Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jacob Groot

FLIRT

At 10 o’clock I reported to the gates
of the promised land. At 12 o’clock the light
went out. At 3 o’clock the execution took
place. Then the message was sent that I
had found asylum
&
out of nothingness I descended into
the lap called Holland
telling me I am a hound
but glorious
&
I sucked myself tightly to her motor that ran
me through her field, more clocklessly than the space
that drove me round, extending from the hand,
neither empty, nor full, nor immense, hers
nor mine, neither more limited to one than

the other, rather more indescribable than she was
irreplaceably described by whichever sign, here and there
along the road, in her sun full of dust, on her horizon
that, a meat knife, cut through her corn until

(1) her grains fermented in her wounds,
(2) her scabs flowered,
(3) her farmer fertilized me,
(4) her plant picked me,
(5) her fruit pulled me,
(6) her air conned me
but
(7) her junk was left to me

FLIRT

FLIRT

Om 10 uur meldde ik me bij de poort
van het beloofde land. Om 12 uur doofde
het licht. Om 3 uur greep de terechtstelling
plaats. Daarna werd de boodschap verzonden
dat ik asiel vond
&
vanuit het niets daalde ik neer in
de schoot die Holland heet
en me vertelt, ik ben een hondekont
maar heerlijk
&
ik zoog me vast aan haar motor die me bewoog
door haar wei, kloklozer dan de ruimte
die me rondreed, van de wijzer
uit niet ledig, niet vol, niet onmetelijk, de hare
noch de mijne, niet beperkter tot deze dan

gene, wel onbeschrijfelijker dan ze was door om het even
welk teken onvervangbaar beschreven, her en der
langs haar weg, in haar zon vol stof, op haar kim
die, een vleesmes, sneed door haar koren tot

(1) haar korrels broeiden in haar wonden,
(2) haar roven bloeiden,
(3) haar boer me bemestte,
(4) haar plant me plukte,
(5) haar vrucht me afrukte,
(6) haar lucht me fleste
maar
(7) haar shit me restte
Close

FLIRT

At 10 o’clock I reported to the gates
of the promised land. At 12 o’clock the light
went out. At 3 o’clock the execution took
place. Then the message was sent that I
had found asylum
&
out of nothingness I descended into
the lap called Holland
telling me I am a hound
but glorious
&
I sucked myself tightly to her motor that ran
me through her field, more clocklessly than the space
that drove me round, extending from the hand,
neither empty, nor full, nor immense, hers
nor mine, neither more limited to one than

the other, rather more indescribable than she was
irreplaceably described by whichever sign, here and there
along the road, in her sun full of dust, on her horizon
that, a meat knife, cut through her corn until

(1) her grains fermented in her wounds,
(2) her scabs flowered,
(3) her farmer fertilized me,
(4) her plant picked me,
(5) her fruit pulled me,
(6) her air conned me
but
(7) her junk was left to me

FLIRT

At 10 o’clock I reported to the gates
of the promised land. At 12 o’clock the light
went out. At 3 o’clock the execution took
place. Then the message was sent that I
had found asylum
&
out of nothingness I descended into
the lap called Holland
telling me I am a hound
but glorious
&
I sucked myself tightly to her motor that ran
me through her field, more clocklessly than the space
that drove me round, extending from the hand,
neither empty, nor full, nor immense, hers
nor mine, neither more limited to one than

the other, rather more indescribable than she was
irreplaceably described by whichever sign, here and there
along the road, in her sun full of dust, on her horizon
that, a meat knife, cut through her corn until

(1) her grains fermented in her wounds,
(2) her scabs flowered,
(3) her farmer fertilized me,
(4) her plant picked me,
(5) her fruit pulled me,
(6) her air conned me
but
(7) her junk was left to me
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère