Poem
J. Bernlef
mindful of the licentious rake
IThe little lads of great evil
stoke the stove with old ideals
Industriously scraping together their daily bread
in between the beetles of mutual understanding
All hot and bothered the statues of old
but at night they fall apart with mould
Working flexibly until death attends to him
a man makes a life with a vengeance: he plays
He plays on electric vomiting guitars
going down on sagging altars we get screwed
Night falls and the poet slaving over the
final words fatally pussyfooting falls also
Falls round and ripe like shiny fruit he\'s saved
radiantly on lightweight paper, shrieking with glee.
II
Having shaken loose fragments of words
like a jogger in the woods does his legs
So each one of us tackles time in his own way
his body strapped in the corset of form
until everythings snaps, with a bang or a whimper
Ideas and utopias remained like waste
on the dung heap of history to come he regards
its dismantlement embracing it without hesitation
Maybe he was the last prince to nurse a great thirst
trampling all the gardening gnomes with his seven-league boots
until nightingales from liberated arbors could sing freely
And so he sang you and me and all the senses free
to deep in the forest where neither paths nor trail
markers go but chaos alone and glamorous appearance.
de maltentige losbol indachtig
de maltentige losbol indachtig
IDe kleine jongens van het grote kwaad
maken de kachel aan met oude idealen
Daartussen scharrelen de torretjes van het
wederzijds begrip hun kostje nijver bij elkaar
Oude standbeelden worden opgewonden maar
vallen ’s nachts al schimmelend uit elkaar.
Flexibel werkend tot de dood hem strekt
maakt de mens een leven van jewelste: hij speelt
Hij speelt op electrisch brakende gitaren
zo dalend op verzakte altaren naait men elkaar
De nacht valt en de dichter zwoegend aan
de laatste woorden rond de heetste brij valt ook
Valt rond en rijp als glanzende vrucht wordt hij
stralend in dundruk opgeborgen, krijsend en blij.
II
Zinnen woordbrokken losgeschud
zoals de jogger in het bos zijn benen
Zo gaat een ieder op eigen wijze de tijd te lijf
zijn lijf ingesnoerd in het korset van de vorm
tot alles loslaat, niet een knal of wat gejammer
Ideeën en utopieën bleven als afval achter
op de mesthoop der komende geschiedenis
bij bezag de ontmanteling en hing haar zonder aarzelen om
Misschien was hij de laatste vorst van de grote dorst
die met zevenmijlslaarzen alle tuinierende dwergen vertrapte
zodat nachtegalen uit bevrijde prieëlen eindelijk uit volle borst zingen konden
Zo zong hij mij en u en alle zinnen los
tot diep in het bos waar geen paden meer zijn
geen paddestoelen maar chaos alleen en schone schijn.
Poems
Poems of J. Bernlef
Close
mindful of the licentious rake
IThe little lads of great evil
stoke the stove with old ideals
Industriously scraping together their daily bread
in between the beetles of mutual understanding
All hot and bothered the statues of old
but at night they fall apart with mould
Working flexibly until death attends to him
a man makes a life with a vengeance: he plays
He plays on electric vomiting guitars
going down on sagging altars we get screwed
Night falls and the poet slaving over the
final words fatally pussyfooting falls also
Falls round and ripe like shiny fruit he\'s saved
radiantly on lightweight paper, shrieking with glee.
II
Having shaken loose fragments of words
like a jogger in the woods does his legs
So each one of us tackles time in his own way
his body strapped in the corset of form
until everythings snaps, with a bang or a whimper
Ideas and utopias remained like waste
on the dung heap of history to come he regards
its dismantlement embracing it without hesitation
Maybe he was the last prince to nurse a great thirst
trampling all the gardening gnomes with his seven-league boots
until nightingales from liberated arbors could sing freely
And so he sang you and me and all the senses free
to deep in the forest where neither paths nor trail
markers go but chaos alone and glamorous appearance.
mindful of the licentious rake
IThe little lads of great evil
stoke the stove with old ideals
Industriously scraping together their daily bread
in between the beetles of mutual understanding
All hot and bothered the statues of old
but at night they fall apart with mould
Working flexibly until death attends to him
a man makes a life with a vengeance: he plays
He plays on electric vomiting guitars
going down on sagging altars we get screwed
Night falls and the poet slaving over the
final words fatally pussyfooting falls also
Falls round and ripe like shiny fruit he\'s saved
radiantly on lightweight paper, shrieking with glee.
II
Having shaken loose fragments of words
like a jogger in the woods does his legs
So each one of us tackles time in his own way
his body strapped in the corset of form
until everythings snaps, with a bang or a whimper
Ideas and utopias remained like waste
on the dung heap of history to come he regards
its dismantlement embracing it without hesitation
Maybe he was the last prince to nurse a great thirst
trampling all the gardening gnomes with his seven-league boots
until nightingales from liberated arbors could sing freely
And so he sang you and me and all the senses free
to deep in the forest where neither paths nor trail
markers go but chaos alone and glamorous appearance.
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