Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Kreek Daey Ouwens

A little girl named Bee learns a new language

A little girl, Bee learns a new language
at school. Words she did
not know existed, are much softer
than the dialect of her birthplace.
‘Violin. Shadow. Echo.’ She discovers
a barrel of secrets. Not just the name,
but also the appearance of things
changes. ‘Mother’ becomes a
big lady. Words touch on a
deep longing in herself about which,
she might already know, there’s little is to be
done. A daydreaming, an inexplicable
stiring, a language which
takes the breath away. Snow twinkles, a river is
silent, a waterfall crashes down,
lightning strikes. Bee takes the books
home and reads them at the kitchen table.
In the same space her brothers
and sisters play. There is a zinc tub
where her mother is doing the washing. Slosh.
The slop of a mop. When Bee
reads out the words her voice
changes. She picks up the book and goes
outside with it. Leaving the others with
strange impressions. She knows it.

The snow-covered grass twinkles in
the sunlight. A gossamer fine feather
sticks with its point into the frozen ground. Bee pulls it
out. Its point breaks off. With the stump
she draws lines in the snow. The lines interrelate,
as if automatically, become
letters. She bends so often, so deep
as to get dizzy. The feather in her hands
seems to come to life, a small bird, the
lone witness of silent letters.
Silence. That is silence. Covered
with snow and ice.

Het kleine meisje Bee leert op school

Het kleine meisje Bee leert op school
een nieuwe taal. Woorden waarvan ze het
bestaan niet kende, die zoveel zachter
klinken dan het dialect van haar geboor-
teplaats. ‘Viool. Schaduw. Echo.’ Een
vat vol geheimen ontdekt ze. Niet alleen
de naam, maar ook het uiterlijk van de
dingen verandert. ‘Moeder’ wordt een
grote vrouw. De woorden raken aan een
diep verlangen in haarzelf, waarvan ze
misschien al weet dat daar niet veel aan
te doen is. Een dagdromen, een onverklaar-
bare opwinding, een taal die de adem be-
neemt. Sneeuw schittert, een rivier is
stil, een waterval stort neer, bliksem
komt naar beneden. Bee neemt de boekjes
mee naar huis en leest ze, zittend aan
de keukentafel. In dezelfde ruimte spelen
haar broertjes en zusjes. Een zinken teil
staat waar haar moeder de was doet. Geplas.
Het morsen van een dweil. Als Bee de woor-
den hardop uitspreekt krijgt ze een andere
stem. Ze pakt het boek op en loopt ermee
naar buiten. Vreemde sporen laat ze achter
bij de anderen. Dat weet ze.

Het met sneeuw bedekte gras schittert in
de zon. Een ragfijne veer steekt met zijn
punt in de bevroren grond. Bee trekt hem
eruit. De punt breekt af. Met de stompe
kant trekt ze strepen in het wit. De
strepen krijgen als vanzelf een onderling
verband, worden letters. Zo vaak en zo
diep buigt ze naar de grond dat ze er dui-
zelig van wordt. De veer in haar hand lijkt
tot leven te komen, een kleine vogel, de
enige getuige van de zwijgende letters.
Zwijgen. Zo is het zwijgen. Daar ligt
sneeuw op en ijs.
Close

A little girl named Bee learns a new language

A little girl, Bee learns a new language
at school. Words she did
not know existed, are much softer
than the dialect of her birthplace.
‘Violin. Shadow. Echo.’ She discovers
a barrel of secrets. Not just the name,
but also the appearance of things
changes. ‘Mother’ becomes a
big lady. Words touch on a
deep longing in herself about which,
she might already know, there’s little is to be
done. A daydreaming, an inexplicable
stiring, a language which
takes the breath away. Snow twinkles, a river is
silent, a waterfall crashes down,
lightning strikes. Bee takes the books
home and reads them at the kitchen table.
In the same space her brothers
and sisters play. There is a zinc tub
where her mother is doing the washing. Slosh.
The slop of a mop. When Bee
reads out the words her voice
changes. She picks up the book and goes
outside with it. Leaving the others with
strange impressions. She knows it.

The snow-covered grass twinkles in
the sunlight. A gossamer fine feather
sticks with its point into the frozen ground. Bee pulls it
out. Its point breaks off. With the stump
she draws lines in the snow. The lines interrelate,
as if automatically, become
letters. She bends so often, so deep
as to get dizzy. The feather in her hands
seems to come to life, a small bird, the
lone witness of silent letters.
Silence. That is silence. Covered
with snow and ice.

A little girl named Bee learns a new language

A little girl, Bee learns a new language
at school. Words she did
not know existed, are much softer
than the dialect of her birthplace.
‘Violin. Shadow. Echo.’ She discovers
a barrel of secrets. Not just the name,
but also the appearance of things
changes. ‘Mother’ becomes a
big lady. Words touch on a
deep longing in herself about which,
she might already know, there’s little is to be
done. A daydreaming, an inexplicable
stiring, a language which
takes the breath away. Snow twinkles, a river is
silent, a waterfall crashes down,
lightning strikes. Bee takes the books
home and reads them at the kitchen table.
In the same space her brothers
and sisters play. There is a zinc tub
where her mother is doing the washing. Slosh.
The slop of a mop. When Bee
reads out the words her voice
changes. She picks up the book and goes
outside with it. Leaving the others with
strange impressions. She knows it.

The snow-covered grass twinkles in
the sunlight. A gossamer fine feather
sticks with its point into the frozen ground. Bee pulls it
out. Its point breaks off. With the stump
she draws lines in the snow. The lines interrelate,
as if automatically, become
letters. She bends so often, so deep
as to get dizzy. The feather in her hands
seems to come to life, a small bird, the
lone witness of silent letters.
Silence. That is silence. Covered
with snow and ice.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère