Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

J. Slauerhoff

CREATION MYTH

God’s daughter in her pinafore kept blocks,
With which up in the clouds she had learned to play.
But when, tired and bored, she put them away
She couldn’t fit all of them into the box

In a proper, neatly ordered display.
Now God was asleep, strict and orthodox.
So feeling safe, she dropped them, sly young fox,
Made straight for a fine angel made of clay.

The blocks then tumbled through the cosmic void,
Arriving at an empty planet, where
They stayed right in position as they’d been hurled.

Most fragments as hills and dales were deployed;
The bits that were intact formed here and there
Great cities and small hamlets through the world.

SCHEPPINGSVERHAAL

SCHEPPINGSVERHAAL

Gods kind had blokken in zijn boezelaar,
Waarmee het in de wolken had gespeeld.
Maar toen zij op wou bergen, moe, verveeld,
Zag ze in de doos en wist niet hoe ze daar

In passen moesten, keurig ingedeeld.
Want God was streng, maar sliep – dus geen gevaar.
Zij liet ze vallen, zag er niet meer naar
Om en ging vlug naar een mooi engelbeeld.

De blokken vielen door een leeg heelal
En kwamen op een leege wereld, waar
Ze bleven zooals ze er heen geworpen.

De meeste sprongen stuk tot berg en dal;
En die heel bleven vormden hier en daar
De groote steden en de kleine dorpen.
Close

CREATION MYTH

God’s daughter in her pinafore kept blocks,
With which up in the clouds she had learned to play.
But when, tired and bored, she put them away
She couldn’t fit all of them into the box

In a proper, neatly ordered display.
Now God was asleep, strict and orthodox.
So feeling safe, she dropped them, sly young fox,
Made straight for a fine angel made of clay.

The blocks then tumbled through the cosmic void,
Arriving at an empty planet, where
They stayed right in position as they’d been hurled.

Most fragments as hills and dales were deployed;
The bits that were intact formed here and there
Great cities and small hamlets through the world.

CREATION MYTH

God’s daughter in her pinafore kept blocks,
With which up in the clouds she had learned to play.
But when, tired and bored, she put them away
She couldn’t fit all of them into the box

In a proper, neatly ordered display.
Now God was asleep, strict and orthodox.
So feeling safe, she dropped them, sly young fox,
Made straight for a fine angel made of clay.

The blocks then tumbled through the cosmic void,
Arriving at an empty planet, where
They stayed right in position as they’d been hurled.

Most fragments as hills and dales were deployed;
The bits that were intact formed here and there
Great cities and small hamlets through the world.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère