Poem
Anneke Brassinga
DEBRIS
Asteroid wind? Invariably mumbled with finalwords as the first – microbic coagulation?
In curdling sludge admiring itself
among still inarticulate stars. Poetry such stuff?
Cast-iron antiqued colander, on board
woebegone small radishes, waiting in vain for
their pa. Or loftier dreams: flayer-toothed jaws
whose breath is all too rank for fire not
to spurt out. Flit-spray, yes! that’s what poetry is
carrying on inside wardrobes under lock – bugger
off man, had you but stayed a moth-eaten atom . . .
The close-fitting, cut-in-one meaning worn out
by lightweight crease-linen Sunday-bakers,
being seers of all and more, on own word of
honour. Does poetry keep itself cometically high like
a goose above Ooy? The spark lights up come-down
darknesses, black mendicant nuns piss there
on grey rocks forever floating through the universe
cramful of exalted thoughts on the frailest wee
blossoms. Earth meanwhile lies toiling and
moiling at its test paper while a fat failure
rises to the zenith every day, panting
heavily; our blessèd mummy who purl and plain
knits away at the woolly coms of time.
PUIN
PUIN
Asteroïdenwind? Met steevast laatste woordengemompeld als eerste – microbeklontering?
In schiftende smurrie zichzelf bewonderende
tussen nog onbespraakte sterren. Poëzie zoiets?
Gietijzeren geantiquiseerd vergiet, aan boord
verdrietige radijsjes, ze wachten vergeefs op
hun pa. Of grootser dromen: blekkend kakement
wiens adem al te ranzig is dan dat er niet de
fik uit slaat. Flitspuit, ja! is de dichtkunst
huishoudend binnen klederkasten achter slot –
mens ga weg, was mottig atoom toch gebleven . . .
De nauwsluitende, aangeknipte portee afgetrapt
door lichtgewicht kreuklinnen zondagsbakkers,
ziener zijnd van van alles en meer, naar eigen
erewoord. Houdt zich poëzie kometisch hoog als
gans boven Ooy? De vonk verlicht aan lager wal
geraakte duisternissen, zwarte bedelnonnen pissen
er op grauwe, ’t al doorzwevende gesteenten
mudvol verheven gedachten aan de meest broze
bloemekens. Aarde intussen ligt te zweten en
te zwoegen op haar proefwerk terwijl een dikke
onvoldoende elke dag ten zenit rijst, zwaar
hijgend; ons lieve moeke die rechts averechts
aan het wollen broekje van de tijden breit.
From: Wachtwoorden
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Anneke Brassinga
Close
DEBRIS
Asteroid wind? Invariably mumbled with finalwords as the first – microbic coagulation?
In curdling sludge admiring itself
among still inarticulate stars. Poetry such stuff?
Cast-iron antiqued colander, on board
woebegone small radishes, waiting in vain for
their pa. Or loftier dreams: flayer-toothed jaws
whose breath is all too rank for fire not
to spurt out. Flit-spray, yes! that’s what poetry is
carrying on inside wardrobes under lock – bugger
off man, had you but stayed a moth-eaten atom . . .
The close-fitting, cut-in-one meaning worn out
by lightweight crease-linen Sunday-bakers,
being seers of all and more, on own word of
honour. Does poetry keep itself cometically high like
a goose above Ooy? The spark lights up come-down
darknesses, black mendicant nuns piss there
on grey rocks forever floating through the universe
cramful of exalted thoughts on the frailest wee
blossoms. Earth meanwhile lies toiling and
moiling at its test paper while a fat failure
rises to the zenith every day, panting
heavily; our blessèd mummy who purl and plain
knits away at the woolly coms of time.
From: Wachtwoorden
DEBRIS
Asteroid wind? Invariably mumbled with finalwords as the first – microbic coagulation?
In curdling sludge admiring itself
among still inarticulate stars. Poetry such stuff?
Cast-iron antiqued colander, on board
woebegone small radishes, waiting in vain for
their pa. Or loftier dreams: flayer-toothed jaws
whose breath is all too rank for fire not
to spurt out. Flit-spray, yes! that’s what poetry is
carrying on inside wardrobes under lock – bugger
off man, had you but stayed a moth-eaten atom . . .
The close-fitting, cut-in-one meaning worn out
by lightweight crease-linen Sunday-bakers,
being seers of all and more, on own word of
honour. Does poetry keep itself cometically high like
a goose above Ooy? The spark lights up come-down
darknesses, black mendicant nuns piss there
on grey rocks forever floating through the universe
cramful of exalted thoughts on the frailest wee
blossoms. Earth meanwhile lies toiling and
moiling at its test paper while a fat failure
rises to the zenith every day, panting
heavily; our blessèd mummy who purl and plain
knits away at the woolly coms of time.
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