Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Nico Bleutge

cooler brows, the clouds are lying heavily

on the round tops of the hills, the landscape’s etched from water
nothing but the descent of the birds, their slow glide down
to the estuary where the air communicates something, far off

the houses are growing out of the cliff and the power cables
sag right through into the valley. everything seems to adhere to the voice
bushes and steps and the wine-red granulation of wings

their loops become longer, the head reduces the temperature
when the drops bind the dust on the tips of the feet
and the tar shows its scales, the reed grass is laying out its dry leaves

on the stones. the pupils are harder now and the clouds
are sucking in the sea. foxglove, calamus, one salpiglossis
the little plants sitting between the haulms

the newts and vipers with their grey and whitish stripes
and the darting tonguelets scanning the rain, they follow through
what the pulse has preordained, the tiny throbbing spot

beneath the sparrow’s palate, its rough, enlightened belly
that carries on gleaming a while. before it too makes off
to join the birds by the shore, their beaks still visible

like the grass edges, the subtle ooze upon the toes
the hand stays calm, the water detaches itself from the slopes
and gently settles on the haulms and on the brows

kühlere schläfen, die wolken liegen schwer

kühlere schläfen, die wolken liegen schwer

auf den kuppen der berge, vom wasser radiert ist die landschaft
nichts als der sinkflug der vögel, ihr langsames gleiten hinab
an die mündung, wo die luft etwas mitteilt, von ferne

die häuser wachsen aus dem fels und die stromkabel
hängen durch bis ins tal. alles scheint an der stimme zu haften
sträucher und schritte, die weinrote körnung der schwingen

ihre schleifen werden länger, der kopf senkt die temperatur
wenn die tropfen den staub an den fußspitzen binden
und der teer seine schuppen zeigt, das schilf seine trockenen blätter

auf den steinen auslegt. die pupillen sind härter nun und die wolken
saugen das meer an. fingerhut, kalmus, eine salpiglossis
die kleinen pflanzen die zwischen den halmen sitzen

die molche und nattern mit ihren grauen und weißen streifen
und den züngelchen die den regen abtasten, sie ziehen nach
was der puls ihnen vorgibt, der winzige puckernde fleck

unterm gaumen des sperlings, sein rauher, aufgehellter bauch
der kurz nachglimmt. dann macht auch er sich davon
zu den vögeln am ufer, die schnäbel immer noch sichtbar

wie die grasränder, der feine schlamm an den zehen
die hand bleibt ruhig, das wasser löst sich von den hängen
und setzt sich leise an den halmen, an den schläfen fest
Close

cooler brows, the clouds are lying heavily

on the round tops of the hills, the landscape’s etched from water
nothing but the descent of the birds, their slow glide down
to the estuary where the air communicates something, far off

the houses are growing out of the cliff and the power cables
sag right through into the valley. everything seems to adhere to the voice
bushes and steps and the wine-red granulation of wings

their loops become longer, the head reduces the temperature
when the drops bind the dust on the tips of the feet
and the tar shows its scales, the reed grass is laying out its dry leaves

on the stones. the pupils are harder now and the clouds
are sucking in the sea. foxglove, calamus, one salpiglossis
the little plants sitting between the haulms

the newts and vipers with their grey and whitish stripes
and the darting tonguelets scanning the rain, they follow through
what the pulse has preordained, the tiny throbbing spot

beneath the sparrow’s palate, its rough, enlightened belly
that carries on gleaming a while. before it too makes off
to join the birds by the shore, their beaks still visible

like the grass edges, the subtle ooze upon the toes
the hand stays calm, the water detaches itself from the slopes
and gently settles on the haulms and on the brows

cooler brows, the clouds are lying heavily

on the round tops of the hills, the landscape’s etched from water
nothing but the descent of the birds, their slow glide down
to the estuary where the air communicates something, far off

the houses are growing out of the cliff and the power cables
sag right through into the valley. everything seems to adhere to the voice
bushes and steps and the wine-red granulation of wings

their loops become longer, the head reduces the temperature
when the drops bind the dust on the tips of the feet
and the tar shows its scales, the reed grass is laying out its dry leaves

on the stones. the pupils are harder now and the clouds
are sucking in the sea. foxglove, calamus, one salpiglossis
the little plants sitting between the haulms

the newts and vipers with their grey and whitish stripes
and the darting tonguelets scanning the rain, they follow through
what the pulse has preordained, the tiny throbbing spot

beneath the sparrow’s palate, its rough, enlightened belly
that carries on gleaming a while. before it too makes off
to join the birds by the shore, their beaks still visible

like the grass edges, the subtle ooze upon the toes
the hand stays calm, the water detaches itself from the slopes
and gently settles on the haulms and on the brows
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