Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Mark Boog

SMALL HOUSE

Small house, but throw a ball through it some time
and it becomes quite large. See all those metres,
aren’t they ours? And stroll perhaps as if
you don’t know where you’re going: space is
stretching out and yawns between the walls. Behold:
the wandering that binds the rooms together
has been painted white. There are some stairs,
a hat stand in the cupboard, doors. As if
by accident it lies there like a country
lane, where roads determine goal and starting
point and not the other way around. If you
go out for bread and then return you’ll see
that we can organise a picnic. Quick!
Go now! The shrinking can’t be far away.

KLEIN HUIS

KLEIN HUIS

Klein huis, maar gooi er eens een bal doorheen
en het wordt groot. Zie al die meters,
zijn ze niet van ons? En slenter eens alsof
je niet weet waar je heen gaat: ruimte rekt
zich geeuwend uit tussen de muren. Zie:
het dwalen dat de kamers met elkaar
verbindt is witgeverfd. Er is een trap,
een kapstok in een kast, wat deuren. Als
een landweg zo toevallig ligt het, doel
en startpunt bij de weg gezocht in plaats
van omgekeerd, zo lijkt het. Als je brood
haalt en weer terugkomt zul je zien dat we
een picknick kunnen houden. Snel, ga nu!
Het krimpen kan onmogelijk ver weg zijn.
Close

SMALL HOUSE

Small house, but throw a ball through it some time
and it becomes quite large. See all those metres,
aren’t they ours? And stroll perhaps as if
you don’t know where you’re going: space is
stretching out and yawns between the walls. Behold:
the wandering that binds the rooms together
has been painted white. There are some stairs,
a hat stand in the cupboard, doors. As if
by accident it lies there like a country
lane, where roads determine goal and starting
point and not the other way around. If you
go out for bread and then return you’ll see
that we can organise a picnic. Quick!
Go now! The shrinking can’t be far away.

SMALL HOUSE

Small house, but throw a ball through it some time
and it becomes quite large. See all those metres,
aren’t they ours? And stroll perhaps as if
you don’t know where you’re going: space is
stretching out and yawns between the walls. Behold:
the wandering that binds the rooms together
has been painted white. There are some stairs,
a hat stand in the cupboard, doors. As if
by accident it lies there like a country
lane, where roads determine goal and starting
point and not the other way around. If you
go out for bread and then return you’ll see
that we can organise a picnic. Quick!
Go now! The shrinking can’t be far away.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère