Thursday 28 November 2019

Andy Fierens: 'De snurkers'


Nothing is more precious to me
than my father’s

My father
like so many others
denied he was a snorer.

Not until I had taped
the rumbling sound
of his nocturne
did he admit the fact.

A couple of years later he died.

One of the few things
I still have of him
is the recording of his
sonorous breathing.

When the human race was still
in its infancy
the snorer was sacred. 
He slept 
on the outside of the circle
and with his chain-saw kept
wild animals
such as the
cave bear
at a distance.

Thus did he protect the tribe.

recognisability makes
the snorer vulnerable.

Whenever in my youth
we went out camping
my father was
strictly forbidden
to enter the tent
before everyone else
was sleeping
like a log.

Is it mere chance that I
who in my whole life
had never snored
one single time
took over 
the torch from him
after his death?

Not infrequently
when we are camping
I am now banished
at night by my own children
to the confined
acoustics of
the car.

Like my father
I am a snorer
whose fugue
is despised
by the tribe
he seeks to protect.

I am a tolerant man.
I can comply with
the whims of the woman
at my side.
There is though one rule
that I observe:
now and then
I ask her to stay awake
until I am asleep
and then softly
close to my ear
play the tape. 

Then we snore together.

Two humming bees
who recognise each other
and in joy and merriment
dance through the night.

While snoring 
harmoniously brought together
our hearts beat as one.

At last father and son.

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