Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Paul Demets

BIO

The lint on my hands blossoms
like cotton. You shine silkily. The spears
that stab stars in the scorched chamber                                     
of the night are coated in a light paint.                                                
 
Skirting along the edge of the meadow,
holding my breath, I touch strangle-tare  
and the strings with your hands.
Lost milk loaf days,                                                                                      
 
the moon cycle harbouring pallid limbs                         
that light up until hogweed has us blistered      
on our knees. Cells perish where bloodlust
reigns in never-explored territory. Mist                                              
 
twists us like mustard gas. Black beckons,          
buffs the tarmac up ahead. Factories belch
smoke from their calyxes. The first coolness
irrigates the rooftops. Though bees are hard to find     
 
now, their stings blaze.

BIO

BIO

Het pluksel op mijn handen bloesemt
als katoen. Je glimt zijig. In lichte verf gezet
zijn de spiesen die sterren priemen
in de geblakerde kamer van de nacht.

Langs het weiland, de adem ingehouden, zal ik
niet met dezelfde maar jouw handen
duivelsnaaigaren en de snaren raken.
Verloren melkbroodwit,

de maancirkel. Daarin lichten
bleke leden op, tot berenklauw ons haarfijn
liggen heeft. Cellen besterven, bloeddorst
heerst hier in nooit verkend gebied. Nevel

nekt als yperiet. Zwart wijst ons de weg,
wrijft asfalt verder op. Fabrieken drijven
rook boven hun kelken uit. Eerste koelte
bevloeit de daken. Zijn bijen ver te zoeken

nu, hun angels blaken.
Close

BIO

The lint on my hands blossoms
like cotton. You shine silkily. The spears
that stab stars in the scorched chamber                                     
of the night are coated in a light paint.                                                
 
Skirting along the edge of the meadow,
holding my breath, I touch strangle-tare  
and the strings with your hands.
Lost milk loaf days,                                                                                      
 
the moon cycle harbouring pallid limbs                         
that light up until hogweed has us blistered      
on our knees. Cells perish where bloodlust
reigns in never-explored territory. Mist                                              
 
twists us like mustard gas. Black beckons,          
buffs the tarmac up ahead. Factories belch
smoke from their calyxes. The first coolness
irrigates the rooftops. Though bees are hard to find     
 
now, their stings blaze.

BIO

The lint on my hands blossoms
like cotton. You shine silkily. The spears
that stab stars in the scorched chamber                                     
of the night are coated in a light paint.                                                
 
Skirting along the edge of the meadow,
holding my breath, I touch strangle-tare  
and the strings with your hands.
Lost milk loaf days,                                                                                      
 
the moon cycle harbouring pallid limbs                         
that light up until hogweed has us blistered      
on our knees. Cells perish where bloodlust
reigns in never-explored territory. Mist                                              
 
twists us like mustard gas. Black beckons,          
buffs the tarmac up ahead. Factories belch
smoke from their calyxes. The first coolness
irrigates the rooftops. Though bees are hard to find     
 
now, their stings blaze.
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