Anne Sexton, Jezus stjert

 
Jezus stjert

Ut it krieënêst hjir boppe wei
sjoch Ik in lyts ploechje gearhokjen.
Myn lânslju, wêrom hokje jimme gear?
Der is hjir gjin nijs.
Ik bin gjin trapeze-akrobaat.
Ik bin besteld mei deagean.
Trije knikkeboljende hollen,
dynjend as blazen.
Gjin nijs.
De soldaten dêr ûnder
laitsje sa’t soldaten al iuwen dogge.
Gjin nijs.
Wy binne deselde minsken,
jimme en Ik,
deselde soarte noasters,
deselde soarte fuotten.
Myn bonken binne smard mei bloed
en dat binne jimmes ek.
It hert jaget my as in hazze yn in klem
en dat docht jimmes ek.
Ik wol God op Syn noas tútsje en Him prústen sjen
en dat wolle jimme ek.
Net út brek oan respekt.
Ut ûnnocht.
As in ding fan man ta man.
Ik wol dat de himel him delset op Myn itensboard
en dat wolle jimme ek.
Ik wol dat God Syn dampende earms om My slacht
en dat wolle jimme ek.
Want wy hawwe dêr ferlet fan.
Want wy binne kwetste skepsels.
Myn lânslju,
nei hûs no.
Ik sil neat bûtenwenstichs dwaan.
Ik splits net yn twaen op.
Ik pik net Myn wite eagen út.
Fuort no,
dit is in persoanlike saak,
in priveekwestje, en God wit
net jimme affearen.

 

Jesus Dies

From up here in the crow’s nest
I see a small crowd gather.
Why do you gather, my townsmen?
There is no news here.
I am not a trapeze artist.
I am busy with My dying.
Three heads lolling,
bobbing like bladders.
No news.
The soldiers down below
laughing as soldiers have done for centuries.
No news.
We are the same men,
you and I,
the same sort of nostrils,
the same sort of feet.
My bones are oiled with blood
and so are yours.
My heart pumps like a jack rabbit in a trap
and so does yours.
I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze
and so do you.
Not out of disrespect.
Out of pique.
Out of a man-to-man thing.
I want heaven to descend and seat on My dinner plate
and so do you.
I want God to put His steaming arms around Me
and so do you.
Because we need.
Because we are sore creatures.
My townsmen,,
go home now.
I will do nothing extraordinary.
I will not divide in two.
I will not pick out My white eyes.
Go now,
this is a personal matter,
a private affair and God knows
none of your business.

 

The Jesus Papers [VII], út The Book of Folly, 1972

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