Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Charlotte Van den Broeck

don’t lean too far now the evening is squeezing out the light and our breath

don’t lean too far now the evening is squeezing out the light and our breath
bump-blue the skin, pounded war drum of the failing inside us
the house submits to being divided into banana boxes and possessive pronouns
the bookcase into left and right
yours the maps, the Russians and the complete Márquez
I get dictionaries in all languages, the biographies of dictators
and yes, the poetry, now of all times refusing to speak, you ask:
which bird was it that tears its own breast with its beak?
the pelican gets no further than the tip of my tongue
now I know that mourning starts by bumping your elbow
and radiates into your fingertips
pre-emptive anaesthesia for the sense of touch

niet overhellen, nu de avond het licht en ons de adem afknelt

niet overhellen, nu de avond het licht en ons de adem afknelt
stootblauw het vel, aangeslagen oorlogstrommel van wat faalt in ons
het huis laat zich verdelen in bananendozen en bezittelijke voornaamwoorden
de boekenkast in links en rechts
van jou de landkaarten, de Russen en het oeuvre van Márquez
ik krijg woordenboeken in alle talen, de biografieën van dictators
en ja, de poëzie, die juist nu hardnekkig staat te zwijgen, je vraagt nog:
welke vogel stak ook weer de snavel in zijn eigen borst?
ik kan niet op de pelikaan komen
weet nu dat rouw begint bij het stoten van de elleboog
en doortrekt tot in de vingertoppen
om nieuwe aanrakingen vooraf al te verdoven
Close

don’t lean too far now the evening is squeezing out the light and our breath

don’t lean too far now the evening is squeezing out the light and our breath
bump-blue the skin, pounded war drum of the failing inside us
the house submits to being divided into banana boxes and possessive pronouns
the bookcase into left and right
yours the maps, the Russians and the complete Márquez
I get dictionaries in all languages, the biographies of dictators
and yes, the poetry, now of all times refusing to speak, you ask:
which bird was it that tears its own breast with its beak?
the pelican gets no further than the tip of my tongue
now I know that mourning starts by bumping your elbow
and radiates into your fingertips
pre-emptive anaesthesia for the sense of touch

don’t lean too far now the evening is squeezing out the light and our breath

don’t lean too far now the evening is squeezing out the light and our breath
bump-blue the skin, pounded war drum of the failing inside us
the house submits to being divided into banana boxes and possessive pronouns
the bookcase into left and right
yours the maps, the Russians and the complete Márquez
I get dictionaries in all languages, the biographies of dictators
and yes, the poetry, now of all times refusing to speak, you ask:
which bird was it that tears its own breast with its beak?
the pelican gets no further than the tip of my tongue
now I know that mourning starts by bumping your elbow
and radiates into your fingertips
pre-emptive anaesthesia for the sense of touch
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère