Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Tom Lanoye

Confessions of a turnip plant (Or: `Autopsy of the self´)

I was too genetically encumbered for travel, I thought,
since wrought in a city whose coat of arms featured a turnip.
(A delicacy for vegans and stray donkeys. What else?
Hard-headed and round. Firmly anchored in the loose ground.)

All too familiar I was with the emptiness of a cobblestone market
and a golden goddess on the whitest tower. Mother and child
on a church without people. Only drizzle and mist to mirror
my occasional malaise. Rebellion was something for strangers.

Travel was for books. Dreams for later. Work wasn’t.
The female progenitor: a genuine actress. The male: a butcher.
Life wrapped in bite-sized slices, marinated in cosiness,
right from the very start. A regional dish of flesh and blood.

    Sheltered, spoiled rotten. Pampered to
    a state of pomposity.

Many years later, with holes in my soles and gaps in
my soul, I stand at the foot of a mountain built like
a table. In a country full of diamonds and oppression and a
dozen languages. At the tip of a continent filled with hatred and hope.

At a market, this time black with people, I see and hear them preach.
The poet in animal skins, the archbishop in purple and white and
the newly-elected president, stiffened by the seriousness of the moment. Each lending his voice to the same song: “Free! We’re free at last.”

Never before or since
so constricted, so stirred.

So embarrassed and so disillusioned.

So out of place and so connected.

So uprooted and yet at home.

bekentenissen van een knolgewas

bekentenissen van een knolgewas

Voor wegwee was ik, dacht ik, genetisch verloren
want geboren in een stad met een raap in haar schild.
(Lekkernij voor veganisten en verdwenen ezels. Verder?
Koppig en rond. Onwrikbaar verankerd in rulle grond.)

Te vertrouwd was ik met de leegte van een kasseimarkt
en een gouden godin op de witste toren. Moeder en kind
op een kerk zonder volk. Alleen miezer en mist vertolkten
mijn schaarse onbehagen. Rebellie was iets voor vreemden.

Reizen iets voor boeken. Dromen voor later. Werken niet.
Verwekster: een oprechte actrice. Verwekker: een slager.
Het leven van jongs af in hapklare plakken verpakt,
gemarineerd in gezelligheid. Menselijk streekgerecht.

                           Geborgen, rotbedorven. Op
                           het verwaande af verwend.

     Vele jaren daarna, met gaten in mijn zolen en hiaten in
     mijn ziel, sta ik aan de voet van een berg met de bouw
     van een tafel. In een land vol diamant, onderdrukking en een
     twaalftal talen. Onder aan een continent vol hoop en vol haat.

     Op een markt, dit keer zwart van het volk, zie ik en hoor ik ze preken.
     De dichter in zijn beestenvellen, de aartsbisschop in wit en paars en
     de pas verkozen president, verstijfd in de ernst van het moment. Elk
     met zijn accent voor eenzelfde gezang: ‘Free! We’re free at last.’

Nooit voorheen of sedertdien
                                   zo bevangen, zo bewogen.

Zo beschaamd           Zo misplaatst            Zo ontworteld
en zo ontluisterd.     en zo verbonden.      en toch thuis.
Close

Confessions of a turnip plant (Or: `Autopsy of the self´)

I was too genetically encumbered for travel, I thought,
since wrought in a city whose coat of arms featured a turnip.
(A delicacy for vegans and stray donkeys. What else?
Hard-headed and round. Firmly anchored in the loose ground.)

All too familiar I was with the emptiness of a cobblestone market
and a golden goddess on the whitest tower. Mother and child
on a church without people. Only drizzle and mist to mirror
my occasional malaise. Rebellion was something for strangers.

Travel was for books. Dreams for later. Work wasn’t.
The female progenitor: a genuine actress. The male: a butcher.
Life wrapped in bite-sized slices, marinated in cosiness,
right from the very start. A regional dish of flesh and blood.

    Sheltered, spoiled rotten. Pampered to
    a state of pomposity.

Many years later, with holes in my soles and gaps in
my soul, I stand at the foot of a mountain built like
a table. In a country full of diamonds and oppression and a
dozen languages. At the tip of a continent filled with hatred and hope.

At a market, this time black with people, I see and hear them preach.
The poet in animal skins, the archbishop in purple and white and
the newly-elected president, stiffened by the seriousness of the moment. Each lending his voice to the same song: “Free! We’re free at last.”

Never before or since
so constricted, so stirred.

So embarrassed and so disillusioned.

So out of place and so connected.

So uprooted and yet at home.

Confessions of a turnip plant (Or: `Autopsy of the self´)

I was too genetically encumbered for travel, I thought,
since wrought in a city whose coat of arms featured a turnip.
(A delicacy for vegans and stray donkeys. What else?
Hard-headed and round. Firmly anchored in the loose ground.)

All too familiar I was with the emptiness of a cobblestone market
and a golden goddess on the whitest tower. Mother and child
on a church without people. Only drizzle and mist to mirror
my occasional malaise. Rebellion was something for strangers.

Travel was for books. Dreams for later. Work wasn’t.
The female progenitor: a genuine actress. The male: a butcher.
Life wrapped in bite-sized slices, marinated in cosiness,
right from the very start. A regional dish of flesh and blood.

    Sheltered, spoiled rotten. Pampered to
    a state of pomposity.

Many years later, with holes in my soles and gaps in
my soul, I stand at the foot of a mountain built like
a table. In a country full of diamonds and oppression and a
dozen languages. At the tip of a continent filled with hatred and hope.

At a market, this time black with people, I see and hear them preach.
The poet in animal skins, the archbishop in purple and white and
the newly-elected president, stiffened by the seriousness of the moment. Each lending his voice to the same song: “Free! We’re free at last.”

Never before or since
so constricted, so stirred.

So embarrassed and so disillusioned.

So out of place and so connected.

So uprooted and yet at home.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère