RV 98

 Archaeology has inspired some poets to go lyric on lithic (or any other period for that matter). Nobel Prize laureate Seamus Heaney (The Tollund Man, Viking Dublin…) is without doubt my personal favorite.

Here’s my attempt at writing some poetry on archaeology. I wrote this one poem (RV 98) about ten years ago, just after graduating university. Originally written in Dutch, I recently translated it. The poem focuses on an archaeological excavation (my first as a full-time paid archaeologist) on the premises of my former boarding school, situated in the village of Rotselaar, Belgium. We struck upon the ruins of the late medieval Cistercian abbey Vrouwenpark and its graveyard with the remains of some 200 nuns. I worked there for about six months in 1998 and 1999.

I had stayed at this Catholic boarding school for six years (12-18 years old), finishing secondary school. Although I met some really great teachers there and the atmosphere sometimes resembled that of Dead Poets Society (Touchstone Pictures, 1989), I generally felt misunderstood, very restricted, patronized and not being able to express myself. While excavating I saw something of a parallel between the life and death of these nuns and the feeling of constraint that I had experienced while staying at this boarding school. Fortunately I got away, but they never did.

 

Onverstoord graven naar maagden

In het jaren verboden park.

   Undisturbed digging for virgins

   In the before forbidden park.

 

Vastgeworteld in de oksels

Van hun kerk, hun kerker, hun cel.

Vastgeroest in de rosse grond

Verloren zij hun vlees, hun vel.

   Deeply rooted in the armpits

   Of their chapel, their gaol, their cell.

   Rusted down in their ruddy turf

   They all lost both their flesh and fur.

 

Vastgegroeide diamanten

In hun knokige idee-fixe.

Vastbesloten weer te keren

Met in hun hand de crucifix.

   Diamonds lay encrusted

   Within their knuckly fixed idea.

   Firmly bent on coming back

   Clutching at their crucifix.

 

Dieper dringt de zware spade

In het verjaarde bottenpark.

   Deeper digs the heavy spade

   Through the former bone yard park.

 

Wie had toen ooit kunnen denken

Dat we jaren eenzelfde lot

Deelden met hen die daar liggen

Gevild, ontvleesd tot op het bot.

   Who would have ever thought

   Of us sharing the same fate

   With those who rest in peace

   All skinned and thoroughly boned.

 

Na zes of zeshonderd jaren

Bevrijd uit het bevroren park.

   After six or six hundred years

   Freed from the frozen park.