Poem
Mark Boog
CONCERNING TENDER-HEARTEDNESS
Our tender-hearted companions we left behind,looking into their soon to moisten eyes one more time;
we took off, utilising fully and in all seriousness
the wings growing onto us. Below
the clink of crockery and the sliding
of chairs and table, no longer moving us –
no longer moving you, for I fell back.
My wings, unfamiliar to me, withered.
Voluminous layers of salt in this soil: the mine
must be used. I, in tender-hearted company, delve,
cut, seeking happiness in deficiency.
© Translation: 2006, Willem Groenewegen
BETREFFENDE WEEKHARTIGHEID
BETREFFENDE WEEKHARTIGHEID
Onze weekhartige metgezellen lieten wij achter,hun snel vochtige ogen nog eenmaal inkijkend;
wij stegen op, de vleugels die ons aangroeiden
ten volle en in diepe ernst benuttend. Onder ons
het gerinkel van serviesgoed en het schuiven
van stoelen en tafel, niet langer ons beroerend –
niet langer jou beroerend, want ik viel terug.
Mijn mij wezensvreemde vleugels verdorden.
Omvangrijke zoutlagen in deze grond: de mijn
dient gebruikt. Ik, in weekhartig gezelschap, delf,
hak, in de onvolkomenheid het geluk zoekend.
© 2003, Mark Boog
From: Luid overigens de noodklok
Publisher: Cossee, Amsterdam
From: Luid overigens de noodklok
Publisher: Cossee, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Mark Boog
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CONCERNING TENDER-HEARTEDNESS
Our tender-hearted companions we left behind,looking into their soon to moisten eyes one more time;
we took off, utilising fully and in all seriousness
the wings growing onto us. Below
the clink of crockery and the sliding
of chairs and table, no longer moving us –
no longer moving you, for I fell back.
My wings, unfamiliar to me, withered.
Voluminous layers of salt in this soil: the mine
must be used. I, in tender-hearted company, delve,
cut, seeking happiness in deficiency.
© 2006, Willem Groenewegen
From: Luid overigens de noodklok
From: Luid overigens de noodklok
CONCERNING TENDER-HEARTEDNESS
Our tender-hearted companions we left behind,looking into their soon to moisten eyes one more time;
we took off, utilising fully and in all seriousness
the wings growing onto us. Below
the clink of crockery and the sliding
of chairs and table, no longer moving us –
no longer moving you, for I fell back.
My wings, unfamiliar to me, withered.
Voluminous layers of salt in this soil: the mine
must be used. I, in tender-hearted company, delve,
cut, seeking happiness in deficiency.
© 2006, Willem Groenewegen
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