Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Marieke Lucas Rijneveld

Until someone traces me

Someone has put the hunter in the chair, laid his jacket on the radiator
to dry, to be sure I’ve already sketched out the evening
in my notebook and the sisters have been wrapped in white
handkerchiefs; a costume for an impending farewell.

Mummy, I whisper softly, the wolves are waiting at the door
for a shot, and I’m lying here with a body of carbon paper
waiting until someone traces a better winter of myself.  I want
to tell him that the chair is reserved only for guests, for good

folk – it rarely carries anything else, yes, perhaps sometimes a change
of clothes for special occasions, but no hunters with
thoughts as heavy as birds. Through my window, I see a sea murky
with missing now I no longer walk at his side but instead soar

above him like a black-headed gull, and I look again at the hunter in the
chair, gutlessly flipping through the pages of my first poetry collection
if it were slices of deli-meat he’s testing for freshness, occasionally
quoting a phrase that I find fitting for many people but no longer

fits me, the hunter laughs at everything I wrote about death, so
juvenile the way I still attributed survival to myself, and I know: once
I’ve had enough of him I can just cut him loose, tell him that he’s no
longer needed, not now, because I am the one who sketched him.

Tot iemand mij overtrekt

Tot iemand mij overtrekt

Iemand heeft de jager in de stoel gezet, zijn jas op de verwarming
te drogen gelegd, ik heb voor de zekerheid van tevoren de
avond in mijn boek geschetst en de zusters in witte zakdoeken
gewikkeld; het kostuum van een naderend afscheid.

Moedertje, fluister ik zachtjes, de wolven staan bij de deur te wachten
op een schot, en ik lig hier met een lichaam van carbonpapier tot
iemand mij overtrekt voor een betere winter van mezelf. Ik zou
hem willen zeggen dat de stoel alleen voor bezoek is, voor goed

volk, iets anders verdraagt hij amper, ja enkel soms een stapeltje
schone kleding voor speciale gelegenheden, maar geen jagers met
vogelzware gedachten. Vanuit mijn raam zie ik de zee die troebel
is van gemis nu ik niet meer aan zijn zijde loop maar als een

kokmeeuw boven hem zweef, en ik kijk weer naar de jager in de
stoel, hij zit wat lafjes door mijn eerste dichtbundel te bladeren
alsof het plakjes vleeswaren zijn die hij op versheid test, citeert
af en toe een zin die ik bij veel mensen vind passen maar niet

meer bij mezelf, de jager lacht om alles wat ik over de dood, zo
jong nog in hoe ik mezelf het overleven toeschreef en ik weet: als ik
hem zat ben kan ik hem zo weer laten gaan, hem zeggen dat hij nog
niet nodig is, niet nu, want ik ben het die hem heeft geschetst.
Close

Until someone traces me

Someone has put the hunter in the chair, laid his jacket on the radiator
to dry, to be sure I’ve already sketched out the evening
in my notebook and the sisters have been wrapped in white
handkerchiefs; a costume for an impending farewell.

Mummy, I whisper softly, the wolves are waiting at the door
for a shot, and I’m lying here with a body of carbon paper
waiting until someone traces a better winter of myself.  I want
to tell him that the chair is reserved only for guests, for good

folk – it rarely carries anything else, yes, perhaps sometimes a change
of clothes for special occasions, but no hunters with
thoughts as heavy as birds. Through my window, I see a sea murky
with missing now I no longer walk at his side but instead soar

above him like a black-headed gull, and I look again at the hunter in the
chair, gutlessly flipping through the pages of my first poetry collection
if it were slices of deli-meat he’s testing for freshness, occasionally
quoting a phrase that I find fitting for many people but no longer

fits me, the hunter laughs at everything I wrote about death, so
juvenile the way I still attributed survival to myself, and I know: once
I’ve had enough of him I can just cut him loose, tell him that he’s no
longer needed, not now, because I am the one who sketched him.

Until someone traces me

Someone has put the hunter in the chair, laid his jacket on the radiator
to dry, to be sure I’ve already sketched out the evening
in my notebook and the sisters have been wrapped in white
handkerchiefs; a costume for an impending farewell.

Mummy, I whisper softly, the wolves are waiting at the door
for a shot, and I’m lying here with a body of carbon paper
waiting until someone traces a better winter of myself.  I want
to tell him that the chair is reserved only for guests, for good

folk – it rarely carries anything else, yes, perhaps sometimes a change
of clothes for special occasions, but no hunters with
thoughts as heavy as birds. Through my window, I see a sea murky
with missing now I no longer walk at his side but instead soar

above him like a black-headed gull, and I look again at the hunter in the
chair, gutlessly flipping through the pages of my first poetry collection
if it were slices of deli-meat he’s testing for freshness, occasionally
quoting a phrase that I find fitting for many people but no longer

fits me, the hunter laughs at everything I wrote about death, so
juvenile the way I still attributed survival to myself, and I know: once
I’ve had enough of him I can just cut him loose, tell him that he’s no
longer needed, not now, because I am the one who sketched him.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère