Poem
Arjen Duinker
Piece of paper
The purple butterfly is full of meaning.The passionate flower slightly less.
The grass has outgrown its meaning.
I’m left without.
Look, there goes the man whose neighbour we share.
Half five, on the way to the meeting place
For members of the unreal society:
They who live forever.
He runs, shaking his bulging head,
Runs on a mixture of prehistoric oil
And oblivion from thirteen hundred.
But he loses a piece of red paper.
It falls, no, whirls from his trousers.
It is a scent, without rest, without weight,
It whirls, starts to tumble,
Gallops after his trousers.
Butterfly, flower, grass, me,
We watch the piece of paper go
With varying kinds of awe.
The night becomes tangible.
© Translation: 2003, Willem Groenewegen
Papiertje
Papiertje
De paarse vlinder is veelbetekenend.De gepassioneerde bloem iets minder.
Het gras is zijn betekenis voorbijgegroeid.
Ik zit zonder.
Kijk, daar gaat de man wiens buurvrouw we delen.
Halfzes, op weg dus naar de verzamelplaats
Voor de leden van het irreëel genootschap:
Zij die eeuwig leven.
Hij rent, schuddend met zijn boordevolle kop,
Rent op een mengsel van prehistorische olie
En vergetelheid uit dertienhonderd.
Maar hij verliest een rood papiertje.
Het valt, nee, dwarrelt uit zijn broek.
Een geur is het, zonder rust, geen gewicht,
Het dwarrelt, begint te buitelen,
Galoppeert achter de broekzak aan.
Vlinder, bloem, gras, ik,
We kijken het papiertje na
Met verschillende soorten van ontzag.
De avond wordt voelbaar.
© 2003, Arjen Duinker
Publisher: First published on PIW,
Publisher: First published on PIW,
Poems
Poems of Arjen Duinker
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Piece of paper
The purple butterfly is full of meaning.The passionate flower slightly less.
The grass has outgrown its meaning.
I’m left without.
Look, there goes the man whose neighbour we share.
Half five, on the way to the meeting place
For members of the unreal society:
They who live forever.
He runs, shaking his bulging head,
Runs on a mixture of prehistoric oil
And oblivion from thirteen hundred.
But he loses a piece of red paper.
It falls, no, whirls from his trousers.
It is a scent, without rest, without weight,
It whirls, starts to tumble,
Gallops after his trousers.
Butterfly, flower, grass, me,
We watch the piece of paper go
With varying kinds of awe.
The night becomes tangible.
© 2003, Willem Groenewegen
Piece of paper
The purple butterfly is full of meaning.The passionate flower slightly less.
The grass has outgrown its meaning.
I’m left without.
Look, there goes the man whose neighbour we share.
Half five, on the way to the meeting place
For members of the unreal society:
They who live forever.
He runs, shaking his bulging head,
Runs on a mixture of prehistoric oil
And oblivion from thirteen hundred.
But he loses a piece of red paper.
It falls, no, whirls from his trousers.
It is a scent, without rest, without weight,
It whirls, starts to tumble,
Gallops after his trousers.
Butterfly, flower, grass, me,
We watch the piece of paper go
With varying kinds of awe.
The night becomes tangible.
© 2003, Willem Groenewegen
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