Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Mark Boog

SOMEWHERE

Somewhere, one of these days, arose in perhaps a far land
the steamroller driver who is now searching for
the steamroller in the corner of this room,

and for a while the wrecker’s been awake,
although on a heavy, iron chain in front of our window
the wrecking ball hangs still, gleaming in the late summer sun.

From all directions the workers advance,
as if there were a party here, a census, an annual fair,
leaving traces of work done, of odd jobs carried out.

That holy silence, and within,
unfolding the silence to its very greatest,
the thin birds, and that dim light, quivering with age.

ERGENS

ERGENS

Ergens, een dezer dagen, is opgestaan in een misschien ver land
de stoomwalsbestuurder die op zoek is nu
naar de stoomwals in de hoek van deze kamer,

en al langer is de sloper wakker,
al hangt aan een zware, ijzeren ketting voor ons raam
de sloopkogel nog stil, te glanzen in de nazomerzon.

Uit alle windstreken trekken op de werklui,
als was hier een feest, een volkstelling, een jaarmarkt,
laten sporen van gedaan werk, van opgeknapte karweitjes na.

Die heilige stilte, met erin,
de stilte ontvouwend tot op haar grootst,
de dunne vogels, en dat magere licht, trillend van ouderdom.
Close

SOMEWHERE

Somewhere, one of these days, arose in perhaps a far land
the steamroller driver who is now searching for
the steamroller in the corner of this room,

and for a while the wrecker’s been awake,
although on a heavy, iron chain in front of our window
the wrecking ball hangs still, gleaming in the late summer sun.

From all directions the workers advance,
as if there were a party here, a census, an annual fair,
leaving traces of work done, of odd jobs carried out.

That holy silence, and within,
unfolding the silence to its very greatest,
the thin birds, and that dim light, quivering with age.

SOMEWHERE

Somewhere, one of these days, arose in perhaps a far land
the steamroller driver who is now searching for
the steamroller in the corner of this room,

and for a while the wrecker’s been awake,
although on a heavy, iron chain in front of our window
the wrecking ball hangs still, gleaming in the late summer sun.

From all directions the workers advance,
as if there were a party here, a census, an annual fair,
leaving traces of work done, of odd jobs carried out.

That holy silence, and within,
unfolding the silence to its very greatest,
the thin birds, and that dim light, quivering with age.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère