Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Hannah van Binsbergen

But undoubtedly

But undoubtedly
you understand everything and once more I’m just an idiot
in a new and exciting era of sleeplessness.

The plan is: to recognize something in us
that must be repeated endlessly
because otherwise it is swept out
before it can settle in.

I’m not alone under the blankets.
There’s a mouse crawling over my leg.
Undoubtedly he understands everything and I
will remain a parasite my whole life
in a neighborhood where nobody does anything but
rearrange flowers that must repeat within us
what was effaced before our existence was even considered.

The color of an iris rips something in your eyes,
no bouquet can teach you to see it.

I lie in bed and watch the undulating of the closet door
‘things aren’t so stable after all!’
and fall asleep with an easy heart.

Nonetheless know
that I love you more than the others.
That you can learn love better
in the jagged grip of melancholy
while sobs interrupt the song.

The real news of the day is not what you imagine.
It’s the conspiracy that knows the art of being exposed,
the art of giving up the center and
ending the background.
If it is cold, we see ghosts.
If it is warm, we can’t keep from licking ourselves
because it is evil that drives our body out of itself.

The announcer’s voice was the ghost that ruled our economy for so long.
The announcer’s voice is the image of love, and times of love
are times of art. It is ludicrous to criticize a voice that has kept so many
households happy. Clear ideas were the daily bread for everyone with a radio.
It’s perverse how much time you spend in the snares of the simplest decisions!

The announcer’s song lets us repeat
that which we hope remains recognizable in us.
There is no center, only periphery;
everything else must be a gift.

Maar ongetwijfeld

Maar ongetwijfeld
begrijpen jullie alles en ben ik eens te meer gewoon een idioot
in een nieuw en spannend tijdperk van slapeloosheid.

Het plan is: iets te herkennen wat in ons
eindeloos herhaald moet worden
omdat het anders uitgevaagd is
voor het in kan dalen.

Ik ben niet alleen onder de dekens.
Er loopt een muis over mijn been.
Ongetwijfeld begrijpt hij alles en zal ik
mijn hele leven een klaploper blijven
in een buurt waar niemand iets anders doet dan
bloemen verplaatsen die in ons moeten herhalen
wat uitgewist werd voordat zelfs aan ons bestaan gedacht werd.

De kleur van een iris scheurt iets in je ogen
geen boeket kan je dat leren zien.

Ik lig in bed en kijk naar het golven van de kastdeur
'de dingen zijn zo stabiel nog niet!'
en ga met een gerust hart slapen.

Neemt niet weg
dat ik meer van je houd dan de anderen.
Dat je de liefde beter kunt leren
in de rafelige greep van de weemoed
terwijl snikken het lied onderbreken.

Het echte gesprek van de dag is niet wat je je voorstelt.
Het is het complot dat de kunst verstaat onthuld te worden,
de kunst van het opgeven van het centrum en
het einde van de achtergrond.
Als het koud is, zien we spoken.
Als het warm is, kunnen we niet nalaten aan onszelf te likken
omdat het kwaad is wat ons lichaam uit zichzelf verdrijft.

De stem van de omroeper was het spook dat onze economie zo lang beheerst heeft.
De stem van de omroeper is het beeld van de liefde, en tijden van liefde
zijn tijden van kunst. Het is belachelijk een stem te bekritiseren die zo veel huishoudens
gelukkig hield. Heldere ideeën waren het dagelijks brood voor iedereen met een radio.
Het is onredelijk hoe veel tijd je doorbrengt in de valstrik van de simpelste beslissingen!

Het lied van de omroeper laat ons herhalen
waarvan we hopen dat het in ons nog herkend kan worden.
Er is geen centrum, alleen omgeving;
al het andere moet een gift zijn.
Close

But undoubtedly

But undoubtedly
you understand everything and once more I’m just an idiot
in a new and exciting era of sleeplessness.

The plan is: to recognize something in us
that must be repeated endlessly
because otherwise it is swept out
before it can settle in.

I’m not alone under the blankets.
There’s a mouse crawling over my leg.
Undoubtedly he understands everything and I
will remain a parasite my whole life
in a neighborhood where nobody does anything but
rearrange flowers that must repeat within us
what was effaced before our existence was even considered.

The color of an iris rips something in your eyes,
no bouquet can teach you to see it.

I lie in bed and watch the undulating of the closet door
‘things aren’t so stable after all!’
and fall asleep with an easy heart.

Nonetheless know
that I love you more than the others.
That you can learn love better
in the jagged grip of melancholy
while sobs interrupt the song.

The real news of the day is not what you imagine.
It’s the conspiracy that knows the art of being exposed,
the art of giving up the center and
ending the background.
If it is cold, we see ghosts.
If it is warm, we can’t keep from licking ourselves
because it is evil that drives our body out of itself.

The announcer’s voice was the ghost that ruled our economy for so long.
The announcer’s voice is the image of love, and times of love
are times of art. It is ludicrous to criticize a voice that has kept so many
households happy. Clear ideas were the daily bread for everyone with a radio.
It’s perverse how much time you spend in the snares of the simplest decisions!

The announcer’s song lets us repeat
that which we hope remains recognizable in us.
There is no center, only periphery;
everything else must be a gift.

But undoubtedly

But undoubtedly
you understand everything and once more I’m just an idiot
in a new and exciting era of sleeplessness.

The plan is: to recognize something in us
that must be repeated endlessly
because otherwise it is swept out
before it can settle in.

I’m not alone under the blankets.
There’s a mouse crawling over my leg.
Undoubtedly he understands everything and I
will remain a parasite my whole life
in a neighborhood where nobody does anything but
rearrange flowers that must repeat within us
what was effaced before our existence was even considered.

The color of an iris rips something in your eyes,
no bouquet can teach you to see it.

I lie in bed and watch the undulating of the closet door
‘things aren’t so stable after all!’
and fall asleep with an easy heart.

Nonetheless know
that I love you more than the others.
That you can learn love better
in the jagged grip of melancholy
while sobs interrupt the song.

The real news of the day is not what you imagine.
It’s the conspiracy that knows the art of being exposed,
the art of giving up the center and
ending the background.
If it is cold, we see ghosts.
If it is warm, we can’t keep from licking ourselves
because it is evil that drives our body out of itself.

The announcer’s voice was the ghost that ruled our economy for so long.
The announcer’s voice is the image of love, and times of love
are times of art. It is ludicrous to criticize a voice that has kept so many
households happy. Clear ideas were the daily bread for everyone with a radio.
It’s perverse how much time you spend in the snares of the simplest decisions!

The announcer’s song lets us repeat
that which we hope remains recognizable in us.
There is no center, only periphery;
everything else must be a gift.
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Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
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