Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Hubert van Herreweghen

Beagle

It’s a smell and you must find its location,
a trace, and not a place to abide.
I who adored its titillation,
which pierced my young nostrils’ inside,
I point my nose to every station
like a beagle, well-qualified,
paws extended, ears open wide.
It’s a smell and you must find its location,
a trace, and not a place to abide.
The scents that blur my smell’s operation,
poor poppy seed and sticky pie,
in larders the curdled milk’s fermentation,
the sour decay in the ice hole spied.
The honey that’s peonies’ and limes’ creation,
leads me astray and extends my paws wide,
and my wet nose turns to every station.
It’s a smell and you must find its location,
a trace, and not a place to abide.

Brak

Brak

Het is een geur die gij moet vinden,
het is een spoor, geen onderdak.
Ik die de kriebeling beminde
die jong in mijn neusvleugels stak,
ik steek mijn neus in de vier winden
gelijk een afgerichte brak,
gewarige oren, poten strak.
Het is een geur die ik moet vinden,
het is een spoor, geen onderdak.
De geuren die de reuk verblindden,
’t laf maanzaad en het klef gebak,
’t geschifte zuivel in de spinde,
de zure rotting van het wak.
De honig van pioen en linde
verdoolt me en zet mijn poten strak,
mijn natte neus in de vier winden.
Het is een geur die ik moet vinden,
het is een spoor, geen onderdak.
Close

Beagle

It’s a smell and you must find its location,
a trace, and not a place to abide.
I who adored its titillation,
which pierced my young nostrils’ inside,
I point my nose to every station
like a beagle, well-qualified,
paws extended, ears open wide.
It’s a smell and you must find its location,
a trace, and not a place to abide.
The scents that blur my smell’s operation,
poor poppy seed and sticky pie,
in larders the curdled milk’s fermentation,
the sour decay in the ice hole spied.
The honey that’s peonies’ and limes’ creation,
leads me astray and extends my paws wide,
and my wet nose turns to every station.
It’s a smell and you must find its location,
a trace, and not a place to abide.

Beagle

It’s a smell and you must find its location,
a trace, and not a place to abide.
I who adored its titillation,
which pierced my young nostrils’ inside,
I point my nose to every station
like a beagle, well-qualified,
paws extended, ears open wide.
It’s a smell and you must find its location,
a trace, and not a place to abide.
The scents that blur my smell’s operation,
poor poppy seed and sticky pie,
in larders the curdled milk’s fermentation,
the sour decay in the ice hole spied.
The honey that’s peonies’ and limes’ creation,
leads me astray and extends my paws wide,
and my wet nose turns to every station.
It’s a smell and you must find its location,
a trace, and not a place to abide.
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