Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jan Wagner

SELF-PORTRAIT WITH A SWARM OF BEES

a moment ago i wore at best a fuzz
around my chin and lips; but now my beard
is growing and seething i might even pass
for magdalena: all my face hirsute

with bees. how they come buzzing from every side,
and, ounce by ounce, how a person’s being

slowly but steadily gains in weight and spread
to become the stone-still centre of song . . .

my arms outstretched i bear a resemblance
to some ancient knight whom bustling varlets help
to fit his suit of armour, piece by piece –
first the helmet, then the harness, arms, legs, nape,

until he can hardly move – who does not tread,
just stands there gleaming, with barely a hint
of wind behind the lustre, lingering breath,
and only vanishing becomes distinct.

ZELFPORTRET MET BIJENZWERM

daarstraks alleen nog maar een dunne lijn
om kin en lippen, nu een hele baard
die groeit en wemelt, tot ik bijna lijk
op magdalena, overal behaard

met bijen. het stormt van alle kanten
op mij af, en langzaam, gram voor gram
neemt het toe aan leven, ruimte, zwaarte,
een roerloos middelpunt van zoemgezang . . .

nu ben ik met mijn uitgestrekte armen
net een ridder wiens schildknapen hem
in zijn wapenrusting helpen, alles
aan hem bedekken met harnas en helm,

totdat bewegen bijna niet meer lukt,
hij nog slechts staat te glimmen, met alleen een
briesje achter alle glans, wat oude lucht,
echt zichtbaar pas wanneer hij is verdwenen.

SELBSTPORTRÄT MIT BIENENSCHWARM

bis eben nichts als eine feine linie
um kinn und lippen, jetzt ein ganzer bart,
der wächst und wimmelt, bis ich magdalena
zu gleichen scheine, ganz und gar behaart

von bienen bin. wie es von allen seiten
heranstürmt, wie man langsam, gramm um gramm
an dasein zunimmt, an gewicht und weite,
das regungslose zentrum vom gesang . . .

ich ähnele mit meinen ausgestreck-
ten armen einem ritter, dem die knappen
in seine rüstung helfen, stück um stück,
erst helm, dann harnisch, arme, beine, nacken,

bis er sich kaum noch rühren kann, nicht läuft,
nur schimmernd dasteht, nur mit ein paar winden
hinter dem glanz, ein bißchen alter luft,
und wirklich sichtbar erst mit dem verschwinden.
Close

SELF-PORTRAIT WITH A SWARM OF BEES

a moment ago i wore at best a fuzz
around my chin and lips; but now my beard
is growing and seething i might even pass
for magdalena: all my face hirsute

with bees. how they come buzzing from every side,
and, ounce by ounce, how a person’s being

slowly but steadily gains in weight and spread
to become the stone-still centre of song . . .

my arms outstretched i bear a resemblance
to some ancient knight whom bustling varlets help
to fit his suit of armour, piece by piece –
first the helmet, then the harness, arms, legs, nape,

until he can hardly move – who does not tread,
just stands there gleaming, with barely a hint
of wind behind the lustre, lingering breath,
and only vanishing becomes distinct.

SELF-PORTRAIT WITH A SWARM OF BEES

a moment ago i wore at best a fuzz
around my chin and lips; but now my beard
is growing and seething i might even pass
for magdalena: all my face hirsute

with bees. how they come buzzing from every side,
and, ounce by ounce, how a person’s being

slowly but steadily gains in weight and spread
to become the stone-still centre of song . . .

my arms outstretched i bear a resemblance
to some ancient knight whom bustling varlets help
to fit his suit of armour, piece by piece –
first the helmet, then the harness, arms, legs, nape,

until he can hardly move – who does not tread,
just stands there gleaming, with barely a hint
of wind behind the lustre, lingering breath,
and only vanishing becomes distinct.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère