Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

H.H. ter Balkt

The Potato-grading Machine

At the time I lived in a country
where the potato-grading machine arrived.

From salted wood made with many rains
it worked as a monotonous brain.

It graded into three sizes
as a self-contained farming computer.

It always rained when it came
as if it was propelled by that rain.

Something darkened drove it,
something faded; like the matriarchy.

The cupboards held old Jozo salt
and axes leaned to in the woods.

The pig also came to look at it:
with a green eye over its gate.

It was quite smart this wooden machine,
behind its guard of burlap bags!

The smallest potatoes fell
at once through the topmost mesh.

It had three platforms, made of wood
and wire, dancing askance, a little obscure.

The smallest potatoes pelted
down like fat drops of rain;

the larger ones ended up on the middle
hatch and the fattest rolled proud on top.

You witnessed this, found it hard to grasp
it was always painted blue,

and may well have come from China, from
the far off flat carriages of the horizons,
from the ferret-like distance and the dark.

It always rained when it came.
It was a regal machine

As the rain also fell more solemnly then
as if it fell at a royal court. 

I do not regret it, the potato-raining machine.
I sometimes think about it.

It was the most dented among the machinery.
Parcival: ridiculed by the elegant aftergrass.

But the clouds had a soft spot for it
and the rain caught up with it as a herd.

De aardappelsorteermachine

De aardappelsorteermachine

Ik woonde toen in een land
waar de aardappelsorteermachine kwam.

Van hout gezouten met veel regens gemaakt
werkte hij als een monotoon brein.

Hij sorteerde naar drie groottes
als een eenzelvige boerencomputer.

’t Regende altijd als hij kwam
of hij voortbewogen werd door die regen.

Iets verduisterds dreef hem,
iets verflauwds; als het matriarchaat.

In de kasten stond oud Jozo-zout
en in ’t bos leunden bijlen.

Ook het varken kwam naar hem kijken:
met een groen oog over zijn hek.

Hij was heel slim die houten machine,
achter zijn lijfwacht van juten zakken!

De kleinste aardappels vielen
meteen door zijn bovenste mazen omlaag.

Drie vlakken had hij, van hout
en draad, die schuins dansten, een beetje obscuur.

De allerkleinste aardappels stortten
als dikke regendruppels omlaag;

de grotere verzeilden op ’t middelste
valluik en de dikste rolden trots bovenop.

Je zag het aan en kon het niet bevatten
hij was ook altijd blauwgeschilderd,

en kwam misschien wel uit China; van ver
uit de platte wagons van de horizonnen,
uit de fretachtige verte en het duister.

Het regende altijd als hij kwam.
Het was een koninklijke machine.

Want ook de regen viel dan plechtiger,
of hij viel aan een koninklijk hof.

Ik betreur hem niet, de aardappelregenmachine.
Ik denk soms aan hem.

Hij was de gedeuktste onder de werktuigen.
Parcival: bespot door ’t elegant etgras.

Maar de wolken hadden een zwak voor hem
en de regen haalde hem in als een hoeder.
Close

The Potato-grading Machine

At the time I lived in a country
where the potato-grading machine arrived.

From salted wood made with many rains
it worked as a monotonous brain.

It graded into three sizes
as a self-contained farming computer.

It always rained when it came
as if it was propelled by that rain.

Something darkened drove it,
something faded; like the matriarchy.

The cupboards held old Jozo salt
and axes leaned to in the woods.

The pig also came to look at it:
with a green eye over its gate.

It was quite smart this wooden machine,
behind its guard of burlap bags!

The smallest potatoes fell
at once through the topmost mesh.

It had three platforms, made of wood
and wire, dancing askance, a little obscure.

The smallest potatoes pelted
down like fat drops of rain;

the larger ones ended up on the middle
hatch and the fattest rolled proud on top.

You witnessed this, found it hard to grasp
it was always painted blue,

and may well have come from China, from
the far off flat carriages of the horizons,
from the ferret-like distance and the dark.

It always rained when it came.
It was a regal machine

As the rain also fell more solemnly then
as if it fell at a royal court. 

I do not regret it, the potato-raining machine.
I sometimes think about it.

It was the most dented among the machinery.
Parcival: ridiculed by the elegant aftergrass.

But the clouds had a soft spot for it
and the rain caught up with it as a herd.

The Potato-grading Machine

At the time I lived in a country
where the potato-grading machine arrived.

From salted wood made with many rains
it worked as a monotonous brain.

It graded into three sizes
as a self-contained farming computer.

It always rained when it came
as if it was propelled by that rain.

Something darkened drove it,
something faded; like the matriarchy.

The cupboards held old Jozo salt
and axes leaned to in the woods.

The pig also came to look at it:
with a green eye over its gate.

It was quite smart this wooden machine,
behind its guard of burlap bags!

The smallest potatoes fell
at once through the topmost mesh.

It had three platforms, made of wood
and wire, dancing askance, a little obscure.

The smallest potatoes pelted
down like fat drops of rain;

the larger ones ended up on the middle
hatch and the fattest rolled proud on top.

You witnessed this, found it hard to grasp
it was always painted blue,

and may well have come from China, from
the far off flat carriages of the horizons,
from the ferret-like distance and the dark.

It always rained when it came.
It was a regal machine

As the rain also fell more solemnly then
as if it fell at a royal court. 

I do not regret it, the potato-raining machine.
I sometimes think about it.

It was the most dented among the machinery.
Parcival: ridiculed by the elegant aftergrass.

But the clouds had a soft spot for it
and the rain caught up with it as a herd.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
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