Poem
Dominique De Groen
XI. ICE
The plains stretch out endlesslywhite 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.
© Translation: 2018, Dominique De Groen
XI. IJs
XI. IJs
Eindeloos strekt de vlakte zich uitwit 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.
© 2018, Domique De Groen
Poems
Poems of Dominique De Groen
Close
XI. ICE
The plains stretch out endlesslywhite 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.
© 2018, Dominique De Groen
XI. ICE
The plains stretch out endlesslywhite 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.
© 2018, Dominique De Groen
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