Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Willem Jan Otten

ZORGVLIED CEMETERY

An early rower spreads his wings
and pulls himself
backwards up the Amstel.

Going through the gate
I hear twittering,
but let it pass unnoticed.

Again I do not know the way,
it’s like he’s always resting somewhere else.
There is no end to him.

The air is still, a last high-pressure day.

If you must know, Dad,
I don’t believe in beyond time.

I am never prepared
for the chiselled panic
of finding you.

The years, Grandma, Grandpa,
three-year-old brother Willie,
first to be brought here,
almost a century ago. And you.

In what then? I knew
you would ask that.
If not in me preserved in the vinyl
of eternity,
where do you believe I’ve gone?

On the other side of the ditch
someone with a chainsaw fells a tree.

Your headstone’s spic and span,
if tilting slightly – to the left,
there’s a newcomer on that side.

It’s only outside by the fence
unlocking my bike
that it dawns on me that what I’m hearing, very high,
must be the unrealised twittering –

the swallows left while I was here with you.

No end came to you
in this very moment.

The rower skims back over the Amstel to his boathouse.

ZORGVLIED

ZORGVLIED

Een ochtendlijke roeier slaat zijn vleugels uit
en trekt zich achterwaarts de Amstel op.

Als ik het hek door ga
hoor ik gekwetter,
maar ik verneem het niet.

Weer weet ik niet de weg,
het is alsof hij telkens ergens anders rust.
Er komt aan hem geen eind.

Windstil, een laatste dag van hoge druk.

Als jij het soms wil weten, pa,
ik geloof niet in voorbij de tijd.

Nooit ben ik voorbereid
op de gebeitelde paniek
als ik je vind.

De jaartallen, opa, oma,
broer Willie van drie,
de eerste die hier is gebracht,
een eeuw geleden zowat. En jij.

Waarin dan wel? Ik wist
dat jij het vragen zou,
als niet in mij bewaard in het vinyl
van eeuwigheid,
waar geloof jij mij dan heen?

Aan de overzijde van de sloot
wordt met een kettingzaag een boom geveld.

Je grafsteen ligt er picobello bij,
zij het wat verzakt, naar links,
er ligt een nieuweling langszij.

Pas als ik buiten aan het hek
mijn fiets ontsluit
daagt het mij dat wat ik hoor, heel hoog,
het onbesefte kwetteren moet zijn –

de zwaluwen vertrokken toen ik bij je was.

Geen eind kwam er aan jou,
precies in deze wenk.

Over de Amstel scheert de roeier naar het botenhuis.
Close

ZORGVLIED CEMETERY

An early rower spreads his wings
and pulls himself
backwards up the Amstel.

Going through the gate
I hear twittering,
but let it pass unnoticed.

Again I do not know the way,
it’s like he’s always resting somewhere else.
There is no end to him.

The air is still, a last high-pressure day.

If you must know, Dad,
I don’t believe in beyond time.

I am never prepared
for the chiselled panic
of finding you.

The years, Grandma, Grandpa,
three-year-old brother Willie,
first to be brought here,
almost a century ago. And you.

In what then? I knew
you would ask that.
If not in me preserved in the vinyl
of eternity,
where do you believe I’ve gone?

On the other side of the ditch
someone with a chainsaw fells a tree.

Your headstone’s spic and span,
if tilting slightly – to the left,
there’s a newcomer on that side.

It’s only outside by the fence
unlocking my bike
that it dawns on me that what I’m hearing, very high,
must be the unrealised twittering –

the swallows left while I was here with you.

No end came to you
in this very moment.

The rower skims back over the Amstel to his boathouse.

ZORGVLIED CEMETERY

An early rower spreads his wings
and pulls himself
backwards up the Amstel.

Going through the gate
I hear twittering,
but let it pass unnoticed.

Again I do not know the way,
it’s like he’s always resting somewhere else.
There is no end to him.

The air is still, a last high-pressure day.

If you must know, Dad,
I don’t believe in beyond time.

I am never prepared
for the chiselled panic
of finding you.

The years, Grandma, Grandpa,
three-year-old brother Willie,
first to be brought here,
almost a century ago. And you.

In what then? I knew
you would ask that.
If not in me preserved in the vinyl
of eternity,
where do you believe I’ve gone?

On the other side of the ditch
someone with a chainsaw fells a tree.

Your headstone’s spic and span,
if tilting slightly – to the left,
there’s a newcomer on that side.

It’s only outside by the fence
unlocking my bike
that it dawns on me that what I’m hearing, very high,
must be the unrealised twittering –

the swallows left while I was here with you.

No end came to you
in this very moment.

The rower skims back over the Amstel to his boathouse.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère