Poem
Micha Hamel
VANITAS
Happy adults and shrinking grandparents in perfect health wave offthe others. The airplane window frames a piece of landscape, Europe
divided into visible lots. Briefly, I see its willows filled with easels, fountain
pens, bassoons and riding crops grow smaller. In brim-filled vehicles
impatient pigs are Good morning sir transported. Subsidised
their well-oiled withdrawal into raw material. Ham or cheese? Acerbic sparkling
wine produces nauseous burps in quota. Very well sir. Thank you. Please
please me is our English theme of the day. There you are.
World heritage, which is apart from various the arse crack
of the paver in the tourist snapshot. The whole
shebang belongs to me, for I too am eternally available for a short
time only, like your handiwork will fall to me after your death.
While we stamp our feet and dance on the skulls of pets,
plague victims and churchgoers, hurling better ideas at each other
on ways to be, what to spurn or who to torment with our
borrowed concepts I am not about to quote whole books here
my thoughts rise up in empty bubbles
from something to nothing
my collection of beetles, dragon- and butterflies that I
stuck into notebooks with a glue stick, the scent of white envelopes
into which we flicked a chunk of dog turd with a twig, then sent it
unstamped to our classmates, the faces of old people who found
their garden chairs up in the trees, four taxis six bouquets sent for that
very afternoon another bridal cake for the befriended neighbours. Someone’s cat
we lured to our playing field with fish and with a hey-ho tossed into a piss-resistant fire
and I skim without a hint of
remorse and definitely haughty over these childishly cut-up provinces while I set out to polish up my thoughts to a sovereign sheen like the titanium-coloured jet engines of my arseforsaken scheduled flight whose belly in half an hour’s time will mostly reflect the alpine meadows, melting glaciers and shagged-out mountain slopes.
Instructive, when the precious is destroyed. Unburdened therefore I launch my
fair, attempted works without delay or woe towards the other world as I deem
myself exempted from the noble duty to accomplish something of note.
And besides, doll-gob-bomb Sun, no-one believes your globe’s middle o will ever smother;
that we’ll survive your frightful growth is warded off by future technology, or otherwise
the ample percentages of fire-retardants in our bloodstream. Meanwhile we take holidays
on our continent’s remaining fallow land, we inflame with rage at what is most photogenically
squandered in as far as it concerns related species and nag all night about
another person’s sickly self to stun our own manias, aberrations or depressions.
Daily suffering dissolves in pills with symbols printed on them as large as logos
that swagger boisterously volatile, or at least act adequately faint-heartedly distant
towards their former friends: the letters of the alphabet.
But, so as to not end on a bum note I will give – each study trip of course has insight
as its objective – three dry-as-dust instructions in passing (and preliminarily looking ahead to
the many times more spectacular passing) – for the future: gaze navel, mow lawn, ball foot.
Or rather:
bust ghost: our heavenly sphere’s the blue-green gobstopper in
the mouth of an obese child that with googly eyes identical to
mine during the safety instructions is currently being held hostage
by three little piggies in row 28 – halfway down economy class so hey
© Translation: 2014, Willem Groenewegen
VANITAS
VANITAS
Blije volwassenen en kerngezond krimpende grootouders zwaaienanderen uit. Het vliegtuigraampje kadert een stuk landschap, Europa
is verkaveld te zien. Snel zie ik haar wilgen vol ezels, vulpennen,
fagotten en rijzweepjes kleiner worden. In bomvolle voertuigen
worden ongedurige varkens Good morning sir vervoerd. Ondersteund
hun geoliede aftocht tot grondstof. Ham or cheese? Zure schuimwijnen
maken misselijke boeren in quota. Very well sir. Alstublieft. Please
please me is ons Engelse thema van vandaag. There you are.
Werelderfgoed, dat is behalve allerlei de bilspleet
van de stratenmaker op het kiekje van de toerist. De hele
santenkraam behoort mij toe, want ook ik ben voor eeuwig
tijdelijk verkrijgbaar, zoals uw maaksels mij toevallen na uw dood.
Terwijl we stampvoetend op de schedels dansen van huisdieren,
pestlijders en kerkgangers, elkaar bestokend met betere ideeën
over hoe te zijn, wat te versmaden of wie te treiteren met onze
geleende denkbeelden ik ga hier geen hele boeken citeren
stijgen mijn gedachten in lege bubbels
van iets naar niets
mijn verzameling kevers, libellen en vlinders die ik
met hobbylijm in schriften plakte, de geur van witte enveloppen
waar we met een takje de homp van een hondendrol in wipten, vervolgens
portoloos naar klasgenoten postten, de gezichten van bejaarden die hun
tuinstoelen in de bomen vonden, vier taxi’s zes boeketten diezelfde middag
nog een bruidstaart lieten komen voor de bevriende overburen. Iemands kat
die we naar ons trapveldje lokten met vis en jonasten in een onuitpisbaar fik
en scheer ik zonder een spoor van
wroeging solitair en terdege nuffig over deze kinderachtig verknipte provincies
terwijl ik mij erop toeleg mijn gedachten op te poetsen tot ze soeverein blinken
als de titaniumkleurige straalmotoren van mijn kloteverlate lijnvlucht waarvan
de buik over een goed half uur voornamelijk alpenweiden, smeltende gletsjers
en afgeragde berghellingen gaat weerkaatsen.
Leerzaam, als dierbaars vernietigd wordt. Onbezwaard lanceer ik derhalve mijn
schoon gepoogde werken zonder verlet of wee richting andere wereld aangezien
ik mij van de loffelijke plicht iets belangwekkends te verrichten ontslagen acht.
En trouwens, popkopbom Zon, dat uw middelste o ooit dooft gelooft toch niemand;
dat wij uw vervaarlijke groei overleven verhoeden toekomstige technieken, dan wel
de ruime percentages brandvertragers in ons bloed. Intussen houden we vakantie
op de laatste braakakkers van ons continent, ontsteken in woede bij de fotogeniekste
verkwanselingen in zoverre ze nabije species betreffen en kankeren avondenlang op
andermans kranke zelf om de eigen manieën, aberraties of depressies te verdoven.
Dagelijks leed verdwijnt in pillen die bedrukt zijn met tot logo’s opgeblazen symbolen
die brisant brooddronken snoeven, of op zijn minst ietwat onbehoorlijk afstandelijk
doen tegen hun vroegere vrienden: de letters van het alfabet.
Maar om niet in mineur te eindigen geef ik – iedere studiereis heeft tenslotte inzicht
tot doel – in het voorbijgaan (en alvast vooruitblikkend op het vele malen spectaculairdere
voorbijgaan) – drie gortdroge adviezen voor de toekomst: staar navel, zuig stof, schiet kloot.
Of liever:
rijd spook: ons hemellichaam is de blauwgroene toverbal in
de mond van het vetzuchtige kind dat met koeienogen identiek aan de
mijne tijdens de veiligheidsinstructies momenteel door drie biggetjes
wordt gegijzeld op rij 28 – halverwege de economy class dus tja
© 2006, Micha Hamel
From: Luchtwortels
Publisher: Augustus, Amsterdam
From: Luchtwortels
Publisher: Augustus, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Micha Hamel
Close
VANITAS
Happy adults and shrinking grandparents in perfect health wave offthe others. The airplane window frames a piece of landscape, Europe
divided into visible lots. Briefly, I see its willows filled with easels, fountain
pens, bassoons and riding crops grow smaller. In brim-filled vehicles
impatient pigs are Good morning sir transported. Subsidised
their well-oiled withdrawal into raw material. Ham or cheese? Acerbic sparkling
wine produces nauseous burps in quota. Very well sir. Thank you. Please
please me is our English theme of the day. There you are.
World heritage, which is apart from various the arse crack
of the paver in the tourist snapshot. The whole
shebang belongs to me, for I too am eternally available for a short
time only, like your handiwork will fall to me after your death.
While we stamp our feet and dance on the skulls of pets,
plague victims and churchgoers, hurling better ideas at each other
on ways to be, what to spurn or who to torment with our
borrowed concepts I am not about to quote whole books here
my thoughts rise up in empty bubbles
from something to nothing
my collection of beetles, dragon- and butterflies that I
stuck into notebooks with a glue stick, the scent of white envelopes
into which we flicked a chunk of dog turd with a twig, then sent it
unstamped to our classmates, the faces of old people who found
their garden chairs up in the trees, four taxis six bouquets sent for that
very afternoon another bridal cake for the befriended neighbours. Someone’s cat
we lured to our playing field with fish and with a hey-ho tossed into a piss-resistant fire
and I skim without a hint of
remorse and definitely haughty over these childishly cut-up provinces while I set out to polish up my thoughts to a sovereign sheen like the titanium-coloured jet engines of my arseforsaken scheduled flight whose belly in half an hour’s time will mostly reflect the alpine meadows, melting glaciers and shagged-out mountain slopes.
Instructive, when the precious is destroyed. Unburdened therefore I launch my
fair, attempted works without delay or woe towards the other world as I deem
myself exempted from the noble duty to accomplish something of note.
And besides, doll-gob-bomb Sun, no-one believes your globe’s middle o will ever smother;
that we’ll survive your frightful growth is warded off by future technology, or otherwise
the ample percentages of fire-retardants in our bloodstream. Meanwhile we take holidays
on our continent’s remaining fallow land, we inflame with rage at what is most photogenically
squandered in as far as it concerns related species and nag all night about
another person’s sickly self to stun our own manias, aberrations or depressions.
Daily suffering dissolves in pills with symbols printed on them as large as logos
that swagger boisterously volatile, or at least act adequately faint-heartedly distant
towards their former friends: the letters of the alphabet.
But, so as to not end on a bum note I will give – each study trip of course has insight
as its objective – three dry-as-dust instructions in passing (and preliminarily looking ahead to
the many times more spectacular passing) – for the future: gaze navel, mow lawn, ball foot.
Or rather:
bust ghost: our heavenly sphere’s the blue-green gobstopper in
the mouth of an obese child that with googly eyes identical to
mine during the safety instructions is currently being held hostage
by three little piggies in row 28 – halfway down economy class so hey
© 2014, Willem Groenewegen
From: Luchtwortels
From: Luchtwortels
VANITAS
Happy adults and shrinking grandparents in perfect health wave offthe others. The airplane window frames a piece of landscape, Europe
divided into visible lots. Briefly, I see its willows filled with easels, fountain
pens, bassoons and riding crops grow smaller. In brim-filled vehicles
impatient pigs are Good morning sir transported. Subsidised
their well-oiled withdrawal into raw material. Ham or cheese? Acerbic sparkling
wine produces nauseous burps in quota. Very well sir. Thank you. Please
please me is our English theme of the day. There you are.
World heritage, which is apart from various the arse crack
of the paver in the tourist snapshot. The whole
shebang belongs to me, for I too am eternally available for a short
time only, like your handiwork will fall to me after your death.
While we stamp our feet and dance on the skulls of pets,
plague victims and churchgoers, hurling better ideas at each other
on ways to be, what to spurn or who to torment with our
borrowed concepts I am not about to quote whole books here
my thoughts rise up in empty bubbles
from something to nothing
my collection of beetles, dragon- and butterflies that I
stuck into notebooks with a glue stick, the scent of white envelopes
into which we flicked a chunk of dog turd with a twig, then sent it
unstamped to our classmates, the faces of old people who found
their garden chairs up in the trees, four taxis six bouquets sent for that
very afternoon another bridal cake for the befriended neighbours. Someone’s cat
we lured to our playing field with fish and with a hey-ho tossed into a piss-resistant fire
and I skim without a hint of
remorse and definitely haughty over these childishly cut-up provinces while I set out to polish up my thoughts to a sovereign sheen like the titanium-coloured jet engines of my arseforsaken scheduled flight whose belly in half an hour’s time will mostly reflect the alpine meadows, melting glaciers and shagged-out mountain slopes.
Instructive, when the precious is destroyed. Unburdened therefore I launch my
fair, attempted works without delay or woe towards the other world as I deem
myself exempted from the noble duty to accomplish something of note.
And besides, doll-gob-bomb Sun, no-one believes your globe’s middle o will ever smother;
that we’ll survive your frightful growth is warded off by future technology, or otherwise
the ample percentages of fire-retardants in our bloodstream. Meanwhile we take holidays
on our continent’s remaining fallow land, we inflame with rage at what is most photogenically
squandered in as far as it concerns related species and nag all night about
another person’s sickly self to stun our own manias, aberrations or depressions.
Daily suffering dissolves in pills with symbols printed on them as large as logos
that swagger boisterously volatile, or at least act adequately faint-heartedly distant
towards their former friends: the letters of the alphabet.
But, so as to not end on a bum note I will give – each study trip of course has insight
as its objective – three dry-as-dust instructions in passing (and preliminarily looking ahead to
the many times more spectacular passing) – for the future: gaze navel, mow lawn, ball foot.
Or rather:
bust ghost: our heavenly sphere’s the blue-green gobstopper in
the mouth of an obese child that with googly eyes identical to
mine during the safety instructions is currently being held hostage
by three little piggies in row 28 – halfway down economy class so hey
© 2014, Willem Groenewegen
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