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Gedicht

Pam Brown

Ultradian rhythm

Ultradian rhythm

Ultradian rhythm

oppspinn,
       I think that’s
  Finnish for ‘made up’

places to go    like Sarcadia
  or Sfax
      or here,    just across the tram-track
from Bingo
       on the top floor next door
                             to Blockbuster
(a kind of
             pre-cognitive landmark)
under the antenna-nest
         of the dream bird
   that hatches the egg
                      of experience, boredom.
                    
also ‘made-up’
          & performed –
  optimism,                like
peacetime’s modern luxury –
     having a grave
                           all to yourself

down below
                     the traffic
    sounds like the sea,
like the Pacific          (perhaps)
   rising under
                   a pall of poison,
           islands sinking
as morning’s white moon
     still dangles
in the sickly blue
               behind the mobile phone tower.

sherbet-brained,
            fizzily beginning to feel
    like Nietzsche spake –
                    nothing is worth anything

insects frolic
            in my hairs,  
I open another dusty book
            in the weak Roman shade

seems like    Brisbane
             summer grey      
and I’ve come so very far
             to make this small comparison
Pam  Brown

Pam Brown

(Australië, 1948)

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Close

Ultradian rhythm

oppspinn,
       I think that’s
  Finnish for ‘made up’

places to go    like Sarcadia
  or Sfax
      or here,    just across the tram-track
from Bingo
       on the top floor next door
                             to Blockbuster
(a kind of
             pre-cognitive landmark)
under the antenna-nest
         of the dream bird
   that hatches the egg
                      of experience, boredom.
                    
also ‘made-up’
          & performed –
  optimism,                like
peacetime’s modern luxury –
     having a grave
                           all to yourself

down below
                     the traffic
    sounds like the sea,
like the Pacific          (perhaps)
   rising under
                   a pall of poison,
           islands sinking
as morning’s white moon
     still dangles
in the sickly blue
               behind the mobile phone tower.

sherbet-brained,
            fizzily beginning to feel
    like Nietzsche spake –
                    nothing is worth anything

insects frolic
            in my hairs,  
I open another dusty book
            in the weak Roman shade

seems like    Brisbane
             summer grey      
and I’ve come so very far
             to make this small comparison

Ultradian rhythm

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