Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Lieke Marsman

One afternoon

there was once an afternoon with a face. a round face with a friendly mouth, decent nose and two small, shiny, inkblack eyes that you would look into whenever you would go get a glass of water from the kitchen or open a window in the front room. sometimes the afternoon would hum – sometimes happily, sometimes sadly, but always the same tune. as afternoon became evening the face would sing. first softly, then louder and louder as evening approached, until it was night, and the world would go quiet. as quiet as this house when, for example, I would go get a glass of water from the bathroom and my shiny, inkblack eyes would be watching me from the mirror above the sink, from the window in the front room. I’ve got to get out of my head, but if you knew how dissociated I’ve been feeling this statement wouldn’t make sense. it wouldn’t shock me if I woke up tomorrow as someone else but it would shock her.

Een middag

Een middag

er was eens een middag met een gezicht. een rond gezicht met een vriendelijke mond, een behoorlijke neus en twee kleine, glanzende inktzwarte ogen, die je aankeken vanuit de ruimte als je bijvoorbeeld even in de keuken een glas water ging halen, of in de voorkamer een raam openzette. soms neuriede de middag een wijsje – soms vrolijk, soms droevig, maar altijd hetzelfde wijsje. als het daarna avond werd begon de middag te zingen. eerst zacht, maar dan, naarmate de avond vorderde, steeds harder en harder, de woorden bleven maar komen – totdat het nacht werd en de wereld stil viel. zo stil als dit huis als je bijvoorbeeld even in de badkamer een glas water gaat halen en mijn glanzende inktzwarte ogen blijven me maar aankijken vanuit de spiegel die boven de wasbak hangt, vanuit het open raam in de voorkamer. ik moet mijn eigen hoofd uit maar als je zag hoe vervreemd ik al was begreep je die uitspraak niet. het zou mij niets verbazen als ik morgenochtend wakker werd als iemand anders, het zou haar verbazen.
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One afternoon

there was once an afternoon with a face. a round face with a friendly mouth, decent nose and two small, shiny, inkblack eyes that you would look into whenever you would go get a glass of water from the kitchen or open a window in the front room. sometimes the afternoon would hum – sometimes happily, sometimes sadly, but always the same tune. as afternoon became evening the face would sing. first softly, then louder and louder as evening approached, until it was night, and the world would go quiet. as quiet as this house when, for example, I would go get a glass of water from the bathroom and my shiny, inkblack eyes would be watching me from the mirror above the sink, from the window in the front room. I’ve got to get out of my head, but if you knew how dissociated I’ve been feeling this statement wouldn’t make sense. it wouldn’t shock me if I woke up tomorrow as someone else but it would shock her.

One afternoon

there was once an afternoon with a face. a round face with a friendly mouth, decent nose and two small, shiny, inkblack eyes that you would look into whenever you would go get a glass of water from the kitchen or open a window in the front room. sometimes the afternoon would hum – sometimes happily, sometimes sadly, but always the same tune. as afternoon became evening the face would sing. first softly, then louder and louder as evening approached, until it was night, and the world would go quiet. as quiet as this house when, for example, I would go get a glass of water from the bathroom and my shiny, inkblack eyes would be watching me from the mirror above the sink, from the window in the front room. I’ve got to get out of my head, but if you knew how dissociated I’ve been feeling this statement wouldn’t make sense. it wouldn’t shock me if I woke up tomorrow as someone else but it would shock her.
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