Poem
Jan Lauwereyns
THE THIRD DAY
The man was old he had no courage had no strength had justa dog that guided him to scents faint
hints of her his love who’d vanished just like that
he searched and found whatever pencils puppets
things he wasn’t looking for but kept collecting photos
of other lovers children waiting good as gold
with yellow hats on doubtless dead now drowned
or crushed by something cracked cold meat
best not thought about the man was far too old
he couldn’t get his head round who had died
and why and how or get his head round those still living
© Translation: 2012, Francis R. Jones
DE DERDE DAG
DE DERDE DAG
De man was oud hij had geen moed geen kracht alleeneen hond die hem naar geuren voerde vage
sporen van haar de geliefde die zomaar was verdwenen
hij zocht en vond van alles pennen poppen
dingen die hij niet zocht maar bleef verzamelen foto’s
van andere geliefdes kinderen netjes wachtend
gele hoedjes op nu dood wellicht verzopen
of ergens onder geplet gespleten spijs
hij mocht er niet aan denken de man was veel te oud
begreep geen snars van wie gestorven waren
waarom en hoe geen snars van zij die blijven leven.
© 2012, Jan Lauwereyns
From: De willekeur
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
From: De willekeur
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Jan Lauwereyns
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THE THIRD DAY
The man was old he had no courage had no strength had justa dog that guided him to scents faint
hints of her his love who’d vanished just like that
he searched and found whatever pencils puppets
things he wasn’t looking for but kept collecting photos
of other lovers children waiting good as gold
with yellow hats on doubtless dead now drowned
or crushed by something cracked cold meat
best not thought about the man was far too old
he couldn’t get his head round who had died
and why and how or get his head round those still living
© 2012, Francis R. Jones
From: De willekeur
From: De willekeur
THE THIRD DAY
The man was old he had no courage had no strength had justa dog that guided him to scents faint
hints of her his love who’d vanished just like that
he searched and found whatever pencils puppets
things he wasn’t looking for but kept collecting photos
of other lovers children waiting good as gold
with yellow hats on doubtless dead now drowned
or crushed by something cracked cold meat
best not thought about the man was far too old
he couldn’t get his head round who had died
and why and how or get his head round those still living
© 2012, Francis R. Jones
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