Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Marc Kregting

In his hair mist droops, healer’s-fatigued

In his hair mist droops, healer’s-fatigued.
Quicksilver mollifies treetops; he combs
shadows lightly. The palings round his collar
fumble handkerchiefs. Father provincial,
a professional, collects lost spectacles.
Raised a lamb from the stump. Fever is
more than ripe. Located the halfway house
in his plaster-wound, throws a witty glance.
Behind his eye a satyr lush with folios.
He fingerdrums at beck and call. Sweetmeats
in golden bowls. Then weighs up his pupil,
turns and takes fright. Sutures a riddle.
Incense trails from the side aisle. Dark around
the temples. A toneless dissonant hums
about knowledge. Something is announced.
On his horn sight muddles towards concern
and a narrowness he considers substantial.

Op zijn haar nevel die afhangt, helersmoe.

Op zijn haar nevel die afhangt, helersmoe.
Kwikzilver vermurwt boomtoppen; hij kamt
schaduw licht. De omheining rond zijn kraag
duimelt zakdoekpapier. Pater provinciaal,
beroeps is hij, verzamelt verloren brillen.
Van de stronk een lam getild. Koorts meer
is dan rijp. Lokaliseert hij in zijn wond
de pleisterplaats, richt een spitsvondige
blik. Achter zijn oog een bemoste sater met
folianten. Hij pinkelt wat, ter wille. Zoet
in gouden schalen. Dan acht hij zijn pupil,
keert en schrikt. Hecht zich een raadsel.
Wierook sliert uit de zijbeuk. Donker aan
zijn slapen. Een klankloze dissonant zoemt
om het weten. Wordt er iets aangekondigd.
Op zijn hoorn moddert zicht tot betrokken
en een engte die hij als wezenlijk benoemt.
Close

In his hair mist droops, healer’s-fatigued

In his hair mist droops, healer’s-fatigued.
Quicksilver mollifies treetops; he combs
shadows lightly. The palings round his collar
fumble handkerchiefs. Father provincial,
a professional, collects lost spectacles.
Raised a lamb from the stump. Fever is
more than ripe. Located the halfway house
in his plaster-wound, throws a witty glance.
Behind his eye a satyr lush with folios.
He fingerdrums at beck and call. Sweetmeats
in golden bowls. Then weighs up his pupil,
turns and takes fright. Sutures a riddle.
Incense trails from the side aisle. Dark around
the temples. A toneless dissonant hums
about knowledge. Something is announced.
On his horn sight muddles towards concern
and a narrowness he considers substantial.

In his hair mist droops, healer’s-fatigued

In his hair mist droops, healer’s-fatigued.
Quicksilver mollifies treetops; he combs
shadows lightly. The palings round his collar
fumble handkerchiefs. Father provincial,
a professional, collects lost spectacles.
Raised a lamb from the stump. Fever is
more than ripe. Located the halfway house
in his plaster-wound, throws a witty glance.
Behind his eye a satyr lush with folios.
He fingerdrums at beck and call. Sweetmeats
in golden bowls. Then weighs up his pupil,
turns and takes fright. Sutures a riddle.
Incense trails from the side aisle. Dark around
the temples. A toneless dissonant hums
about knowledge. Something is announced.
On his horn sight muddles towards concern
and a narrowness he considers substantial.
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