Poem
Max Temmerman
HE 1
He did not breathe,his skin did that.
I entangled myself
with his laurel leaf,
heathenism.
He smelled of dried grass.
Old Testament gold
below a late summer sun.
What I thought to that? Nothing.
Six college years taught me
to be quietly self-educated.
To boil like milk in a skillet.
To yearn.
© Translation: 2017, Max Temmerman
Hij 1
Hij 1
Hij haalde geen adem,zijn huid deed dat.
Ik verslingerde mezelf
aan zijn laurierblad,
heidendom.
Hij rook naar gedroogd gras.
Oudtestamentisch goud
onder een late zomerzon.
Wat ik er bij dacht? Niets.
Zes collegejaren leerden me
stilzwijgend autodidact te worden.
Te koken als melk in een pan.
Te smachten
© 2015, Max Temmerman
From: Zondag acht dagen
Publisher: Vrijdag, Antwerpen
From: Zondag acht dagen
Publisher: Vrijdag, Antwerpen
Poems
Poems of Max Temmerman
Close
HE 1
He did not breathe,his skin did that.
I entangled myself
with his laurel leaf,
heathenism.
He smelled of dried grass.
Old Testament gold
below a late summer sun.
What I thought to that? Nothing.
Six college years taught me
to be quietly self-educated.
To boil like milk in a skillet.
To yearn.
© 2017, Max Temmerman
From: Zondag acht dagen
From: Zondag acht dagen
HE 1
He did not breathe,his skin did that.
I entangled myself
with his laurel leaf,
heathenism.
He smelled of dried grass.
Old Testament gold
below a late summer sun.
What I thought to that? Nothing.
Six college years taught me
to be quietly self-educated.
To boil like milk in a skillet.
To yearn.
© 2017, Max Temmerman
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère