Roeping. Jaargang 33
(1957-1958)– [tijdschrift] Roeping–
Auteursrechtelijk beschermd
[pagina 306]
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I
God, when You came to our house
we let You in. Hunted,
we gave You succour,
bandaged Your hands,
bathed Your feet.
Wanting water we gave You wine.
Wanting Bread we gave You Meat.
Sometimes, God, You should recall
we are Your hiding place.
Take away these hands
and You would fall.
Outside, the pursuers pass.
We only have to call.
They would open You
with broken glass.
Who else then could we betray
if not You, the nearest?
God, how You watch us
and shrink away.
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[pagina 307]
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II
Never have we known You so transparent.
You stand against the curtain and wear
its exact design. And if a window opens
[like a sign] then is it You
or the colours which are blown apart?
As in a station, sitting in a carriage,
we wonder which of the waiting trains depart.
You startle from room to room, apologising.
God, You cant help Your presence
any more than the glassy air that lies
between tree and skies. No need to pass
through wave-lengths human ears can't sense.
We never hear the front door close when You are leaving.
Sometimes we question if You are there at all.
No need to be so self-effacing;
quiet as language of the roses
Or moss upon a wall.
We have to hold our breath to hear You breathing.
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III
Dear God in the end You had to go.
Dismissing You, Your absence made us sane.
We keep the bread and wine for show.
Only what we do not know we know.
When Your great lights failed, fused at the main,
dear God in the end You had to go.
The winds of war and derelictions blow,
howling across the radioactive plain.
We keep the bread and wine for show.
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[pagina 308]
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Like a stream instinctively we flow
down from the direction of Your plain.
Dear God in the end You had to go.
And still our dark declensions sorrow
that grape is but grape and grain is grain.
We keep the bread and wine for show.
At night we look up and see You glow,
already Your wounds begin to wane.
Dear God in the end You had to go,
we keep the bread and wine for show.
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IV
Tonight, God, all colours are black,
our small voices out of hearing.
In Your great dark You lose the track.
Detachment is what You lack,
so faithless must stumble back.
Do not weep. Though we were out
when You returned, do not blaspheme
cursing Man. [Then must we be devout?]
Long ago You began to doubt
if You really heard us shout.
It was Your own voice, God, that cried.
Angry now, You thrust back the bolt
against the human noise outside.
Oh open the damned door wide.
Maybe someone dear has died.
Why, God, do You hesitate
as the loudening, urgent cry
gains momentum from help to hate?
Senile, You arrive too late.
Nobody at the gate.
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[pagina 309]
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Your humiliation quite complete.
Lamp after lamp, door after door
empty the curved unlovely street.
We fled not wanting Your defeat.
Far, the sound of running feet.
Until gladly You hear again
an idiot desperate in a house,
the strict economy of plain,
a voice human and profane
calling You by name.
DANNY ABSE is een vooraanstaande figuur op het toneel van de jonge Engelse letteren. Hij werd in het zuiden van Wales, in 1923 geboren. Hij publiceerde de gedichtenbundels After every green thing en Walking under water, de romans Ash on a young man's sleeve en Some corner of an Englisch field en een toneelstuk in verzen Fire is heaven. Voor de B.B.C. schreef hij verscheidene stemmen-spelen. Hij was enige jaren hoofdredacteur van het literaire tijdschrift ‘Poetry and poverty’ en redigeerde kortelings met Howard Sergeant een bloemlezing van jonge dichters Mavericks. Binnenkort verschijnt een nieuwe bundel gedichten van zijn hand Tenants of the house, bij Hutchinson, Londen. |
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