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Featured Poet: Sylvie Marie

Eyewear is very glad to welcome, this ice-cold London Friday, Sylvie Marie (pictured above) born in Belgium in 1984.  She has published poetry in several magazines and anthologies. Her first collection of poetry Zonder (which means Without) was published in 2009 and was received with great praise by the Dutch press."this may be the most remarkable poetry debut of the recent years", one critic said. Marie is also editor of the Dutch literary magazines Meander and Deus Ex Machina. She writes a poem every week for the widespread Flemish magazine Humo.  I met her in October at the Maastricht International Poetry Nights, where we were both guest readers.  The poem below was translated into English  by Zoran Ancevski with the poet.




soms

soms wil ik je dood, schat,
niet dat ik je dood wil maar
ik zou je lichaam wel eens
willen dragen wanneer
je hand ontkracht naar
beneden bungelt en je tong eruit.

ik zie me je al jaren torsen tot
oog en vlees vergaan, de
schilfers van je huid achtergelaten
als om de weg terug te weten
maar om nooit te gebruiken.

uiteindelijk zou alleen nog
het skelet met botjes, kootjes en
andere kruimels achterblijven,
jij dan licht geworpen als een
zomerjasje over mijn schouder,
mijn pink in het lusje.



sometimes

sometimes I want you dead, honey,
not that I really want you to die
but I would like to carry your body
once when your hand’s
hanging powerless down and
with your tongue dangling out.

I see myself hauling you for years till
eye and flesh putrefy, the flakes of your skin
left behind as a help to remember
the way back home.

eventually only your skeleton
with tiny bones and crumbs would lag
behind, you thrown slightly as a summer jacket
over my shoulder, my little finger
in the loop.


poem by Sylvie Marie; published with permission of the author.

Comments

Anonymous said…
She is indeed a remarkable good poetry writer in our country - Belgium. I am a great fan!

Jan
Emerging Writer said…
I really like this. I read it slightly differently.

Sometimes I want you dead, dear,
not that I want you dead but
sometimes I'd like to wear your body
when your hand dangles down
and your tongue sticks out.

I see myself carrying you for years
until your eyes and flesh decay,
leaving the flakes of your skin behind
as if to know the way back
but never to use it.

At last only your skeleton
shall remain with tiny bones
and other crumbs,
you then thrown as light as a
summer jacket over my shoulder
my pinkie in the loop.

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