Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Ramsey Nasr

credo

give me the head of a daft persistent into-the-ground runner
who rhymes heart with part cypress with red dead with hyacinth
scrapes his spilling confidence back together bending down

and won’t stop organising stumble tours down trodden paths
tossing banana rhymes ahead he’s imperturbable
half and off he calls them magic cobbles look

a bad joke told by a poet the way he rants and raves
leaping up sometimes for no reason snatching handfuls of air
but not always no not always and I prefer him far more

a thousand and one times more than scrimping king holland
with his battened modern voice behind his spiky table
wheelchair and handbrake no I’ll manage or damage myself

also I loathe oracles of the order of the chocolate defecationists
pouring forth their broad brown nile certain of their own infallible delusion
confection-crapping a true vatican box full of chocolate liqueurs

                                                          I believe

in velure petals the ruined carmine of the sun’s setting
the splendour-driven backward flight of the quetzal
his long emerald green tail awkwardly radiant for her

his ridiculous ostentation favouring life over death
and I believe in utter love it says what it says as if it doesn’t

compared to liberian rebels gang rape is poetry too
I am attached to froth in all vanity I bear my night like a pouch

credo

credo

geef mij het hoofd van de onnozel volhardende pletterloper
hij die hart op zwart cipres op rood dood op anijs laat rijmen
zijn uitpuilend gemoed weer bij elkaar raapt vooroverbukkend

en maar struikeltochten organiseren door op platgetreden paden
bananenrijm voor zich uit te werpen hij is onverstoorbaar
half en kreupel blijft hij het zijn toverkeien zeggen kijk maar

een slechte mop verteld door een dichter zoals hij tekeergaat
soms springt hij op grijpt zonder reden mis naar omhoog
soms ook niet soms niet en ik heb hem altijd ruim verkozen

wel duizend-en-één-voudig boven hollands koning schraalhans
met de dichtgeschroefde moderne stem aan zijn stekelige tafel
rolstoel en handrem heus ik zal mijzelf wel redden breken schaden

ook aan orakels in de orde van de chocoladeschijter heb ik hekel
bruine nijl gieten ze uit in eigen zekerheid de onwrikbare waan
een echte vaticaanse doos likeurbonbons te hebben banketgekakt

                                              ik geloof

in fulpen bloembladen het kapotte karmijn van de avondschimmering
in de pronkgedwongen achterwaartse vlucht van de quetzal
zijn lange smaragdgroene staart onhandig stralend omwille van haar

in bespottelijke praalzucht bewijst hij diensten van leven op dood
en ik geloof in baarlijke liefde er staat wat er staat alsof het niets is

vergeleken bij liberiaanse rebellen is ook groepsverkrachting poëzie
aan schuim hecht ik in volle ijdelheid draag ik mijn nacht als een buidel
Close

credo

give me the head of a daft persistent into-the-ground runner
who rhymes heart with part cypress with red dead with hyacinth
scrapes his spilling confidence back together bending down

and won’t stop organising stumble tours down trodden paths
tossing banana rhymes ahead he’s imperturbable
half and off he calls them magic cobbles look

a bad joke told by a poet the way he rants and raves
leaping up sometimes for no reason snatching handfuls of air
but not always no not always and I prefer him far more

a thousand and one times more than scrimping king holland
with his battened modern voice behind his spiky table
wheelchair and handbrake no I’ll manage or damage myself

also I loathe oracles of the order of the chocolate defecationists
pouring forth their broad brown nile certain of their own infallible delusion
confection-crapping a true vatican box full of chocolate liqueurs

                                                          I believe

in velure petals the ruined carmine of the sun’s setting
the splendour-driven backward flight of the quetzal
his long emerald green tail awkwardly radiant for her

his ridiculous ostentation favouring life over death
and I believe in utter love it says what it says as if it doesn’t

compared to liberian rebels gang rape is poetry too
I am attached to froth in all vanity I bear my night like a pouch

credo

give me the head of a daft persistent into-the-ground runner
who rhymes heart with part cypress with red dead with hyacinth
scrapes his spilling confidence back together bending down

and won’t stop organising stumble tours down trodden paths
tossing banana rhymes ahead he’s imperturbable
half and off he calls them magic cobbles look

a bad joke told by a poet the way he rants and raves
leaping up sometimes for no reason snatching handfuls of air
but not always no not always and I prefer him far more

a thousand and one times more than scrimping king holland
with his battened modern voice behind his spiky table
wheelchair and handbrake no I’ll manage or damage myself

also I loathe oracles of the order of the chocolate defecationists
pouring forth their broad brown nile certain of their own infallible delusion
confection-crapping a true vatican box full of chocolate liqueurs

                                                          I believe

in velure petals the ruined carmine of the sun’s setting
the splendour-driven backward flight of the quetzal
his long emerald green tail awkwardly radiant for her

his ridiculous ostentation favouring life over death
and I believe in utter love it says what it says as if it doesn’t

compared to liberian rebels gang rape is poetry too
I am attached to froth in all vanity I bear my night like a pouch
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