Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

K. Satchidanandan

THE MAD

The mad have no caste
or religion. They transcend
gender, live outside
ideologies. We do not deserve
their innocence.

Their language is not of dreams
but of another reality. Their love
is moonlight. It overflows
on the full-moon day.

Looking up they see
gods we have never heard of. They are
shaking their wings when
we fancy they are
shrugging their shoulders. They hold
that even flies have souls
and the green god of grasshoppers
leaps up on thin legs.

At times they see trees bleed, hear
lions roaring from the streets. At times
they watch Heaven gleaming
in a kitten’s eyes, just as
we do. But they alone can hear
ants sing in a chorus.

While patting the air
they are taming a cyclone
over the Mediterranean. With
their heavy tread, they stop
a volcano from erupting.

They have another measure
of time. Our century is
their second. Twenty seconds,
and they reach Christ; six more,
they are with the Buddha.

In a single day, they reach
the big bang at the beginning.

They go on walking restless, for
their earth is boiling still.

The mad are not
mad like us.

GEKKEN

Gekken hebben kaste noch
geloof. Ze overstijgen
sekse, leven buiten
ideologieën. Wij verdienen
hun onschuld niet.
 
Hun taal is niet die van dromen
maar van een andere realiteit. Hun liefde
is maanlicht. Het loopt over
in een vollemaansdag.
 
Omhoogkijkend zien ze
goden die wij niet kennen. Ze schudden
hun vleugels terwijl wij denken
dat ze hun schouders ophalen.
 
Ze geloven
dat zelfs vliegen bezield zijn
en dat de god van sprinkhanen in het groen
op lange benen opspringt.
 
Soms zien ze bomen bloeden, horen
ze leeuwen brullen op straat. Soms
zien ze de Hemel glanzen
in de ogen van een katje, net
als wij. Maar alleen zij kunnen
mieren in koor horen zingen.
 
Terwijl ze de lucht strelen met hun vingers
temmen ze een orkaan
boven de Middellandse Zee. Met
hun zware voetstap, weerhouden
ze een Japanse vulkaan van uitbarsten.
 
Ze hebben een ander besef
van tijd. Onze eeuw is
hun seconde. Twintig seconden
en ze bereiken Christus; nog eens zes,
en ze zijn bij de Boeddha.
 
Binnen één dag bereiken ze
de big bang aan het begin.
 
Ze lopen rusteloos voort, want
de aarde kolkt nog.
 
Gekken zijn lang niet
zo gek als wij.

Close

THE MAD

The mad have no caste
or religion. They transcend
gender, live outside
ideologies. We do not deserve
their innocence.

Their language is not of dreams
but of another reality. Their love
is moonlight. It overflows
on the full-moon day.

Looking up they see
gods we have never heard of. They are
shaking their wings when
we fancy they are
shrugging their shoulders. They hold
that even flies have souls
and the green god of grasshoppers
leaps up on thin legs.

At times they see trees bleed, hear
lions roaring from the streets. At times
they watch Heaven gleaming
in a kitten’s eyes, just as
we do. But they alone can hear
ants sing in a chorus.

While patting the air
they are taming a cyclone
over the Mediterranean. With
their heavy tread, they stop
a volcano from erupting.

They have another measure
of time. Our century is
their second. Twenty seconds,
and they reach Christ; six more,
they are with the Buddha.

In a single day, they reach
the big bang at the beginning.

They go on walking restless, for
their earth is boiling still.

The mad are not
mad like us.

THE MAD

The mad have no caste
or religion. They transcend
gender, live outside
ideologies. We do not deserve
their innocence.

Their language is not of dreams
but of another reality. Their love
is moonlight. It overflows
on the full-moon day.

Looking up they see
gods we have never heard of. They are
shaking their wings when
we fancy they are
shrugging their shoulders. They hold
that even flies have souls
and the green god of grasshoppers
leaps up on thin legs.

At times they see trees bleed, hear
lions roaring from the streets. At times
they watch Heaven gleaming
in a kitten’s eyes, just as
we do. But they alone can hear
ants sing in a chorus.

While patting the air
they are taming a cyclone
over the Mediterranean. With
their heavy tread, they stop
a volcano from erupting.

They have another measure
of time. Our century is
their second. Twenty seconds,
and they reach Christ; six more,
they are with the Buddha.

In a single day, they reach
the big bang at the beginning.

They go on walking restless, for
their earth is boiling still.

The mad are not
mad like us.
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