Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Joost Decorte

4

Past you and me an angry childhood begins far from home.

Everything that isn’t damaged and bides its time uncrowned
Or wasted in counterfeits of the parental home,
Breathlessly unravelling the knot in the craw,
Resorts to arms.

I can see: throat on throat, in his fury
Much less to fear than loneliness,
But it is enough to start a day that, hoarse with mist,
Cannot utter its landscape.

The then is purged of past,
Becks are as wide as navigable rivers,
You measure and divide and know: you won’t make the other side.
Up to your knees in cold water the arm’s length to the bank is unpredictable.

You are not the measure of all things.

As like as not no mountains will be moved,
But entire villages will pay the price for what wasn’t done to me.
And later, to plead acquittal from judges, officers and loved ones
I extract ink from my skin and grow older.

When the channels are drained, left under the eyes
Bombast musters its new armies: the inkwell sounds,
Blank lines sown with ermine rise again, the opposition
Holds its ground.

4

4

Voorbij jou en mij begint een kwade kindertijd ver weg van huis.

Al wat niet gehavend is en ongekroond zijn tijd heeft afgewacht
Of verdaan in konterfeitsels van het ouderlijke nest,
Kortademig de knoop ontwarrend in de krop,
Neemt de wapens op.

Ik herken: keel op keel, in zijn woede
Minder veel om te vrezen dan de eenzaamheid,
Maar om een dag te beginnen die hees van mist
Zijn landschap niet uitgesproken krijgt,
Is het genoeg.

Het toen wordt van verleden uitgezuiverd,
Beken zijn zo breed als dragende rivieren,
Je meet en deelt en weet: je haalt de andere kant niet.
Tot je knieën in het koude water wordt de armlengte tot de oever onberekenbaar.

Je bent niet de maat van alle dingen.

Net zo goed worden geen bergen meer verzet,
Maar hele dorpen boeten voor wat mij niet is aangedaan.
En later, om bij rechters, dienaars en beminden vrijspraak te bepleiten
Onttrek ik inkt aan mijn huid en word ouder.

Als de beddingen zijn drooggelegd, links onder de ooghoek
Verzamelt grootspraak daar zijn nieuwe legers: de inkthoorn klinkt,
Witregels bezaaid met hermelijn herrijzen, de tegenstand
Handhaaft.
Close

4

Past you and me an angry childhood begins far from home.

Everything that isn’t damaged and bides its time uncrowned
Or wasted in counterfeits of the parental home,
Breathlessly unravelling the knot in the craw,
Resorts to arms.

I can see: throat on throat, in his fury
Much less to fear than loneliness,
But it is enough to start a day that, hoarse with mist,
Cannot utter its landscape.

The then is purged of past,
Becks are as wide as navigable rivers,
You measure and divide and know: you won’t make the other side.
Up to your knees in cold water the arm’s length to the bank is unpredictable.

You are not the measure of all things.

As like as not no mountains will be moved,
But entire villages will pay the price for what wasn’t done to me.
And later, to plead acquittal from judges, officers and loved ones
I extract ink from my skin and grow older.

When the channels are drained, left under the eyes
Bombast musters its new armies: the inkwell sounds,
Blank lines sown with ermine rise again, the opposition
Holds its ground.

4

Past you and me an angry childhood begins far from home.

Everything that isn’t damaged and bides its time uncrowned
Or wasted in counterfeits of the parental home,
Breathlessly unravelling the knot in the craw,
Resorts to arms.

I can see: throat on throat, in his fury
Much less to fear than loneliness,
But it is enough to start a day that, hoarse with mist,
Cannot utter its landscape.

The then is purged of past,
Becks are as wide as navigable rivers,
You measure and divide and know: you won’t make the other side.
Up to your knees in cold water the arm’s length to the bank is unpredictable.

You are not the measure of all things.

As like as not no mountains will be moved,
But entire villages will pay the price for what wasn’t done to me.
And later, to plead acquittal from judges, officers and loved ones
I extract ink from my skin and grow older.

When the channels are drained, left under the eyes
Bombast musters its new armies: the inkwell sounds,
Blank lines sown with ermine rise again, the opposition
Holds its ground.
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