Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Peter Verhelst

the world is but a playhouse stage / men act a role and draws its wage’ (joost van den vondel)

Someone throws a rose onto the stage

but it is not the rose or the hand that throws it,
nor even the throwing, but the falling,
which is not the falling on a hollow, wooden floor

but the jerk of your shoulder, look at me, someone,
anyone, who for the first, that first look.
While someone takes off his trousers for the first time in a new house,
while someone pulls a dress over her head
and they don’t look at each other yet, before that jerk of the shoulder.

Someone who lies down on the floor and closes their eyes,
the one
who cautiously lies down beside them,

which is not the lying on the floor,
but the falling, left arm behind the head,
quivering eyelids, breath catching, half-open mouth,
head falling to one side in that room with the wooden floor
where we once, for the first, you are now lying on your side
with open eyes.

A vase that falls.

Shards rise from the puddle and fuse,
water is drawn out of the wood,
a rose arcs from the floor back into the vase.

‘de weereld is een speel tooneel/ elck speelt zyn rol en kryght zyn deel’ (joost van den vondel)

‘de weereld is een speel tooneel/ elck speelt zyn rol en kryght zyn deel’ (joost van den vondel)

Iemand gooit een roos op het podium

maar het is niet de roos of de hand die gooide
zelfs niet het gooien, maar het vallen
dat niet het vallen is op een holle, houten vloer

maar de ruk van je schouder, kijk naar me, iemand,
gelijk wie, die voor het eerst, die eerste blik.
Terwijl iemand voor het eerst een broek uittrekt in een nieuw huis,
terwijl iemand een jurk over haar hoofd trekt
en ze elkaar nog niet aankijken, nog voor die ruk van de schouders.

Iemand die op de vloer gaat liggen en de ogen sluit,
die ene
die er voorzichtig naast gaat liggen,

dat niet het liggen is op de vloer
maar het vallen, linkerarm achter het hoofd,
trillende oogleden, stokken van de adem, halfopen mond,
opzijvallend hoofd in die kamer met de houten vloer
waar wij ooit, voor het eerst, lig jij nu met open ogen
op je zij.

Een vaas die valt.

Scherven stijgen uit de plas op en versmelten,
water trekt uit het hout weg,
een roos gooit zich met een boog van de vloer weer in de vaas.
Close

the world is but a playhouse stage / men act a role and draws its wage’ (joost van den vondel)

Someone throws a rose onto the stage

but it is not the rose or the hand that throws it,
nor even the throwing, but the falling,
which is not the falling on a hollow, wooden floor

but the jerk of your shoulder, look at me, someone,
anyone, who for the first, that first look.
While someone takes off his trousers for the first time in a new house,
while someone pulls a dress over her head
and they don’t look at each other yet, before that jerk of the shoulder.

Someone who lies down on the floor and closes their eyes,
the one
who cautiously lies down beside them,

which is not the lying on the floor,
but the falling, left arm behind the head,
quivering eyelids, breath catching, half-open mouth,
head falling to one side in that room with the wooden floor
where we once, for the first, you are now lying on your side
with open eyes.

A vase that falls.

Shards rise from the puddle and fuse,
water is drawn out of the wood,
a rose arcs from the floor back into the vase.

the world is but a playhouse stage / men act a role and draws its wage’ (joost van den vondel)

Someone throws a rose onto the stage

but it is not the rose or the hand that throws it,
nor even the throwing, but the falling,
which is not the falling on a hollow, wooden floor

but the jerk of your shoulder, look at me, someone,
anyone, who for the first, that first look.
While someone takes off his trousers for the first time in a new house,
while someone pulls a dress over her head
and they don’t look at each other yet, before that jerk of the shoulder.

Someone who lies down on the floor and closes their eyes,
the one
who cautiously lies down beside them,

which is not the lying on the floor,
but the falling, left arm behind the head,
quivering eyelids, breath catching, half-open mouth,
head falling to one side in that room with the wooden floor
where we once, for the first, you are now lying on your side
with open eyes.

A vase that falls.

Shards rise from the puddle and fuse,
water is drawn out of the wood,
a rose arcs from the floor back into the vase.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère