In 'My Secret City' on Saturday at the Winternachten festival, seven writers recited a story about 'their own hidden city': Mircea Cartarescu, Rodigro Hasbún, Hanna Bervoets, Piotr Ibrahim Kalwas, Olga Grjasnowa, Maarten van der Graaff and Salena Godden wrote about the city they don't see when they walk out the door, but encounter occasionally and unexpectedly. In fiction, or closer to their own reality.
Poet Salena Godden, whose work has not yet been translated into Dutch, is a well-known British poet and performer. Her regular performances at festivals and radio were evident in her powerful, compelling readings.
Salena Godden: 'My secret city'
This city is polluted. It is a broken needle. This city spins around in circles, a downward spiral, arousing the same miscreants every morning. This city is in a hurry and does not listen to the cries of the hungry and the poor. This city is a pigeon stumbling along on one maimed leg. This city begs in the gutter, sleeps under the canal bridge and gnaws on old chicken bones. This city is a dump. It is cut off from other cities, an island adrift, full of sewage sludge and disease. This is a wasteland, nothing thrives there and nothing good rises there. There is no garden where new dreams can bloom. This city is a toilet and the walls are full of scribbling, headlines spread fear, ignorance and bigotry. This city has no imagination, it cannot imagine being wrong. This city has high grey walls, so you cannot see the sky. This city is greasy with shame, blood on dirty handshakes and thumbed-down dollar notes. This city stinks of greasy pink, cigar-smoking politicians hoarding gold and oil.
My secret city is no secret because I know you all go there too. When I close my eyes, I see that you are there. A compass is not needed, your heart knows how to find it. This secret city is a blue, spinning ball shining with idealism, dotted with pages, whispered poems and prayers. Churches are built with books. From art and science we live and words and visions nourish us. The wide blue skies vibrate with music and water; you can fall into the sky and swim through the light if you are brave enough to let go and believe. When I am there, I believe we are free.
I hesitate before waking up, before raising my eyes and resting my gaze on this secret city. I can taste the sweet, wild fruits of a better world, the warmth of the sun and the glow of human goodness. I can hear the laughter of monkeys and the singing of the whistler. I know this place is no secret. I have seen you there, all of us imagining the same wonderful place. When I sit on the morning train and stare out the window, I see our secret city in all your eyes. I remember our joys, wishes and hopes, a longing for peace. It is a beautiful world because we are both here and there, even if only in our dreams.
Saturday Night Unlimited, Winternachten 2017, The Hague.
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