Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Dirk van Bastelaere

BOOGIE MAN

Heart, the market square
is slashed with hail and swamped with floodlight.
In the Café du Commerce
the waiters roam around orphaned
in someone’s play or phone,
now you feel the situation’s fraught, their dealers
and the whole city falls ill.

For an instant it happens that you,
as if put through the wringer,
have eyes on stalks,
thundering like a cartoon, howling
in the sirens of Dresden,
unverfroren, an accomplished defence lawyer,
inedible at mass

For there she sits smoking beneath her red hair
vacant as the world in the jewishness of her first name,
and to begin with each gesture
is a happening that makes you clatter like a stork
in a documentary or natural reserve

But there she sits
and she cannot hear your boogie.

It is no bed of roses.
When she kisses
the secret story of the heart
kisses the slapstick of everyday

Boogie man

Boogie man

Hart, door hagel
gestriemd is het marktplein, met floodlight overspoeld.
In de Commerce
lopen de obers verweesd
in iemands toneelstuk of bellen,
nu het jou link te moede wordt, met hun dealers
en de hele stad wordt ziek.

Even gebeurt het dat je,
als door de wringer gehaald,
uit ogen naar buiten puilt,
bonkend als een cartoon, loeiend
in de sirenes van Dresden,
unverfroren, een volleerd pleiter,
oneetbaar bij de communie

Want daar zit zij onder haar rode haar
wezenloos als de wereld te roken in het joods
van haar voornaam
en in aanvang is elk gebaar
een gebeurtenis die je doet klepperen als een ooievaar
in een documentaire of reservaat

Maar daar zit ze
en ze kan je boogie niet horen.

Het is geen bed van rozen.
Wanneer ze
kust kust
de geheime geschiedenis van het hart
de slapstick van alledag
Close

BOOGIE MAN

Heart, the market square
is slashed with hail and swamped with floodlight.
In the Café du Commerce
the waiters roam around orphaned
in someone’s play or phone,
now you feel the situation’s fraught, their dealers
and the whole city falls ill.

For an instant it happens that you,
as if put through the wringer,
have eyes on stalks,
thundering like a cartoon, howling
in the sirens of Dresden,
unverfroren, an accomplished defence lawyer,
inedible at mass

For there she sits smoking beneath her red hair
vacant as the world in the jewishness of her first name,
and to begin with each gesture
is a happening that makes you clatter like a stork
in a documentary or natural reserve

But there she sits
and she cannot hear your boogie.

It is no bed of roses.
When she kisses
the secret story of the heart
kisses the slapstick of everyday

BOOGIE MAN

Heart, the market square
is slashed with hail and swamped with floodlight.
In the Café du Commerce
the waiters roam around orphaned
in someone’s play or phone,
now you feel the situation’s fraught, their dealers
and the whole city falls ill.

For an instant it happens that you,
as if put through the wringer,
have eyes on stalks,
thundering like a cartoon, howling
in the sirens of Dresden,
unverfroren, an accomplished defence lawyer,
inedible at mass

For there she sits smoking beneath her red hair
vacant as the world in the jewishness of her first name,
and to begin with each gesture
is a happening that makes you clatter like a stork
in a documentary or natural reserve

But there she sits
and she cannot hear your boogie.

It is no bed of roses.
When she kisses
the secret story of the heart
kisses the slapstick of everyday
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère