Poem
Anneke Brassinga
ROMANTIC
Behind the waterfall, roaming across rustling fields,crouched above liverwort, springing from cliffs
at springtide; you used to see them everywhere,
in every poem picturesque passers-by with their orations,
conversations, screams if need be. Lighter the days
in this sublunary world when poetry
hung roseate upon the branches, free
as a burgeoning. Now that would grow real
in a reciprocity of words –
yet stolidly as ever, ignominy and despair
lie in wait for us behind the trees.
ROMANTISCH
ROMANTISCH
Achter de waterval, over ruisende velden gaand,gehurkt boven flesjesmos, springend van klippen
bij springtij; je zag ze vroeger overal,
in ieder gedicht pittoreske passanten die oreerden,
converseerden, desnoods schreeuwden. Lichter dagen
doorwandelde het ondermaanse toen er poëzie
rooskleurig aan de takken hing, vrij
als een ontluiken dat nu werkelijk ging worden
in wederkerigheid van woorden –
nog altijd wachten schanddaad en vertwijfeling
ons zwijgend op achter de bomen.
© 2005, Anneke Brassinga
From: Wachtwoorden
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
From: Wachtwoorden
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Anneke Brassinga
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ROMANTIC
Behind the waterfall, roaming across rustling fields,crouched above liverwort, springing from cliffs
at springtide; you used to see them everywhere,
in every poem picturesque passers-by with their orations,
conversations, screams if need be. Lighter the days
in this sublunary world when poetry
hung roseate upon the branches, free
as a burgeoning. Now that would grow real
in a reciprocity of words –
yet stolidly as ever, ignominy and despair
lie in wait for us behind the trees.
From: Wachtwoorden
ROMANTIC
Behind the waterfall, roaming across rustling fields,crouched above liverwort, springing from cliffs
at springtide; you used to see them everywhere,
in every poem picturesque passers-by with their orations,
conversations, screams if need be. Lighter the days
in this sublunary world when poetry
hung roseate upon the branches, free
as a burgeoning. Now that would grow real
in a reciprocity of words –
yet stolidly as ever, ignominy and despair
lie in wait for us behind the trees.
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