Poem
Marieke Lucas Rijneveld
HOLLOW ENOUGH TO HIDE AN ECHO
We weren’t allowed to ask any questions but could invent answers, Mama criedlots in the time when we were not yet a meter and she taught us that death had an echo
that rang deep inside your eardrums, I kept forgetting to stick my cold
hands in my pockets, not to make a fist but flat
the way I let them fall upon the glass pane of my brother’s coffin like two
damp starfish, the sea suddenly found itself above our heads
someone had shoved the floor away and not replaced it said Grandpa who
made doves of my fears: to tame them
should I have stroked them from head to tail and once a week let them loose in
the field behind the stall, watching as they flew away? But at night they tapped
again with their beaks against the bedroom window, in panic Grandpa called the local plumber
because there were holes in his grandchildren, they were leaking liters of tears.
Then, consolation was just like parking, to measure is to know and still sometimes
your estimation is too narrow, you continue searching for the right place, sometimes an embrace
can also require several circles around each other. On the table tea cups stood
filled with gin, strange fingers stirred ice cubes making a cheerful
tinkling while death had yet to make a sound, just as answers need a couple
of seconds to land in the heads of an audience, were
we the audience here or did we need other people’s pockets to feel
the warmth of another body? I took a forefinger and opened my mouth, just stir it I
thought then let us pretend that we want to grab each other though we keep
slipping away, withdrawal meant that the sound did not enter everyone in the same
way, those not hollow enough to hide an echo.
Beside the preacher stood the dentist, the only man in our lives who knew
everything that got between our teeth and understood that at night our ears
became seashells in which we heard not the rushing of the sea but the dead
brother, constantly in our hearts, being driven up again.
© Translation: 2017, Sarah Timmer Harvey
HOL GENOEG OM EEN ECHO TE VERBERGEN
HOL GENOEG OM EEN ECHO TE VERBERGEN
We mochten geen vragen stellen maar wel antwoorden bedenken, mama huildeveel in de tijd dat we nog geen meter waren en ze ons leerde dat de dood een echo
had die nasuisde tot ver in je trommelvliezen, vergat steeds om mijn koude
handen in mijn broekzakken te steken, ze niet tot vuist te maken maar plat
zoals ik ze op de glasplaat van de kist van mijn broer liet vallen als twee
vochtige zeesterren, de zee zich ineens boven onze hoofden bevond
iemand had de vloer weggeschoven en niet meer teruggelegd zei opa die
mijn angsten tot duiven vormde: om ze tam te maken
moest ik ze van kop naar staart aaien en één keer in de week loslaten in
het weiland achter de stal, toekijken hoe ze wegvlogen maar in de nacht tikten ze
weer met hun snavels tegen het slaapkamerraam, belde hij in paniek de loodgieter
uit de straat omdat er gaten in zijn kleinkinderen zaten, ze lekten liters tranen.
Troosten was toen nog als inparkeren, het is meten en weten en toch schat je het
vaak te krap in, blijf je zoeken naar de juiste plaats, een omhelzing heeft soms
ook meerdere rondjes om elkaar heen nodig. Op tafel stonden theeglazen
gevuld met jenever, vreemde wijsvingers roerden door ijsklontjes er klonk vrolijk
gerinkel terwijl de dood nog een klap moest maken zoals antwoorden een paar
seconden de tijd nodig hebben om te landen in hoofden van publiek, waren
wij hier het publiek of hadden we andermans broekzakken nodig om de warmte van
een lichaam te voelen, ik pakte een wijsvinger en opende mijn mond, roer maar dacht
ik nog laten we doen alsof we elkaar beet willen pakken maar we steeds van elkaar
wegglippen, terugtrekken betekende dat de klap niet bij iedereen hetzelfde
binnenkwam, zij niet hol genoeg waren om een echo te verbergen.
Naast de dominee stond de tandarts, de enige man in ons leven die oog had
voor alles wat we voor onze kiezen kregen en begreep dat 's nachts onze oren in
zeeschelpen veranderden waarin we niet de zee hoorden suizen maar de dood
broer steeds weer in ons hart naar boven kwam gedreven.
© 2015, Marieke Lucas Rijneveld
From: Kalfsvlies
Publisher: Atlas Contact, Amsterdam
From: Kalfsvlies
Publisher: Atlas Contact, Amsterdam
Marieke Lucas Rijneveld
(The Netherlands, 1991)
Marieke Lucas Rijneveld is considered one of the rising stars in contemporary Dutch literature. In 2015 Rijneveld published Kalfsvlies ('Calf's Caul'), a collection of poetry which was awarded the C. Buddingh’ Prize for best Dutch-language poetry debut, prompting the daily newspaper de Volkskrant to proclaim her the national literary talent of the year. In 2020 she has been awarded the Interna...
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Poems of Marieke Lucas Rijneveld
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HOLLOW ENOUGH TO HIDE AN ECHO
We weren’t allowed to ask any questions but could invent answers, Mama criedlots in the time when we were not yet a meter and she taught us that death had an echo
that rang deep inside your eardrums, I kept forgetting to stick my cold
hands in my pockets, not to make a fist but flat
the way I let them fall upon the glass pane of my brother’s coffin like two
damp starfish, the sea suddenly found itself above our heads
someone had shoved the floor away and not replaced it said Grandpa who
made doves of my fears: to tame them
should I have stroked them from head to tail and once a week let them loose in
the field behind the stall, watching as they flew away? But at night they tapped
again with their beaks against the bedroom window, in panic Grandpa called the local plumber
because there were holes in his grandchildren, they were leaking liters of tears.
Then, consolation was just like parking, to measure is to know and still sometimes
your estimation is too narrow, you continue searching for the right place, sometimes an embrace
can also require several circles around each other. On the table tea cups stood
filled with gin, strange fingers stirred ice cubes making a cheerful
tinkling while death had yet to make a sound, just as answers need a couple
of seconds to land in the heads of an audience, were
we the audience here or did we need other people’s pockets to feel
the warmth of another body? I took a forefinger and opened my mouth, just stir it I
thought then let us pretend that we want to grab each other though we keep
slipping away, withdrawal meant that the sound did not enter everyone in the same
way, those not hollow enough to hide an echo.
Beside the preacher stood the dentist, the only man in our lives who knew
everything that got between our teeth and understood that at night our ears
became seashells in which we heard not the rushing of the sea but the dead
brother, constantly in our hearts, being driven up again.
© 2017, Sarah Timmer Harvey
From: Kalfsvlies
From: Kalfsvlies
HOLLOW ENOUGH TO HIDE AN ECHO
We weren’t allowed to ask any questions but could invent answers, Mama criedlots in the time when we were not yet a meter and she taught us that death had an echo
that rang deep inside your eardrums, I kept forgetting to stick my cold
hands in my pockets, not to make a fist but flat
the way I let them fall upon the glass pane of my brother’s coffin like two
damp starfish, the sea suddenly found itself above our heads
someone had shoved the floor away and not replaced it said Grandpa who
made doves of my fears: to tame them
should I have stroked them from head to tail and once a week let them loose in
the field behind the stall, watching as they flew away? But at night they tapped
again with their beaks against the bedroom window, in panic Grandpa called the local plumber
because there were holes in his grandchildren, they were leaking liters of tears.
Then, consolation was just like parking, to measure is to know and still sometimes
your estimation is too narrow, you continue searching for the right place, sometimes an embrace
can also require several circles around each other. On the table tea cups stood
filled with gin, strange fingers stirred ice cubes making a cheerful
tinkling while death had yet to make a sound, just as answers need a couple
of seconds to land in the heads of an audience, were
we the audience here or did we need other people’s pockets to feel
the warmth of another body? I took a forefinger and opened my mouth, just stir it I
thought then let us pretend that we want to grab each other though we keep
slipping away, withdrawal meant that the sound did not enter everyone in the same
way, those not hollow enough to hide an echo.
Beside the preacher stood the dentist, the only man in our lives who knew
everything that got between our teeth and understood that at night our ears
became seashells in which we heard not the rushing of the sea but the dead
brother, constantly in our hearts, being driven up again.
© 2017, Sarah Timmer Harvey
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