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Poem

Anne Vegter

UNDER A FAITHFUL SKY

Your sweetheart counted the intervals in your drinking-spree. Underneath the house
that night the blackbird ranted with blackbirds and subject matters with effervescent sentences.       

He cornered me (a trick). We had a feeble day. Something exploded, the city sprung up.
Is there a protocol for animal welfare when that happens, your sweetheart wanted to know.   

Almost rhythmically, an admirable tone. I believed in magnanimous ancestries,          
even though I stood strangely with billowing hands and by now everyone was ranting.       

The city slurred to its knees. None for desperation, he said, or just a few.      
First make victims. Some might think that easy, but I mean real ones.


ONDER EEN WAARACHTIGE HEMEL

ONDER EEN WAARACHTIGE HEMEL

Je liefste telde pauzes in je drinkgelag. Onder het huis ging de merel tekeer
met merels en goeie onderwerpen die nacht met schitterende regels.
 
Hij dreef me in een hoek (spelletje). We hadden een zwakke dag. Iets ontplofte,
de stad verrees. Is er een protocol voor hoe je dan omgaat met beesten, zei je liefste.
 
Haast ritmisch, een bewonderenswaardige toon. Ik geloofde in royale afkomsten,
al stond ik vreemd met bolle handen en inmiddels ging iedereen tekeer.
 
De stad zakte lallend in elkaar. Voor radeloosheid geen, zei hij, of een enkel.
Eerst slachtoffers maken. Sommigen denken dat het eenvoudig is, maar ik bedoel echte.
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UNDER A FAITHFUL SKY

Your sweetheart counted the intervals in your drinking-spree. Underneath the house
that night the blackbird ranted with blackbirds and subject matters with effervescent sentences.       

He cornered me (a trick). We had a feeble day. Something exploded, the city sprung up.
Is there a protocol for animal welfare when that happens, your sweetheart wanted to know.   

Almost rhythmically, an admirable tone. I believed in magnanimous ancestries,          
even though I stood strangely with billowing hands and by now everyone was ranting.       

The city slurred to its knees. None for desperation, he said, or just a few.      
First make victims. Some might think that easy, but I mean real ones.


UNDER A FAITHFUL SKY

Your sweetheart counted the intervals in your drinking-spree. Underneath the house
that night the blackbird ranted with blackbirds and subject matters with effervescent sentences.       

He cornered me (a trick). We had a feeble day. Something exploded, the city sprung up.
Is there a protocol for animal welfare when that happens, your sweetheart wanted to know.   

Almost rhythmically, an admirable tone. I believed in magnanimous ancestries,          
even though I stood strangely with billowing hands and by now everyone was ranting.       

The city slurred to its knees. None for desperation, he said, or just a few.      
First make victims. Some might think that easy, but I mean real ones.


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