Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Anneke Brassinga

DEBRIS

Asteroid wind? Invariably mumbled with final
words as the first – microbic coagulation?
In curdling sludge admiring itself
among still inarticulate stars. Poetry such stuff?

Cast-iron antiqued colander, on board
woebegone small radishes, waiting in vain for
their pa. Or loftier dreams: flayer-toothed jaws
whose breath is all too rank for fire not

to spurt out. Flit-spray, yes! that’s what poetry is
carrying on inside wardrobes under lock – bugger
off man, had you but stayed a moth-eaten atom . . .
The close-fitting, cut-in-one meaning worn out

by lightweight crease-linen Sunday-bakers,
being seers of all and more, on own word of
honour. Does poetry keep itself cometically high like
a goose above Ooy? The spark lights up come-down

darknesses, black mendicant nuns piss there
on grey rocks forever floating through the universe
cramful of exalted thoughts on the frailest wee
blossoms. Earth meanwhile lies toiling and

moiling at its test paper while a fat failure
rises to the zenith every day, panting
heavily; our blessèd mummy who purl and plain
knits away at the woolly coms of time.

PUIN

PUIN

Asteroïdenwind? Met steevast laatste woorden
gemompeld als eerste – microbeklontering?
In schiftende smurrie zichzelf bewonderende
tussen nog onbespraakte sterren. Poëzie zoiets?

Gietijzeren geantiquiseerd vergiet, aan boord
verdrietige radijsjes, ze wachten vergeefs op
hun pa. Of grootser dromen: blekkend kakement
wiens adem al te ranzig is dan dat er niet de

fik uit slaat. Flitspuit, ja! is de dichtkunst
huishoudend binnen klederkasten achter slot –
mens ga weg, was mottig atoom toch gebleven . . .
De nauwsluitende, aangeknipte portee afgetrapt

door lichtgewicht kreuklinnen zondagsbakkers,
ziener zijnd van van alles en meer, naar eigen
erewoord. Houdt zich poëzie kometisch hoog als
gans boven Ooy? De vonk verlicht aan lager wal

geraakte duisternissen, zwarte bedelnonnen pissen
er op grauwe, ’t al doorzwevende gesteenten
mudvol verheven gedachten aan de meest broze
bloemekens. Aarde intussen ligt te zweten en

te zwoegen op haar proefwerk terwijl een dikke
onvoldoende elke dag ten zenit rijst, zwaar
hijgend; ons lieve moeke die rechts averechts
aan het wollen broekje van de tijden breit.
Close

DEBRIS

Asteroid wind? Invariably mumbled with final
words as the first – microbic coagulation?
In curdling sludge admiring itself
among still inarticulate stars. Poetry such stuff?

Cast-iron antiqued colander, on board
woebegone small radishes, waiting in vain for
their pa. Or loftier dreams: flayer-toothed jaws
whose breath is all too rank for fire not

to spurt out. Flit-spray, yes! that’s what poetry is
carrying on inside wardrobes under lock – bugger
off man, had you but stayed a moth-eaten atom . . .
The close-fitting, cut-in-one meaning worn out

by lightweight crease-linen Sunday-bakers,
being seers of all and more, on own word of
honour. Does poetry keep itself cometically high like
a goose above Ooy? The spark lights up come-down

darknesses, black mendicant nuns piss there
on grey rocks forever floating through the universe
cramful of exalted thoughts on the frailest wee
blossoms. Earth meanwhile lies toiling and

moiling at its test paper while a fat failure
rises to the zenith every day, panting
heavily; our blessèd mummy who purl and plain
knits away at the woolly coms of time.

DEBRIS

Asteroid wind? Invariably mumbled with final
words as the first – microbic coagulation?
In curdling sludge admiring itself
among still inarticulate stars. Poetry such stuff?

Cast-iron antiqued colander, on board
woebegone small radishes, waiting in vain for
their pa. Or loftier dreams: flayer-toothed jaws
whose breath is all too rank for fire not

to spurt out. Flit-spray, yes! that’s what poetry is
carrying on inside wardrobes under lock – bugger
off man, had you but stayed a moth-eaten atom . . .
The close-fitting, cut-in-one meaning worn out

by lightweight crease-linen Sunday-bakers,
being seers of all and more, on own word of
honour. Does poetry keep itself cometically high like
a goose above Ooy? The spark lights up come-down

darknesses, black mendicant nuns piss there
on grey rocks forever floating through the universe
cramful of exalted thoughts on the frailest wee
blossoms. Earth meanwhile lies toiling and

moiling at its test paper while a fat failure
rises to the zenith every day, panting
heavily; our blessèd mummy who purl and plain
knits away at the woolly coms of time.
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