Ruth Lasters
DONOR
After Voyelles, Arthur Rimbaud.
‘A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu : voyelles,
Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes’
When our vowels become little donor birds
flying to all those throats silenced by a reign of terror.
Donor vowels, which, like Liu Xia and Raif Bawadi,
made their way, during long flights, towards gagging,
feed stubbornly on all sorts:
A's with city breath from evening squares and with bed heat
from just after making love as if new heads rise in the pillowcases,
finally carelessly elementary.
O's with purification plants in their bellies that sanitise war
into red wine tastings, where you are still blindfolded
for the sake of objectivity.
E's, pale and frail, or perhaps sharp as a beak
refreshing themselves with the sighing of the sea, in their echo still the rustling of hedgehogs,
taken across the road one by one: saved by one single gesture,
just imagine.
U's that are actually Ys at ice lolly temperature
that, for soft, ultimate summer, require a season of abstention
from the man with the scythe.
I's gorging themselves on the clinking of trams from all cities, all lines.
Hear how the journey sounds from Belgrade, Shanghai, Lipetsk blend
with the tinkling of Brussels and Paris.
Hear, Lius, Raifs, how our vowels head,
straight through night cold, morning glory, murmur of thousands
of sequoias, Nasdaq bruhaha. Hear them circling, rising, free from donor birds.
Publisher: First publication on poetryinternational.com, , 2023
DONOR
DONOR
Naar Voyelles, Arthur Rimbaud.
‘A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu : voyelles,
Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes’
Wanneer onze klinkers kleine donorvogels worden
vliegend naar al die kelen door een schrikbewind gesnoerd.
Donorklinkers, die zich tijdens lange vluchten
naar monddood gemaakten zoals Liu Xia en Raif Bawadi,
voeden eigenwijs met allerlei:
A’s met stadsadem van avondpleinen en met bedwarmte
van vlak na vrijen alsof nieuwe hoofden in de kussenslopen rijzen,
eindelijk zorgeloos elementair.
O’s met in hun buiken zuiveringsstations die oorlog schoonspoelen
tot rode-wijn-proeverijtjes, waar nog slechts wordt geblinddoekt
voor de objectiviteit.
E’s zich flets en frêle of juist snavelscherp
lavend aan het zeegedruis, in hun echo nog geritsel van wat egels,
één voor één een weg overgezet: gered met één enkele geste,
stel je voor.
U’s die eigenlijk ij’s op waterijstemperatuur zijn
die voor luchtig, voor ultiem gezomer een volledig zwijgseizoen eisen
betreffende de man met de zeis.
I’s zich volzuigend met tramgerinkel aller steden, aller lijnen.
Luister naar hoe ritgeluiden uit Belgrado, Shanghai, Lipetsk zich
met Brussels en Parijs’ getinkel in hen mixen.
Hoor het, Liu’s, Raifs, hoor hoe onze klinkers komen,
dwars door nachtkou, ochtendrood, geruis van duizenden
sequoia’s, Nasdaqheisa. Hoor ze cirkelen, stijgen, donorvogelvrij.
From: Tijgerbrood
Publisher: Uitgeverij Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
DONOR
After Voyelles, Arthur Rimbaud.
‘A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu : voyelles,
Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes’
When our vowels become little donor birds
flying to all those throats silenced by a reign of terror.
Donor vowels, which, like Liu Xia and Raif Bawadi,
made their way, during long flights, towards gagging,
feed stubbornly on all sorts:
A's with city breath from evening squares and with bed heat
from just after making love as if new heads rise in the pillowcases,
finally carelessly elementary.
O's with purification plants in their bellies that sanitise war
into red wine tastings, where you are still blindfolded
for the sake of objectivity.
E's, pale and frail, or perhaps sharp as a beak
refreshing themselves with the sighing of the sea, in their echo still the rustling of hedgehogs,
taken across the road one by one: saved by one single gesture,
just imagine.
U's that are actually Ys at ice lolly temperature
that, for soft, ultimate summer, require a season of abstention
from the man with the scythe.
I's gorging themselves on the clinking of trams from all cities, all lines.
Hear how the journey sounds from Belgrade, Shanghai, Lipetsk blend
with the tinkling of Brussels and Paris.
Hear, Lius, Raifs, how our vowels head,
straight through night cold, morning glory, murmur of thousands
of sequoias, Nasdaq bruhaha. Hear them circling, rising, free from donor birds.
From: Tijgerbrood
Publisher: 2023, First publication on poetryinternational.com, Amsterdam
DONOR
After Voyelles, Arthur Rimbaud.
‘A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu : voyelles,
Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes’
When our vowels become little donor birds
flying to all those throats silenced by a reign of terror.
Donor vowels, which, like Liu Xia and Raif Bawadi,
made their way, during long flights, towards gagging,
feed stubbornly on all sorts:
A's with city breath from evening squares and with bed heat
from just after making love as if new heads rise in the pillowcases,
finally carelessly elementary.
O's with purification plants in their bellies that sanitise war
into red wine tastings, where you are still blindfolded
for the sake of objectivity.
E's, pale and frail, or perhaps sharp as a beak
refreshing themselves with the sighing of the sea, in their echo still the rustling of hedgehogs,
taken across the road one by one: saved by one single gesture,
just imagine.
U's that are actually Ys at ice lolly temperature
that, for soft, ultimate summer, require a season of abstention
from the man with the scythe.
I's gorging themselves on the clinking of trams from all cities, all lines.
Hear how the journey sounds from Belgrade, Shanghai, Lipetsk blend
with the tinkling of Brussels and Paris.
Hear, Lius, Raifs, how our vowels head,
straight through night cold, morning glory, murmur of thousands
of sequoias, Nasdaq bruhaha. Hear them circling, rising, free from donor birds.
Publisher: 2023, First publication on poetryinternational.com,
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