Poem
Charles Ducal
BREEDING CATTLE
1So it started:
from the flaccid belly of the field
there rose a wall,
created (in our sleep) a hasty caesura
in the endless mud and rain.
We, of tender flesh,
came groping in the dark,
tore our mouths
on the new myth,
concerning us,
conclusive, neutral,
too smart to just sink back
in the layer of fat, the warm ground
in which we rooted as children.
Someone lifted us up
and punched into our ear
the number meant for us.
So it started: once in the sty
we learnt to forget ourselves,
not to move, sleep or eat,
be meat until the final
gram.
2
In the beginning there was mud.
At night a sow sometimes walked
across the scene, panting and waddling,
as if coloured by our lust.
Bread and water, days standing still
as posts for a fate tied to this place.
Man and animal sleeping together,
inseparable, saturated with moisture.
And nowhere a word
to touch themselves.
Until God appeared
with plummet and planks
and had us build a sty midfield
and taught us to ape his image,
touch the flesh with the word,
turn lust into money.
© Translation: 2006, Willem Groenewegen
VEETEELT
VEETEELT
1Zo begon het:
uit de weke buik van het veld
rees een muur,
een haastig (in onze slaap) ontstane cesuur
in de eindeloze modder en regen.
Wij, zacht van vlees,
kwamen in het donker tasten,
scheurden de mond
aan het nieuwe verhaal,
ons betreffend,
vaststaand, neutraal,
te slim om dadelijk weer weg te zakken
in de vetlaag, de warme grond
waarin wij als kinderen wroetten.
Iemand nam ons op
en sloeg ons in het oor
het voor ons bedoelde getal.
Zo begon het: eens in de stal
leerden wij onszelf vergeten,
niet bewegen, slapen en eten,
vlees te zijn tot de uiterste
gram.
2
In den beginne was er de modder.
‘s Nachts liep soms een zeug
door het beeld, hijgend en schommelend,
als door onze lust ingekleurd.
Brood en water, dagen stilstaand
als palen voor een hier vastgelegd lot.
Mens en dier samenslapend,
onscheidbaar, doortrokken van vocht.
En nergens een woord
om zichzelf aan te raken.
Tot God verscheen
met meetlood en planken
en ons een stal liet bouwen midden het veld
en ons leerde zijn beeld na te apen,
het vlees met het woord aan te raken,
de lust om te zetten in geld.
© 2006, Charles Ducal
From: In inkt gewassen
Publisher: Atlas, Amsterdam
From: In inkt gewassen
Publisher: Atlas, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Charles Ducal
Close
BREEDING CATTLE
1So it started:
from the flaccid belly of the field
there rose a wall,
created (in our sleep) a hasty caesura
in the endless mud and rain.
We, of tender flesh,
came groping in the dark,
tore our mouths
on the new myth,
concerning us,
conclusive, neutral,
too smart to just sink back
in the layer of fat, the warm ground
in which we rooted as children.
Someone lifted us up
and punched into our ear
the number meant for us.
So it started: once in the sty
we learnt to forget ourselves,
not to move, sleep or eat,
be meat until the final
gram.
2
In the beginning there was mud.
At night a sow sometimes walked
across the scene, panting and waddling,
as if coloured by our lust.
Bread and water, days standing still
as posts for a fate tied to this place.
Man and animal sleeping together,
inseparable, saturated with moisture.
And nowhere a word
to touch themselves.
Until God appeared
with plummet and planks
and had us build a sty midfield
and taught us to ape his image,
touch the flesh with the word,
turn lust into money.
© 2006, Willem Groenewegen
From: In inkt gewassen
From: In inkt gewassen
BREEDING CATTLE
1So it started:
from the flaccid belly of the field
there rose a wall,
created (in our sleep) a hasty caesura
in the endless mud and rain.
We, of tender flesh,
came groping in the dark,
tore our mouths
on the new myth,
concerning us,
conclusive, neutral,
too smart to just sink back
in the layer of fat, the warm ground
in which we rooted as children.
Someone lifted us up
and punched into our ear
the number meant for us.
So it started: once in the sty
we learnt to forget ourselves,
not to move, sleep or eat,
be meat until the final
gram.
2
In the beginning there was mud.
At night a sow sometimes walked
across the scene, panting and waddling,
as if coloured by our lust.
Bread and water, days standing still
as posts for a fate tied to this place.
Man and animal sleeping together,
inseparable, saturated with moisture.
And nowhere a word
to touch themselves.
Until God appeared
with plummet and planks
and had us build a sty midfield
and taught us to ape his image,
touch the flesh with the word,
turn lust into money.
© 2006, Willem Groenewegen
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