Poem
Mustafa Stitou
THE BASICS
We keep on fighting until we hear the grass growing.Clouds hum through the sky. We hang our weapons
up and drape streamers over the guard dogs. Our eyes
have been detoxified. Only birds build our temples.
Introductory Love is made a compulsory subject
at secondary school. With every greeting,
we grow new brain cells, with every friendly word.
Nothing saddens a citizen more than a sad
neighbour. Mother figures dominate all
administrative bodies. The TV is on antipsychotics.
And the god of Spinoza returns, finally,
to quiet down the other gods; perfectly calm
they eat chips in the Voetboogstraat.
Quarrels between neighbours culminate in
weddings or lifelong friendships. Storms
wait until everyone’s inside. A troop of angels
assists the outreach workers. When the day
asks the night to wait a sec, the night sometimes listens.
We go back to living with the dead in our hearts,
and the dead feel for us. Imams, rabbis, preachers,
politicians and professors dress up in monkey suits
and walk silently through the city in an annual parade.
The bird-watchers’ party is up again in the polls!
The party of the last remaining philatelists
is also doing well. Evil, we tell each other, was lured
back into the underworld, which was then filled
with concrete. And Good, Good always beats us to it.
Twinkling non-stop in our green and blue,
our brown and grey eyes is the immortal soul.
Cartons of milk and jars of honey are available
free on street corners. Buddha licks his iPhone clean.
Demagogues grow roses in the parks. The stock exchange
has been taken over by musicians. The god
of Abraham laughs the loudest at the jokes
they make about him. False prophets
rip off their fake beards, burst out crying
and fall into the arms of transvestites.
© Translation: 2013,
BEGINSELEN
BEGINSELEN
We strijden door tot we het gras horen groeien.De wolken zich neuriënd verplaatsen. Aan de wilgen
wordt ons wapentuig gehangen. Waakhonden
worden met slingers versierd. Onze ogen ontgift.
Onze tempels alleen nog door vogels gebouwd.
Inleiding in de Liefde wordt een verplicht vak
op middelbare scholen. Met iedere groet maken we
nieuwe hersencellen aan, met ieder vriendelijk woord.
Niets bedroeft de burger meer dan een bedroefde
buurman of -vrouw. In elk bestuurslichaam
domineren moederfiguren. De tv slikt anti-
psychotica. En de god van Spinoza keert terug,
eindelijk, om de andere goden tot bedaren te brengen;
doodkalm eten ze een patatje in de Voetboogstraat.
Burenruzies lopen op bruiloften uit of levenslange
vriendschappen. Noodweer wacht tot iedereen
binnen is. Een troep engelen staat de straatcoaches bij.
Als de dag de nacht vraagt nog even te wachten
luistert de nacht soms. We leven weer mee met de doden
en de doden met ons. Imams, rabbijnen, dominees,
politici en professoren, ze lopen in een jaarlijkse
optocht in apenkostuum zwijgend door de stad.
De partij van de vogelaars stijgt opnieuw in de peilingen!
Ook de partij van de laatste postzegelverzamelaars
doet het goed. Het Kwaad, vertellen we elkaar,
is teruggelokt de onderwereld in die vervolgens
volgestort is met beton. En het Goede,
het Goede is ons steeds te snel af. In onze groene
en blauwe, bruine en grijze ogen fonkelt non-stop
de onsterfelijke ziel. Pakken melk en potten honing
worden uitgedeeld op straat. Boeddha likt
zijn iPhone schoon. Volksmenners kweken
rozen in parken. De beurs wordt overgenomen
door muzikanten. De god van Abraham lacht het hardst
om de grappen die over ’m worden gemaakt. Valse
profeten rukken hun opgeplakte baarden af
vallen jankend travestieten in de armen.
© 2013, Mustafa Stitou
From: Tempel
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
From: Tempel
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Mustafa Stitou
Close
THE BASICS
We keep on fighting until we hear the grass growing.Clouds hum through the sky. We hang our weapons
up and drape streamers over the guard dogs. Our eyes
have been detoxified. Only birds build our temples.
Introductory Love is made a compulsory subject
at secondary school. With every greeting,
we grow new brain cells, with every friendly word.
Nothing saddens a citizen more than a sad
neighbour. Mother figures dominate all
administrative bodies. The TV is on antipsychotics.
And the god of Spinoza returns, finally,
to quiet down the other gods; perfectly calm
they eat chips in the Voetboogstraat.
Quarrels between neighbours culminate in
weddings or lifelong friendships. Storms
wait until everyone’s inside. A troop of angels
assists the outreach workers. When the day
asks the night to wait a sec, the night sometimes listens.
We go back to living with the dead in our hearts,
and the dead feel for us. Imams, rabbis, preachers,
politicians and professors dress up in monkey suits
and walk silently through the city in an annual parade.
The bird-watchers’ party is up again in the polls!
The party of the last remaining philatelists
is also doing well. Evil, we tell each other, was lured
back into the underworld, which was then filled
with concrete. And Good, Good always beats us to it.
Twinkling non-stop in our green and blue,
our brown and grey eyes is the immortal soul.
Cartons of milk and jars of honey are available
free on street corners. Buddha licks his iPhone clean.
Demagogues grow roses in the parks. The stock exchange
has been taken over by musicians. The god
of Abraham laughs the loudest at the jokes
they make about him. False prophets
rip off their fake beards, burst out crying
and fall into the arms of transvestites.
© 2013, Mustafa Stitou
From: Tempel
From: Tempel
THE BASICS
We keep on fighting until we hear the grass growing.Clouds hum through the sky. We hang our weapons
up and drape streamers over the guard dogs. Our eyes
have been detoxified. Only birds build our temples.
Introductory Love is made a compulsory subject
at secondary school. With every greeting,
we grow new brain cells, with every friendly word.
Nothing saddens a citizen more than a sad
neighbour. Mother figures dominate all
administrative bodies. The TV is on antipsychotics.
And the god of Spinoza returns, finally,
to quiet down the other gods; perfectly calm
they eat chips in the Voetboogstraat.
Quarrels between neighbours culminate in
weddings or lifelong friendships. Storms
wait until everyone’s inside. A troop of angels
assists the outreach workers. When the day
asks the night to wait a sec, the night sometimes listens.
We go back to living with the dead in our hearts,
and the dead feel for us. Imams, rabbis, preachers,
politicians and professors dress up in monkey suits
and walk silently through the city in an annual parade.
The bird-watchers’ party is up again in the polls!
The party of the last remaining philatelists
is also doing well. Evil, we tell each other, was lured
back into the underworld, which was then filled
with concrete. And Good, Good always beats us to it.
Twinkling non-stop in our green and blue,
our brown and grey eyes is the immortal soul.
Cartons of milk and jars of honey are available
free on street corners. Buddha licks his iPhone clean.
Demagogues grow roses in the parks. The stock exchange
has been taken over by musicians. The god
of Abraham laughs the loudest at the jokes
they make about him. False prophets
rip off their fake beards, burst out crying
and fall into the arms of transvestites.
© 2013,
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