said 
and I thought a slag was some sort of Eiffel Tower  
and resented him for never
bringing me back a miniature version.

Later I learned that borders and grandfathers are relative.
Only that afternoon is marked in the atlas
by raised alphabet letters, as the afternoon
when I still saw in him the most perfect guide.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère