Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Benno Barnard

Moving House

The boxes for chips and bananas
are packed with the bric-à-brac
of human memory:
plugs, artifacts, burial objects –
relics,

gradually grown cultic
from perishing in the attic,
and now being relocated.
Carved bones, painted shards
to protect our fleeting souls
from almighties and telluric forces.
We are hunters and gatherers.
We are fleeing Trojans,
nine cellars behind us.

Is that a thought?
But every thought is a frantic game
of dice on the cart now jolting
out of Asia Minor,
followed by the neighbor’s Rottweiler
and some Hector’s bouncing body.

One plate goes to the gods.
Inside a box – unseen, unheard –
the wooden alphabet
spells a word.

Where there’s a will, there’s the West.

It’s not until we arrange our bed
between new walls, locate power points,
and check that we can never gauge
the space in every box of books, that we
relax as people of the modern age.

Verhuizen

Verhuizen

De dozen voor chips en bananen
bevatten een bric-à-brac
van mensenheugenis:
stekkers, artefacten, grafgiften –
voorwerpen,

bij het op zolder versterven
geleidelijk cultisch geworden,
die nu worden meegenomen naar elders.
Gekerfde botten, beschilderde scherven
die onze vluchtigheid moeten beschermen
tegen almachtigen en de tellurische krachten.
We zijn jagers-verzamelaars.
We zijn aan de haal gegane Trojanen
met negen kelders.

Is dit een gedachte?
Maar geen gedachte of ze dobbelt
als gek op de kar die nu uit Klein-Azië weg-
hobbelt,
gevolgd door de rottweiler van de buren
en het bonkende lijk van een Hector.

Eén bord gaat naar de goden.
In zijn duistere doos
legt het houten alfabet een woord
onder de roos.

Waar een wil is, is het westen.

Pas als we tussen nieuwe muren
ons bed neerzetten, stopcontacten zoeken,
ons vergewissen van de onmetelijke
ruimten in de dozen met boeken,
kalmeren we tot hedendaagse mensen.
Close

Moving House

The boxes for chips and bananas
are packed with the bric-à-brac
of human memory:
plugs, artifacts, burial objects –
relics,

gradually grown cultic
from perishing in the attic,
and now being relocated.
Carved bones, painted shards
to protect our fleeting souls
from almighties and telluric forces.
We are hunters and gatherers.
We are fleeing Trojans,
nine cellars behind us.

Is that a thought?
But every thought is a frantic game
of dice on the cart now jolting
out of Asia Minor,
followed by the neighbor’s Rottweiler
and some Hector’s bouncing body.

One plate goes to the gods.
Inside a box – unseen, unheard –
the wooden alphabet
spells a word.

Where there’s a will, there’s the West.

It’s not until we arrange our bed
between new walls, locate power points,
and check that we can never gauge
the space in every box of books, that we
relax as people of the modern age.

Moving House

The boxes for chips and bananas
are packed with the bric-à-brac
of human memory:
plugs, artifacts, burial objects –
relics,

gradually grown cultic
from perishing in the attic,
and now being relocated.
Carved bones, painted shards
to protect our fleeting souls
from almighties and telluric forces.
We are hunters and gatherers.
We are fleeing Trojans,
nine cellars behind us.

Is that a thought?
But every thought is a frantic game
of dice on the cart now jolting
out of Asia Minor,
followed by the neighbor’s Rottweiler
and some Hector’s bouncing body.

One plate goes to the gods.
Inside a box – unseen, unheard –
the wooden alphabet
spells a word.

Where there’s a will, there’s the West.

It’s not until we arrange our bed
between new walls, locate power points,
and check that we can never gauge
the space in every box of books, that we
relax as people of the modern age.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère