Poem
Jan H. Mysjkin
TOO MUCH GAME
You flush out a covey of partridge which, clearly visible, settles again a hundred or so metres further away.
Blackbucks! Blackbucks!
You let the negligible feathered fauna fall before your advantageous quadrupeds. You can let a partridge run straight past you, you don’t shoot, afraid of scaring the Blackbucks into some thicket or other a mile away. Now the Blackbucks haven’t been expecting you. Once more you advance behind the partridges.
Peacocks! Peacocks!
You see them, fluttering or tripping in the distance, so huge that the crows seem like flies. Around you it’s raining partridges and quails, hares run at a serene pace through the tall grass. You don’t shoot, afraid of scaring the Peacocks, a hundred paces away, into flight. Just a bit further – and you’re there!
Pig! Pig!
Good grief, a Pig, what’s to be done now? The Peacocks are there, close by. All you need do is to slink behind that row of boulders and you’ve got them within range. But if you shoot, you’ll put the Pig to flight. And a Pig, know what I mean . . .
Piggy! Wiggy! Snout!
O-U-T spells out.
© Translation: 2011, Jan H. Mysjkin
ER IS TE VEEL WILD
ER IS TE VEEL WILD
Je jaagt een vlucht patrijzen op, die zich duidelijk zichtbaar een honderdtal meter verder neerlaten.
Blackbucks! Blackbucks!
Je laat het verwaarloosbare pluimgedierte vallen voor de voordelige viervoeters. Een patrijs mag je voor de voeten lopen, je schiet niet, uit schrik de Blackbucks een of ander struikgewas op een mijl afstand in te jagen. Nu hebben de Blackbucks niet op je gewacht. Je gaat weer achter de patrijzen aan.
Peacocks! Peacocks!
Je ziet ze, fladderend of trippelend in de verte, zo groot dat kraaien ertegen vliegen zijn. Om je heen regent het patrijzen en kwartels, hazen snellen met vredige tred tussen het hoge gras. Je schiet niet, uit schrik de Peacocks, op honderd pas van je vandaan, op de vlucht te jagen. Nog even, en je bent er!
Pig! Pig!
Godallemachtig, een pig, wat nu gedaan? De Peacocks zijn daar, vlakbij. Je hoeft alleen nog tot achter die rij rotsen te sluipen en je hebt ze binnen schietbereik. Maar als je schiet, jaag je de pig op de vlucht. En een pig, nietwaar . . .
Pief! Poef! Paf!
Het mocht niet baten: gij zijt af.
© 2013, Jan H. Mysjkin
From: Enz., Enz...
Publisher: De Contrabas, Utrecht
From: Enz., Enz...
Publisher: De Contrabas, Utrecht
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Poems of Jan H. Mysjkin
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TOO MUCH GAME
You flush out a covey of partridge which, clearly visible, settles again a hundred or so metres further away.
Blackbucks! Blackbucks!
You let the negligible feathered fauna fall before your advantageous quadrupeds. You can let a partridge run straight past you, you don’t shoot, afraid of scaring the Blackbucks into some thicket or other a mile away. Now the Blackbucks haven’t been expecting you. Once more you advance behind the partridges.
Peacocks! Peacocks!
You see them, fluttering or tripping in the distance, so huge that the crows seem like flies. Around you it’s raining partridges and quails, hares run at a serene pace through the tall grass. You don’t shoot, afraid of scaring the Peacocks, a hundred paces away, into flight. Just a bit further – and you’re there!
Pig! Pig!
Good grief, a Pig, what’s to be done now? The Peacocks are there, close by. All you need do is to slink behind that row of boulders and you’ve got them within range. But if you shoot, you’ll put the Pig to flight. And a Pig, know what I mean . . .
Piggy! Wiggy! Snout!
O-U-T spells out.
© 2011, Jan H. Mysjkin
From: Enz., Enz...
From: Enz., Enz...
TOO MUCH GAME
You flush out a covey of partridge which, clearly visible, settles again a hundred or so metres further away.
Blackbucks! Blackbucks!
You let the negligible feathered fauna fall before your advantageous quadrupeds. You can let a partridge run straight past you, you don’t shoot, afraid of scaring the Blackbucks into some thicket or other a mile away. Now the Blackbucks haven’t been expecting you. Once more you advance behind the partridges.
Peacocks! Peacocks!
You see them, fluttering or tripping in the distance, so huge that the crows seem like flies. Around you it’s raining partridges and quails, hares run at a serene pace through the tall grass. You don’t shoot, afraid of scaring the Peacocks, a hundred paces away, into flight. Just a bit further – and you’re there!
Pig! Pig!
Good grief, a Pig, what’s to be done now? The Peacocks are there, close by. All you need do is to slink behind that row of boulders and you’ve got them within range. But if you shoot, you’ll put the Pig to flight. And a Pig, know what I mean . . .
Piggy! Wiggy! Snout!
O-U-T spells out.
© 2011, Jan H. Mysjkin
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