Poetry International Poetry International
Gedicht

Dana Levin

Refuge Field

Refuge Field

Refuge Field

You have installed a voice that can soothe you: agents
         of the eaten flesh, every body

         a cocoon of change—

Puparium. The garden
         a birthing house, sarcophagidae—

And green was so dark in the night-garden, in the garden’s
         gourd of air—

green’s epitome
         of green’s peace, the beautiful inhuman

leg-music, crickets’
         thrum—
a pulse

         to build their houses by,
each
         successive molt

a tent of skin
         in which skin can grow, the metallic sheen
of their blue backs

         as they hatch out, winged and mouthed—

Like in a charnel ground, you sit and see.

In one of the Eight Great
         Cemeteries, you sit and see—

How the skull-grounds
         are ringed by flame, how they spread out under
 
a diamond tent, how the adepts
         pupate
among bones—

         saying I who fear dying, I who fear
being dead—

         Refuge field.

         See it now.

That assembly of sages you would have yourself
         build,
to hear the lineage
         from mouth to ear, encounter the truth-
                     
         chain—

Saying, Soft eaters, someone’s children, who gives them
         refuge from want—

Cynomyopsis Cadavarena. On every tongue
         they feed.

Dana Levin

Dana Levin

(Verenigde Staten, 1965)

Landen

Ontdek andere dichters en gedichten uit Verenigde Staten

Gedichten Dichters

Talen

Ontdek andere dichters en gedichten in het Engels

Gedichten Dichters
Close

Refuge Field

You have installed a voice that can soothe you: agents
         of the eaten flesh, every body

         a cocoon of change—

Puparium. The garden
         a birthing house, sarcophagidae—

And green was so dark in the night-garden, in the garden’s
         gourd of air—

green’s epitome
         of green’s peace, the beautiful inhuman

leg-music, crickets’
         thrum—
a pulse

         to build their houses by,
each
         successive molt

a tent of skin
         in which skin can grow, the metallic sheen
of their blue backs

         as they hatch out, winged and mouthed—

Like in a charnel ground, you sit and see.

In one of the Eight Great
         Cemeteries, you sit and see—

How the skull-grounds
         are ringed by flame, how they spread out under
 
a diamond tent, how the adepts
         pupate
among bones—

         saying I who fear dying, I who fear
being dead—

         Refuge field.

         See it now.

That assembly of sages you would have yourself
         build,
to hear the lineage
         from mouth to ear, encounter the truth-
                     
         chain—

Saying, Soft eaters, someone’s children, who gives them
         refuge from want—

Cynomyopsis Cadavarena. On every tongue
         they feed.

Refuge Field

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