Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Benno Barnard

Aubade

We talk until we see the morning double.
The bar is spinning from the cigarettes.
A dishcloth on the tap is wrung and sleepy.
“If I knew who I was, I wouldn’t be me.”

We make our way with straight backs to the toilet.
Ah, l’orgasme du pauvre… The river runs dry.
The front door yawns about the morning paper.
Another man’s impersonating death.

Ah, friendship’s demented reign of terror!
Few dare to raise their voice against the heavens,
many will see the sparrow fall and not reach out their arms
(although the barmaid with the dimples has her charms).
We’ll take our knives to the wind that blows her any harm!

And now we’ve nothing else to do, let’s raise a hollow glass to the mothers
we bury deeper and deeper in the iron anecdotes of childhood,
remembering with a smile that wasted longing for a South
beneath the silver clouds, iconostasis of these steaming lands…
And to our fathers, murdered so much more than necessary!

“I’ve written a book, but I haven’t read it.”
“No one told us who we were.”
We scrape our hearts out till they’re empty.
We mumble like Jews.

The day is white as dough.
I stare with stinging eyes
at the gods’ gold watch,
hung between the fraying clouds:

the time is three thousand years in Europe.

Aubade

Aubade

We praten tot we blauw zien van de ochtend.
De kroeg is draaierig van de sigaretten.
Een vaatdoek hangt over de tapkraan te slapen.
“Als ik wist wie ik was, was ik een ander.”

We wandelen kaarsrecht naar de toiletten.
Ah, l’orgasme du pauvre… Het water zwijgt.
De voordeur staat te geeuwen van de krant.
Een derde man ligt de dood na te apen.

O, het krankzinnige schrikbewind van de vriendschap!
Weinigen durven te spreken tegen de hemel,
velen zullen de mus wel zien vallen en haar niet vangen
(maar mogelijk de barmeid met de kuiltjes in haar wangen).
Wij zetten het mes in de wind die haar optilt!

En nu we toch niets doen, drinken we holle glazen op onze moeders,
die we dieper en dieper begraven in de ijzeren anekdote van onze jeugd,
en herinneren ons glimlachend dat ijdele verlangen naar een zuiden
onder de zilveren wolken, van deze dampende landen de iconostase…
En op onze vaders, zoveel vermoorder dan hoefde!

“Ik heb een boek geschreven, maar het niet gelezen.”
“Niemand heeft ons verteld wie wij waren.”
We schrapen de rest van ons hart leeg.
We murmureren als joden.

De dag is wit als deeg.
Ik kijk met mijn bijtende ogen
op het grote horloge van de goden,
dat tussen gerafelde wolken hangt:

het is drieduizend jaar in Europa.
Close

Aubade

We talk until we see the morning double.
The bar is spinning from the cigarettes.
A dishcloth on the tap is wrung and sleepy.
“If I knew who I was, I wouldn’t be me.”

We make our way with straight backs to the toilet.
Ah, l’orgasme du pauvre… The river runs dry.
The front door yawns about the morning paper.
Another man’s impersonating death.

Ah, friendship’s demented reign of terror!
Few dare to raise their voice against the heavens,
many will see the sparrow fall and not reach out their arms
(although the barmaid with the dimples has her charms).
We’ll take our knives to the wind that blows her any harm!

And now we’ve nothing else to do, let’s raise a hollow glass to the mothers
we bury deeper and deeper in the iron anecdotes of childhood,
remembering with a smile that wasted longing for a South
beneath the silver clouds, iconostasis of these steaming lands…
And to our fathers, murdered so much more than necessary!

“I’ve written a book, but I haven’t read it.”
“No one told us who we were.”
We scrape our hearts out till they’re empty.
We mumble like Jews.

The day is white as dough.
I stare with stinging eyes
at the gods’ gold watch,
hung between the fraying clouds:

the time is three thousand years in Europe.

Aubade

We talk until we see the morning double.
The bar is spinning from the cigarettes.
A dishcloth on the tap is wrung and sleepy.
“If I knew who I was, I wouldn’t be me.”

We make our way with straight backs to the toilet.
Ah, l’orgasme du pauvre… The river runs dry.
The front door yawns about the morning paper.
Another man’s impersonating death.

Ah, friendship’s demented reign of terror!
Few dare to raise their voice against the heavens,
many will see the sparrow fall and not reach out their arms
(although the barmaid with the dimples has her charms).
We’ll take our knives to the wind that blows her any harm!

And now we’ve nothing else to do, let’s raise a hollow glass to the mothers
we bury deeper and deeper in the iron anecdotes of childhood,
remembering with a smile that wasted longing for a South
beneath the silver clouds, iconostasis of these steaming lands…
And to our fathers, murdered so much more than necessary!

“I’ve written a book, but I haven’t read it.”
“No one told us who we were.”
We scrape our hearts out till they’re empty.
We mumble like Jews.

The day is white as dough.
I stare with stinging eyes
at the gods’ gold watch,
hung between the fraying clouds:

the time is three thousand years in Europe.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère