Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Erik Spinoy

It was almost

It was almost
a cold case

found by anglers
half lifted half sunken
in the mudflats
along a river.

The morgue (fossilised reptile,
snow-white and smooth-scaled
of entrail) was cleaner
than a stone, washed ages
in a mountain stream

but
what I sniffed at first
pushed like a palm
against my pigeon-chest
and drove me
slowly back

until something
much stronger drew
me to that pulp
of flesh again.

Never
but in my pole-night blackest dream
did I see a more gravel-grey thing
so lukewarm and with a still more
yolklike
fluidity.

Look at it.

Look at me.

Het was bijna

Het was bijna
een koud geval

door vissers half verheven
half verzonken aangetroffen
in de slijkrand
langs een stroom.

De morgue (versteend reptiel,
sneeuwwit en glad geschubd
van ingewand) was schoner
dan een kei die eeuwen
in een bergbeek lag

maar
wat ik opsnoof dreef
een handpalm duwend
op mijn kippenborst
een halve stap terug
mij eerst

totdat mij weer
iets nog veel sterkers
naar die vleesbrij
trok meteen.

Nooit
dan in mijn poolnachtzwartste droom
zag ik een kiezelgrijzer ding zo
lauw en in nog hogere mate
dooierachtig
vloeibaar.

Zie het.

Zie mij.
Close

It was almost

It was almost
a cold case

found by anglers
half lifted half sunken
in the mudflats
along a river.

The morgue (fossilised reptile,
snow-white and smooth-scaled
of entrail) was cleaner
than a stone, washed ages
in a mountain stream

but
what I sniffed at first
pushed like a palm
against my pigeon-chest
and drove me
slowly back

until something
much stronger drew
me to that pulp
of flesh again.

Never
but in my pole-night blackest dream
did I see a more gravel-grey thing
so lukewarm and with a still more
yolklike
fluidity.

Look at it.

Look at me.

It was almost

It was almost
a cold case

found by anglers
half lifted half sunken
in the mudflats
along a river.

The morgue (fossilised reptile,
snow-white and smooth-scaled
of entrail) was cleaner
than a stone, washed ages
in a mountain stream

but
what I sniffed at first
pushed like a palm
against my pigeon-chest
and drove me
slowly back

until something
much stronger drew
me to that pulp
of flesh again.

Never
but in my pole-night blackest dream
did I see a more gravel-grey thing
so lukewarm and with a still more
yolklike
fluidity.

Look at it.

Look at me.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère