Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Christine D’haen

The mole

Earth which I breathe in the heavy night,
earth for hunger, earth for thirst;
my soft warm breast is filled with blood,
my lungs are clogged with earthen air.

Eyes in which the sunlight flowed
like the golden glow in Danae’s womb, reborn
as a golden son whose eyes, destined to
gleam luminously, corrupted into mud.

Earth hauled by me, bulk of ground
scooped out with fingers to a corridor
behind which runs another corridor so long
that, in further soil, it ends in soil.

Dug in a grave, speechless, drab,
feeding on roots and worms and seeds,
while there are blue-green peacocks,
horses, deer with antlers, nightingales.

De mol

De mol

Aarde die ’k adem in den zwaren nacht,
voor honger aarde en aarde voor den dorst;
mijn zachte en warm met bloed gevulde borst,
mijn longen voor de lucht, met aard bevracht.

Oogen waarin het zonlicht vloeide lijk
de gouden gloed in Danaë’s schoot, herboren
als gouden zoon uit de oogen om te gloren
met glans en wederglans, ontaard in slijk.

Aarde getorst door mij, gewicht van grond
met vingers doorgegraven tot een gang
en achter deze gang een andre gang zoo lang
dat hij in andren grond, in grond uitmondt.

Gedolven in een graf, sprakeloos en vaal,
gevoed met wortelen en worm en zaad,
terwijl de blauw-en-groene pauw bestaat,
het paard, ’t hert met gewei, de nachtegaal.
Close

The mole

Earth which I breathe in the heavy night,
earth for hunger, earth for thirst;
my soft warm breast is filled with blood,
my lungs are clogged with earthen air.

Eyes in which the sunlight flowed
like the golden glow in Danae’s womb, reborn
as a golden son whose eyes, destined to
gleam luminously, corrupted into mud.

Earth hauled by me, bulk of ground
scooped out with fingers to a corridor
behind which runs another corridor so long
that, in further soil, it ends in soil.

Dug in a grave, speechless, drab,
feeding on roots and worms and seeds,
while there are blue-green peacocks,
horses, deer with antlers, nightingales.

The mole

Earth which I breathe in the heavy night,
earth for hunger, earth for thirst;
my soft warm breast is filled with blood,
my lungs are clogged with earthen air.

Eyes in which the sunlight flowed
like the golden glow in Danae’s womb, reborn
as a golden son whose eyes, destined to
gleam luminously, corrupted into mud.

Earth hauled by me, bulk of ground
scooped out with fingers to a corridor
behind which runs another corridor so long
that, in further soil, it ends in soil.

Dug in a grave, speechless, drab,
feeding on roots and worms and seeds,
while there are blue-green peacocks,
horses, deer with antlers, nightingales.
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