BODY SCAN
At my request, the woman behind the scanner shows me myself. I was
curious about the deepest visible skin, about the layer beneath nakedness. With glossy fingers
she shows me the spots. The scan, she says, measures your temperature.
This is heat, where it lights up, and this is cold. I see the soil climate in which I thrive
and the hot circuit laying life in me.
There is plenty of activity around my stomach, a radiating circle reaching almost to my heart.
My arms hang dark and aimless by my trunk, though. My head
a moonless night, three pale comets emitting a dusky glow,
nothing shines in my shoulders and my legs go out halfway.
A queue is forming behind me, further on an aeroplane wait, but I stand
nailed to the floor in front of the computer screen. An undersized paramecium,
black as black, astonished by the scope of my darkness.
curious about the deepest visible skin, about the layer beneath nakedness. With glossy fingers
she shows me the spots. The scan, she says, measures your temperature.
This is heat, where it lights up, and this is cold. I see the soil climate in which I thrive
and the hot circuit laying life in me.
There is plenty of activity around my stomach, a radiating circle reaching almost to my heart.
My arms hang dark and aimless by my trunk, though. My head
a moonless night, three pale comets emitting a dusky glow,
nothing shines in my shoulders and my legs go out halfway.
A queue is forming behind me, further on an aeroplane wait, but I stand
nailed to the floor in front of the computer screen. An undersized paramecium,
black as black, astonished by the scope of my darkness.
BODYSCANOp mijn verzoek laat de vrouw achter de scanner mij mezelf zien. Ik was
benieuwd naar de diepste schil zichtbaar, naar de laag onder het naakt. Ze wijst me met glanzende vingers de vlekken. De scan, zegt ze, meet uw temperatuur. Dit is hitte, waar het oplicht, en dit is kou. Ik zie het grondklimaat waarin ik gedij en de warme baan die leven in mij aflegt. Rond mijn maag is veel activiteit, een stralende cirkel tot dicht bij mijn hart. Maar mijn armen hangen donker en doelloos naast mijn romp. Mijn hoofd een maanloze nacht, drie zwakke kometen verspreiden een schemerige gloed, er schijnt niets in mijn schouders en mijn benen doven halverwege. Er staat achter mij een rij te wachten, verderop een vliegtuig klaar, maar ik sta genageld aan de vloer voor het computerscherm. Een ondermaats pantoffeldier, vol zwart, verbijsterd over de omvang van mijn duisternis. |
BIRTH
For Elza
I was gigantic! What you see now has been reduced
to a package of blood and teeth. I easily embraced
a middle-sized sea; a supersaurus
regularly slept in my rooms. I lived in
the backroom of life where sperm whales
sail through aquariums, where the light of the ant
and the Milky Way shines.
I was akin to creatures of the silver kind
And the mould that makes a branch into an angel, thick
as water pennywort and sure of my business. My feet
were black as past miracles, my head
an old map of the world, water sloshing along the sides
oh, I was the king of all,
of the silence before the very first cricket, I was
the king of kings and of the water beetles inscribing random lines
in the ditch; when I said 'shoot', they shot forward word
for word on their gangly legs. I dictated
what I knew and destroyed it with pebbles, made
circles of the sentences, chased the beetles back
into their shields.
I knew that time is a sound for anxious
people, of the kind that waits dead still,
a stag in the headlight, and, sixty years later,
is surprised by the collision. I knew it was not for nothing
that cars shine like scarabs, and lamp posts
are fingers pointing to the sun,
we worship what we always worshipped.
I knew who I was and vice versa; wakened from afar
by another's desires, I nipped nimbly as a baby
along the narrow passageways, singing as I went pom-pom-pom
my chest out to the grass and the houses and
the people and their pom-pom – I fell shrieking into
a name and the associated affairs that pass
for life pom –
I knew who I was and vice versa
and I haven't forgotten
but I don't –
remember it any more.
to a package of blood and teeth. I easily embraced
a middle-sized sea; a supersaurus
regularly slept in my rooms. I lived in
the backroom of life where sperm whales
sail through aquariums, where the light of the ant
and the Milky Way shines.
I was akin to creatures of the silver kind
And the mould that makes a branch into an angel, thick
as water pennywort and sure of my business. My feet
were black as past miracles, my head
an old map of the world, water sloshing along the sides
oh, I was the king of all,
of the silence before the very first cricket, I was
the king of kings and of the water beetles inscribing random lines
in the ditch; when I said 'shoot', they shot forward word
for word on their gangly legs. I dictated
what I knew and destroyed it with pebbles, made
circles of the sentences, chased the beetles back
into their shields.
I knew that time is a sound for anxious
people, of the kind that waits dead still,
a stag in the headlight, and, sixty years later,
is surprised by the collision. I knew it was not for nothing
that cars shine like scarabs, and lamp posts
are fingers pointing to the sun,
we worship what we always worshipped.
I knew who I was and vice versa; wakened from afar
by another's desires, I nipped nimbly as a baby
along the narrow passageways, singing as I went pom-pom-pom
my chest out to the grass and the houses and
the people and their pom-pom – I fell shrieking into
a name and the associated affairs that pass
for life pom –
I knew who I was and vice versa
and I haven't forgotten
but I don't –
remember it any more.
GEBOORTEVoor Elza
Ik was reusachtig! Wat je nu ziet is verkleind
tot een pak van bloed en tanden. Ik omarmde met gemak een middelgrote zee, er sliep regelmatig een supersaurus in mijn kamers. Ik leefde in de achterzaal van leven waar potvissen in aquaria zweven, waar het licht van de mier en de melkweg schijnt. Ik was verwant aan dieren van het zilveren soort en de schimmel die een tak een engel maakt, dik als waternavel en zeker van mijn zaak. Mijn voeten waren zwart als wonderen van vroeger, mijn hoofd een oude wereldkaart, water klotsend langs de randen oh, ik was de koning van van alles, van de stilte van vóór de allereerste krekel, van de koningen was ik de koning en van de schrijvers op de sloot; als ik zei ‘schiet’ schoten ze woord voor woord op hun wankele poten. Ik dicteerde wat ik wist en vernielde het met kiezels, maakte kringen van de zinnen, joeg de schrijvers terug hun schild in. Ik wist dat tijd een geluid is voor angstvallige mensen, van het soort dat doodstil wacht, als een hert in de lamp, en zich zestig jaar later verbaasd over de klap. Ik wist dat auto’s niet voor niets als scarabeeën glimmen, en lantaarnpalen vingers zijn wijzend naar de zon, dat we aanbidden wat we steeds aanbaden. Ik wist wie ik was en andersom; van ver gewekt door andermans verlangen, schoot ik lenig als een baby door de smalle gangen, zingend ging ik pompompom mijn borst vooruit naar het gras en de huizen en de mensen en hun pompom – viel ik krijsend in een naam en de aanverwante zaken die doorgaan voor het leven pom – Ik wist wie ik was en andersom en ik ben het niet vergeten maar weten – dat niet meer. |
"Light scurries between leaf"
Light scurries between leaf, pointing
to where there is no path, only
mud full of comets, softly
scaled constellations, insect in the day,
at night pole star
in the bushes. A firmament
on which, creeping between twigs, you
navigate to nowhere, call it
wandering, but a wandering that brings you
home without diversion in your step.
to where there is no path, only
mud full of comets, softly
scaled constellations, insect in the day,
at night pole star
in the bushes. A firmament
on which, creeping between twigs, you
navigate to nowhere, call it
wandering, but a wandering that brings you
home without diversion in your step.
"Licht scharrelt tussen blad"
Licht scharrelt tussen blad, wijst weg
naar waar geen pad is, alleen modder vol kometen, zacht geschubde constellaties, insect overdag, 's nachts poolster in de struiken. Een firmament waarop je sluipend tussen takken navigeert naar nergens, noem het dwalen, maar een dwalen dat je zonder omweg thuis brengt in je stap. |
YOLK
My first made it no further than a small
cardboard box, too wet for a grave. The doctor
indicated approximately the head, a ridiculous
beginning, a pinprick, there was no person there
to be seen, we held it to be a yolk, fertilised
accidentally. It slithered into the sink, like something
made for the clear water that sucked it away
and not for a cot.
But, time and again, there is a week like this in which a
first conker sits safely ensconced in its shell,
goats are stalled, the garden chairs are decked with sturdy
waterproof protective sheaths, everything seeks cover
and finds shelter. The time of year in which the one
takes care of the other, the leaf of the bumblebee,
the ground of the shoot, and the cold releases a warmth in me
broader than my own body, a warmth like an arm
stretching out from me, grasping
and missing
like the arms of the stick insects
that I kept in a home-made wooden cage,
and fed with ivy, the legs for ever lifted
stretched out as if their cool, green bodies wanted
to be picked up. Sometimes, by accident
I closed the cage too quickly
and a leg broke
but it didn't matter; whatever the stick insects lost
grew back again, regeneration.
Undoing loss.
cardboard box, too wet for a grave. The doctor
indicated approximately the head, a ridiculous
beginning, a pinprick, there was no person there
to be seen, we held it to be a yolk, fertilised
accidentally. It slithered into the sink, like something
made for the clear water that sucked it away
and not for a cot.
But, time and again, there is a week like this in which a
first conker sits safely ensconced in its shell,
goats are stalled, the garden chairs are decked with sturdy
waterproof protective sheaths, everything seeks cover
and finds shelter. The time of year in which the one
takes care of the other, the leaf of the bumblebee,
the ground of the shoot, and the cold releases a warmth in me
broader than my own body, a warmth like an arm
stretching out from me, grasping
and missing
like the arms of the stick insects
that I kept in a home-made wooden cage,
and fed with ivy, the legs for ever lifted
stretched out as if their cool, green bodies wanted
to be picked up. Sometimes, by accident
I closed the cage too quickly
and a leg broke
but it didn't matter; whatever the stick insects lost
grew back again, regeneration.
Undoing loss.
DOOIERMijn eerste schopte het niet verder dan een klein
kartonnen bakje, te nat voor een graf. De arts wees bij benadering het hoofd aan, een lachwekkend begin, een speldenprik, er was in hem (of het?) geen mens te bekennen, we hielden het op een dooier, per ongeluk bevrucht. Soepel gleed het de gootsteen in, als iets gemaakt voor het heldere water dat het meezoog en niet voor een wieg. Maar steeds komt er een week als deze waarin een eerste kastanje veilig verschanst ligt in zijn huls, geiten op stal gaan, het zeil stevig en waterafstotend om de tuinstoel wordt geknoopt, alles dekking zoekt en toevlucht vindt. Het jaargetijde waarin het een zich ontfermt over het ander, blad over hommel, grond over stek, en de kou in mij een warmte losmaakt wijder dan mijn eigen lijf, een warmte als een arm die zich uit mij strekt en tast en misgrijpt als de armen van de wandelende takken die ik hield in een zelfgetimmerd hok, en voerde met klimop, hun poten permanent omhoog gestrekt alsof hun koele groene lijven wilden worden opgetild. Soms sloot ik per ongeluk het hok te vroeg, dan brak een poot maar dat gaf niet, want wat de takken verloren groeide weer terug, regeneratie. Ongedaan maken van verlies. |
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Poems first published in Poetry International. Reproduced by kind permission of Marjolijn van Heemstra and Rosalind Buck.
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© Carel van Hees
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Marjolijn van Heemstra is a poet, writer, and theater maker who recently became Amsterdam’s poet laureate. Her vocation is to ask questions, out loud. Her apparently limitless fascination with the unfathomable dimensions of the universe seduces us all into wondering in awe at how all that vastness resonates in our insignificant existence. In her poetry, asking the question is infinitely more important than any answer. This creates a breathtaking boundlessness that gives us the scope to see and move beyond the confines of the human. A constant dual awareness, in which life takes place in the omnipresence of death, echoes through her most recent collection Reistijd, Bedtijd, IJstijd. The juxtaposition of these contradictions gives time a cyclical aspect and the body, which carries within it all possible perspectives, acts as a knot, tying up all those temporal entanglements. Van Heemstra is able to adjust the scale of her view like no other, thereby adjusting our view, and scaling everything within us.
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Rosalind Buck has been translating Dutch-language literature since 1998, with 40 books to her credit so far, besides many poetry projects for both publication and performance. In 1999, she was on the editorial team of the third edition of the Van Dale Dutch to English dictionary. Rosalind is also an author in her own right and, since Covid, has been presenting mainly online shows, featuring original stories, poetry and music with a faintly macabre flavour and a twist of humor. In addition, she finds time to be a vegan chef and secretary of an adoption association for retired hens in France.
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