Poem
Annemarie Estor
The Mantle
I sit in my roomwearing the mantle of death.
It's still warm from your body.
It smells.
Of your worries.
Of your wanderings.
Of your orgasms.
Of your wanting to know.
And you're not here.
Soon,
when I'm gone, too,
it will probably smell of me.
Of my cowardice.
Of my complacency.
Of my nail varnish
and my pancakes with honey.
Ah, mantle, robe
for the recession from this breathing space,
where so much still needs finishing,
and under so many conditions.
Ah, mantle, veil
before that unprecedented space time
where the smoke spatters into untidy tulips,
where the wine courses through cellars in purple cloud formations,
where love, white as napalm, sets your loins aflame
never to die down again.
I sit between walls of concrete
that mock men
in their search for meaning
So I ask you,
bone of our skulls,
os frontale, frontal bone,
curving Jupiter brain,
to arch over us
like the roof of the Pantheon.
Transform the bug-ridden bedstead of our brain
into portals filled with pirouetting pillars and convoluted vaults
where we endlessly kiss one another on the mouth,
until it thunders in the most ancient constellation
which appears to us as a blue frog
sleeping beneath a blue mantle in a cold night.
© Translation: 2019, Annemarie Estor
De mantel
De mantel
Ik zit in mijn kameren draag de mantel van de dood.
Hij is nog warm van jouw lichaam.
Hij ruikt.
Naar je zorgen.
Naar je zwerftochten.
Naar je orgasmes.
Naar je willen-weten.
En je bent er niet.
Straks,
als ook ik ben verdwenen,
ruikt hij waarschijnlijk naar mij.
Naar mijn lafheid.
Naar mijn gemakzucht.
Naar mijn nagellak
en mijn pannenkoeken met honing.
Ach, mantel, wade
voor de aftocht uit dit ademruim,
waar van alles nog af moet,
en onder zo veel voorwaarden.
Ach, mantel, voorhang
voor die ongekende ruimtetijd
waar de rook uit elkaar spat tot slordige tulpen,
waar de wijn door kelders trekt in purperen wolkenformaties,
waar de liefde wit als napalm je geslacht in brand steekt
om nooit meer weg te ebben.
Ik zit tussen muren van beton
die de mens uitlachen
om zijn zoeken naar betekenis.
Daarom vraag ik u,
bot van onze schedels,
os frontale, bot aan het front,
krommend Jupiter-brein,
buig u over ons
als het dak van het Pantheon.
Verander de bedompte bedstee van ons brein
in portalen vol bochtige pilaren en dartele gewelven
waar wij elkaar oneindig op de monden kussen,
tot het dondert in het oudste sterrenstelsel
dat zich aan ons voordoet als een blauwe kikker
slapend onder een blauwe mantel in een koude nacht.
© 2018, Annemarie estor
From: Niemandslandnacht
Publisher: Wereldbibliotheek, Amsterdam
From: Niemandslandnacht
Publisher: Wereldbibliotheek, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Annemarie Estor
Close
The Mantle
I sit in my roomwearing the mantle of death.
It's still warm from your body.
It smells.
Of your worries.
Of your wanderings.
Of your orgasms.
Of your wanting to know.
And you're not here.
Soon,
when I'm gone, too,
it will probably smell of me.
Of my cowardice.
Of my complacency.
Of my nail varnish
and my pancakes with honey.
Ah, mantle, robe
for the recession from this breathing space,
where so much still needs finishing,
and under so many conditions.
Ah, mantle, veil
before that unprecedented space time
where the smoke spatters into untidy tulips,
where the wine courses through cellars in purple cloud formations,
where love, white as napalm, sets your loins aflame
never to die down again.
I sit between walls of concrete
that mock men
in their search for meaning
So I ask you,
bone of our skulls,
os frontale, frontal bone,
curving Jupiter brain,
to arch over us
like the roof of the Pantheon.
Transform the bug-ridden bedstead of our brain
into portals filled with pirouetting pillars and convoluted vaults
where we endlessly kiss one another on the mouth,
until it thunders in the most ancient constellation
which appears to us as a blue frog
sleeping beneath a blue mantle in a cold night.
© 2019, Annemarie Estor
From: Niemandslandnacht
From: Niemandslandnacht
The Mantle
I sit in my roomwearing the mantle of death.
It's still warm from your body.
It smells.
Of your worries.
Of your wanderings.
Of your orgasms.
Of your wanting to know.
And you're not here.
Soon,
when I'm gone, too,
it will probably smell of me.
Of my cowardice.
Of my complacency.
Of my nail varnish
and my pancakes with honey.
Ah, mantle, robe
for the recession from this breathing space,
where so much still needs finishing,
and under so many conditions.
Ah, mantle, veil
before that unprecedented space time
where the smoke spatters into untidy tulips,
where the wine courses through cellars in purple cloud formations,
where love, white as napalm, sets your loins aflame
never to die down again.
I sit between walls of concrete
that mock men
in their search for meaning
So I ask you,
bone of our skulls,
os frontale, frontal bone,
curving Jupiter brain,
to arch over us
like the roof of the Pantheon.
Transform the bug-ridden bedstead of our brain
into portals filled with pirouetting pillars and convoluted vaults
where we endlessly kiss one another on the mouth,
until it thunders in the most ancient constellation
which appears to us as a blue frog
sleeping beneath a blue mantle in a cold night.
© 2019, Annemarie Estor
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