Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Dominique De Groen

XI. ICE

The plains stretch out endlessly
white under the burning sun:

an expansive landscape of dazzling plastic
bathing in the green-tinted twilight
of a nuclear winter.

On the black, Arctic ice
we hunt for algae

gray doubles
of the first people
we chew on a bitter, grinning plant.

A bleached, fragile coral reef
buried under waves of sand
offers our soft bodies protection:

the dead reef
is still porous
absorbing the miniscule, poison-green crystals
of toxic radiation.

The surviving plants
are black and sticky
like oil.

They grin:

the hegemony
of the sun's capitalism
the economy of photosynthesis
is coming to an end.

From slumbering bacteria
deep in the black ice
they steal their sustenance.

With voices of slime
they whisper of the revolution

a new era

a wet, dark
subterranean sun.

My body overflows
with molten creatures
waiting to congeal
and be reborn.

The ur-slime
that slowly washes over me
is black and wet

reeks of the guts
of an iceberg.

The spirits of the old animals
are dazzling in the nuclear night.

XI. IJs

XI. IJs

Eindeloos strekt de vlakte zich uit
wit onder de brandende zon:

uitdijend land van schitterend plastic
badend in het groenige schemerlicht
van een nucleaire winter.

Op het zwarte, Arctische ijs
jagen we op algen

grauwe dubbels
van de eerste mensen
kauwend op een bittere, grijnzende plant.

Een gebleekt, broos koraalrif
begraven onder golven van zand
biedt onze zachte lichamen bescherming:

het dode rif
is nog steeds poreus
absorbeert de toxische stralingen
de minuscule, gifgroene kristallen.

De nog levende planten
zijn zwart en kleverig
als olie.

Ze grijnzen:

de hegemonie
van het zonnekapitalisme
de economie van fotosynthese
loopt ten einde.

Uit sluimerende bacterieën
diep in het zwarte ijs
halen ze hun voedsel.

Met stemmen van slijm
fluisteren ze over de revolutie

een nieuwe tijdperk

een natte, donkere
ondergrondse zon.

Mijn lichaam loopt over
van gesmolten dieren
wachtend om te stollen
en herboren te worden.

Het oerslijm
dat me langzaam overspoelt
is zacht en nat

ruikt naar de ingewanden
van een ijsberg.

De geesten van de oude dieren
zijn schitterend in de nucleaire nacht.


Close

XI. ICE

The plains stretch out endlessly
white under the burning sun:

an expansive landscape of dazzling plastic
bathing in the green-tinted twilight
of a nuclear winter.

On the black, Arctic ice
we hunt for algae

gray doubles
of the first people
we chew on a bitter, grinning plant.

A bleached, fragile coral reef
buried under waves of sand
offers our soft bodies protection:

the dead reef
is still porous
absorbing the miniscule, poison-green crystals
of toxic radiation.

The surviving plants
are black and sticky
like oil.

They grin:

the hegemony
of the sun's capitalism
the economy of photosynthesis
is coming to an end.

From slumbering bacteria
deep in the black ice
they steal their sustenance.

With voices of slime
they whisper of the revolution

a new era

a wet, dark
subterranean sun.

My body overflows
with molten creatures
waiting to congeal
and be reborn.

The ur-slime
that slowly washes over me
is black and wet

reeks of the guts
of an iceberg.

The spirits of the old animals
are dazzling in the nuclear night.

XI. ICE

The plains stretch out endlessly
white under the burning sun:

an expansive landscape of dazzling plastic
bathing in the green-tinted twilight
of a nuclear winter.

On the black, Arctic ice
we hunt for algae

gray doubles
of the first people
we chew on a bitter, grinning plant.

A bleached, fragile coral reef
buried under waves of sand
offers our soft bodies protection:

the dead reef
is still porous
absorbing the miniscule, poison-green crystals
of toxic radiation.

The surviving plants
are black and sticky
like oil.

They grin:

the hegemony
of the sun's capitalism
the economy of photosynthesis
is coming to an end.

From slumbering bacteria
deep in the black ice
they steal their sustenance.

With voices of slime
they whisper of the revolution

a new era

a wet, dark
subterranean sun.

My body overflows
with molten creatures
waiting to congeal
and be reborn.

The ur-slime
that slowly washes over me
is black and wet

reeks of the guts
of an iceberg.

The spirits of the old animals
are dazzling in the nuclear night.

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