Gedicht
Tomas Lieske
TAKE THE GARDEN SNAIL
Is it edible then, like its satisfied kin?
Is it also killed by salt, before the seasoned butter?
Snails are travellers, their bag of organs
tied to their backs. A filling so rich that mantle and sac
fit the shell exactly. Between the walls
the calcium spikes and crystal stalks to stir the food.
They’re on the road, existing only of shell,
eyes and foot. Pilgrims with a forgotten goal.
What could I say to cheer you up?
They, the ramblers are aware of profit and loss.
Their shells are sold like jewellery around the neck
of small, decisive women. Currency, is what
they have become and symbol for death
and survival. Are eaten and their shells
employed to store oil. They served
in strange brass bands. Their most secret
mission to deliver purple to
the Roman emperors. The smallest
show immense transparency:
mother-of-pearl miniature palaces
quiver at the first footfall. Gelatine
body, house of glass.
With goo they glue their loved ones
and shoot their arrows sensitively
into the other. You yield, you
are my garden snail. I taste and aim
my arrow at your sweetest parts. No salt,
not even a tip. I use my front one to lick you.
Is it also killed by salt, before the seasoned butter?
Snails are travellers, their bag of organs
tied to their backs. A filling so rich that mantle and sac
fit the shell exactly. Between the walls
the calcium spikes and crystal stalks to stir the food.
They’re on the road, existing only of shell,
eyes and foot. Pilgrims with a forgotten goal.
What could I say to cheer you up?
They, the ramblers are aware of profit and loss.
Their shells are sold like jewellery around the neck
of small, decisive women. Currency, is what
they have become and symbol for death
and survival. Are eaten and their shells
employed to store oil. They served
in strange brass bands. Their most secret
mission to deliver purple to
the Roman emperors. The smallest
show immense transparency:
mother-of-pearl miniature palaces
quiver at the first footfall. Gelatine
body, house of glass.
With goo they glue their loved ones
and shoot their arrows sensitively
into the other. You yield, you
are my garden snail. I taste and aim
my arrow at your sweetest parts. No salt,
not even a tip. I use my front one to lick you.
© Translation: 2013, Willem Groenewegen
NEEM DE SEGRIJNSLAK
NEEM DE SEGRIJNSLAK
Is hij dan eetbaar, zoals zijn voldane familie?Wordt ook hij gedood door het zout, voor de boter met kruiden?
Slakken zijn reizigers, hun zak met organen
op de rug gebonden. Zo rijk gevuld dat mantel en zak
precies in het huis passen. Tussen de wanden
kalken pijlen en kristallen stelen om het eten te roeren.
Zij zijn op pad, zij bestaan slechts uit huis,
ogen en voet. Pelgrims met een vergeten doel.
Wat moet ik je vertellen om je op te vrolijken?
Zij, de wandelaars weten wat winst en verlies is.
Hun huizen zijn verkocht als sieraad om de hals
van smalle, slagvaardige vrouwen. Betaalmiddel
zijn ze geworden en symbool voor de dood
en het overleven. Zelf gegeten en in hun huis
is olie opgeslagen. Ze dienden
in vreemde muziekkorpsen. Hun geheimste
missie is het leveren van purper aan
de Romeinse keizers. Hun kleinsten
tonen een grote doorzichtigheid:
parelmoeren miniatuurpaleizen
trillen bij de eerste wandelpas. Lijfje
van gelatine, huis van glas.
Met slijm lijmen ze onderweg hun liefdes
en ze schieten hun pijlen gevoelig
in de ander. Jij zwicht, jij
bent mijn segrijnslak. Ik proef je en richt
mijn pijl naar je zoetste delen. Geen zout,
geen puntje. Met het voorste lik ik je.
© 1993, Tomas Lieske
From: Grondheer
Publisher: Querido, Amsterdam
From: Grondheer
Publisher: Querido, Amsterdam
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Gedichten van Tomas Lieske
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NEEM DE SEGRIJNSLAK
Is hij dan eetbaar, zoals zijn voldane familie?Wordt ook hij gedood door het zout, voor de boter met kruiden?
Slakken zijn reizigers, hun zak met organen
op de rug gebonden. Zo rijk gevuld dat mantel en zak
precies in het huis passen. Tussen de wanden
kalken pijlen en kristallen stelen om het eten te roeren.
Zij zijn op pad, zij bestaan slechts uit huis,
ogen en voet. Pelgrims met een vergeten doel.
Wat moet ik je vertellen om je op te vrolijken?
Zij, de wandelaars weten wat winst en verlies is.
Hun huizen zijn verkocht als sieraad om de hals
van smalle, slagvaardige vrouwen. Betaalmiddel
zijn ze geworden en symbool voor de dood
en het overleven. Zelf gegeten en in hun huis
is olie opgeslagen. Ze dienden
in vreemde muziekkorpsen. Hun geheimste
missie is het leveren van purper aan
de Romeinse keizers. Hun kleinsten
tonen een grote doorzichtigheid:
parelmoeren miniatuurpaleizen
trillen bij de eerste wandelpas. Lijfje
van gelatine, huis van glas.
Met slijm lijmen ze onderweg hun liefdes
en ze schieten hun pijlen gevoelig
in de ander. Jij zwicht, jij
bent mijn segrijnslak. Ik proef je en richt
mijn pijl naar je zoetste delen. Geen zout,
geen puntje. Met het voorste lik ik je.
© 1993, Tomas Lieske
From: Grondheer
Publisher: 1993, Querido, Amsterdam
From: Grondheer
Publisher: 1993, Querido, Amsterdam
TAKE THE GARDEN SNAIL
Is it edible then, like its satisfied kin?
Is it also killed by salt, before the seasoned butter?
Snails are travellers, their bag of organs
tied to their backs. A filling so rich that mantle and sac
fit the shell exactly. Between the walls
the calcium spikes and crystal stalks to stir the food.
They’re on the road, existing only of shell,
eyes and foot. Pilgrims with a forgotten goal.
What could I say to cheer you up?
They, the ramblers are aware of profit and loss.
Their shells are sold like jewellery around the neck
of small, decisive women. Currency, is what
they have become and symbol for death
and survival. Are eaten and their shells
employed to store oil. They served
in strange brass bands. Their most secret
mission to deliver purple to
the Roman emperors. The smallest
show immense transparency:
mother-of-pearl miniature palaces
quiver at the first footfall. Gelatine
body, house of glass.
With goo they glue their loved ones
and shoot their arrows sensitively
into the other. You yield, you
are my garden snail. I taste and aim
my arrow at your sweetest parts. No salt,
not even a tip. I use my front one to lick you.
Is it also killed by salt, before the seasoned butter?
Snails are travellers, their bag of organs
tied to their backs. A filling so rich that mantle and sac
fit the shell exactly. Between the walls
the calcium spikes and crystal stalks to stir the food.
They’re on the road, existing only of shell,
eyes and foot. Pilgrims with a forgotten goal.
What could I say to cheer you up?
They, the ramblers are aware of profit and loss.
Their shells are sold like jewellery around the neck
of small, decisive women. Currency, is what
they have become and symbol for death
and survival. Are eaten and their shells
employed to store oil. They served
in strange brass bands. Their most secret
mission to deliver purple to
the Roman emperors. The smallest
show immense transparency:
mother-of-pearl miniature palaces
quiver at the first footfall. Gelatine
body, house of glass.
With goo they glue their loved ones
and shoot their arrows sensitively
into the other. You yield, you
are my garden snail. I taste and aim
my arrow at your sweetest parts. No salt,
not even a tip. I use my front one to lick you.
© 2013, Willem Groenewegen
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