Tsiende psalm
Want sa’t de baby as in seestjer yn har miljoen ljochtjierren iepenbarst, moat Anne, beseft se, har eigen berch beklimme.
Want sa’t sy wiisheid yt as de helten fan in par, set sy ien foet foar de oare. Sy beklimt de tsjustere flank.
Want sa’t har bern groeit, groeit Anne en der is sâlt, meloen en sjerp foar elk.
Want sa’t Anne rint, rint de muzyk en it gesin jout him yn molke del.
Want ik bin net opsletten.
Want ik set fûst oer fûst op rots en plomp yn de hichte fan wurden. De stilte fan wurden.
Want de echtgenoat ferkeapet syn rein oan God en God is op ’t skik mei Syn gesin.
Want tegearre keare sy harren tsjin hurdens en earne, yn in oare keamer, knipten freonlike fingers it ljocht oan.
Want de dea oerkomt freonen, âlden, susters. De dea komt mei syn sekfol pine en dochs ferflokke sy de kaai dy’t harren yn hannen drukt wie net.
Want sy iepenje elke doar en dat jout harren in nije dei by it giele finster.
Want it bern groeit út ta in frou, har boarsten komme op as de moanne wylst Anne de fredesstien opwriuwt.
Want it bern begjint har eigen berch (net opsletten) en berikt de kustline fan druven.
Want Anne en har dochter betwinge de berch kear op kear. Dan fynt it bern in man dy’t iepengiet as de see.
Want dy dochter moat har eigen stêd bouwe en dy folje mei har eigen sinesappels, wurden fan harsels.
Want Anne rûn omheech en omheech, op ’t lêst jierrenlang, oant sy âld wie as de moanne, en like seurderich.
Want Anne wie oer acht bergen klommen en seach dat de bern de lytse bylden op it plein skjinmakken.
Want Anne siet mei it bloed fan in hammer en makke in grêfstien foar harsels, en Christopher siet nêst har en wie op ’t skik mei harren reade skaad.
Want sy hongen in skilderij fan in rôt op en de rôt glimke en stuts syn hân út.
Want de rôt wie seine op dy berch. Hy wie yn in wyt bad dien.
Want de molke yn de loften sakke op harren del en stoppe harren yn.
Want God ferliet harren net mar liet de bloedingel op harren passe oant it tiid wie dat sy harren stjer yngean soenen.
Want de himelhûnen sprongen te foarskyn en skoden snie op ús en wy leinen yn ús stille bloed.
Want God wie sa grut as in hichtesinne en lake ús syn waarmte ta en dêrom skrillen wy by it deademansgat net tebek.
Tenth Psalm
For as the baby springs out like a starfish into her million light years Anne sees that she must climb her own mountain.
For as she eats wisdom like the halves of a pear she puts one foot in front of the other. She climbs the dark wing.
For as her child grows Anne grows and there is salt and cantaloupe and molasses for all.
For as Anne walks, the music walks and the family lies down in milk.
For I am not locked up.
For I am placing fist over fist on rock and plunging into the altitude of words. The silence of words.
For the husband sells his rain to God and God is well pleased with His family.
For they fling together against hardness and somewhere, in another room, a light is clicked on by gentle fingers.
For death comes to friends, to parents, to sisters. Death comes with its bagful of pain yet they do not curse the key they were given to hold.
For they open each door and it gives them a new day at the yellow window.
For the child grows into a woman, her breasts coming up like the moon while Anne rubs the peace stone.
For the child starts up her own mountain (not being locked in) and reaches the coastline of grapes.
For Anne and her daughter master the mountain and again and again. Then the child finds a man who opens like the sea.
For that daughter must build her own city and fill it with her own oranges, her own words.
For Anne walked up and up and finally over the years until she was old as the moon and with its naggy voice.
For Anne had climbed over eight mountains and saw the children washing the tiny statues in the square.
For Anne sat down with the blood of a hammer and built a tombstone for herself and Christopher sat beside her and was well pleased with their red shadow.
For they hung up a picture of a rat and the rat smiled and held out his hand.
For the rat was blessed on that mountain. He was given a white bath.
For the milk in the skies sank down upon them and tucked them in.
For God did not forsake them but put the blood angel to look after them until such a time as they would enter their star.
For the sky dogs jumped out and shoveled snow upon us and we lay in our quiet blood.
For God was as large as a sunlamp and laughed his heat at us and therefore we did not cringe at the death hole.
O Ye Tongues [X], út The Death Notebooks, 1974