Poem
Gerrit Komrij
Thirst for knowledge
He’s beady-eyed. His jet-black cloak is heavingLike some great bellows regularly fed.
I spurn his falls and rises. Who’d believe in
Salvation stemming from his birdlike head?
His trusting gaze impels me to submit.
Confessing to him trips right off the tongue.
‘It wasn’t my dead mother,’ I repeat,
‘Not wizened by the grave, not dead and gone –
The figure was intact and smooth. Commanding.
Anemones were blooming on her stave.
She was a mistress, and yet quite enchanting.
I do not know for sure what sign she gave.’
Dorst naar kennis
Dorst naar kennis
Kraalogen heeft hij. Regelmatig steekt erEen storm onder zijn zwarte mantel op.
Dan stijgt en daalt hij. Ik negeer het. Spreekt er
Niet louter redding uit zijn vogelkop?
Ik zwicht voor het vertrouwen in zijn blik.
Het biechten gaat mij heel eenvoudig af.
‘Het was mijn moeder niet,’ zeg ik,
Niet de gerimpelde, niet die van ’t graf –
Het beeld was glad en ongerept. Zij heerste
Er bloeiden anemonen uit haar staf.
Ze was een meesteres en toch de teerste.
Ik weet niet wat voor teken zij mij gaf.’
© 1997, Gerrit Komrij
From: Faust, zoveelste deel
From: Faust, zoveelste deel
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Poems
Poems of Gerrit Komrij
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Thirst for knowledge
He’s beady-eyed. His jet-black cloak is heavingLike some great bellows regularly fed.
I spurn his falls and rises. Who’d believe in
Salvation stemming from his birdlike head?
His trusting gaze impels me to submit.
Confessing to him trips right off the tongue.
‘It wasn’t my dead mother,’ I repeat,
‘Not wizened by the grave, not dead and gone –
The figure was intact and smooth. Commanding.
Anemones were blooming on her stave.
She was a mistress, and yet quite enchanting.
I do not know for sure what sign she gave.’
From: Faust, zoveelste deel
Thirst for knowledge
He’s beady-eyed. His jet-black cloak is heavingLike some great bellows regularly fed.
I spurn his falls and rises. Who’d believe in
Salvation stemming from his birdlike head?
His trusting gaze impels me to submit.
Confessing to him trips right off the tongue.
‘It wasn’t my dead mother,’ I repeat,
‘Not wizened by the grave, not dead and gone –
The figure was intact and smooth. Commanding.
Anemones were blooming on her stave.
She was a mistress, and yet quite enchanting.
I do not know for sure what sign she gave.’
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