Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Annemarie Estor

Grout

Rummaging in the glow by the viaduct,
bucked beneath descending soot,
their necks shielded against ricocheting gravel,
they stoop, composting
with their wellington boots in honey tobacco nursery beds,
solid in quilted shirts, untalkative.

Administrators grow thyme and star anise,
investors cross Cox's orange pippins with Elstars,
security guards become gladiolus growers,
fallen yuppies become bee-keepers:
throwing their ties over their shoulders
they begin furiously swaying,
behind unsightly windows,
above hay wain mass graves, by pearlight.

Here, pigeon fanciers peck kisses on lost cockbirds' mouths.

Here, the tomato puree'er is shacked up
with his temper tantrums and his sieve.

Here, mists in gardening gloves reside,
fear lurches out of the undergrowth.

Straying into the elm smoke is hazardous.
Compost heaps lethargically turn in their sleep,
farting. But she doesn't see that.

Roza grows up simple and sees this:
amidst clods of earth
nightingales beam blissfully.
Only later does she become aware
of how the purple planets seep syrup
luring mammals from their lairs.
Her from her bed.

By the entrenched leeks, a petrol lamp is burning,
censing the beanpoles.
No one wonders
who put the lamp there
and stole away for good.

Welcome to Grout, vagabond

She sees families living behind rags,
hears grannies and mothers praying over the peelings
Life is the comprehensible cacophony
amidst the crackling of radio interference
and the rattle of dilapidated washing machines

See the emaciated shade in his shroud.
Slapping at the wall with the flat of his hands,
pulling old papers from beneath market stalls.
He and his companions, they set it ablaze
and crouch by the foul fire.
Sometimes they peer suspiciously
in the direction of the wall.

Orb nestles in the landscape
like an illuminating crown
an illustrious dome,
mythical realm.

They say
that, there, the people have a sheen.
That they cull the pigeons
and keep out the wind.
That there's such a thing as a guarantee.
That, there, the eye is inspected.
That ships and garlands
glide through the atmosphere.
That nano-particles of gold
sail through bloodstreams like gondolas.


Grout

Grout

Rommelend in de gloed bij het viaduct,
voorovergebogen onder neerslaand roet,
de nekken bedekt tegen afspattende kiezels,
bukken ze zich, composterend,
met de kaplaarzen in broeibedden honingtabak,
stevig in gewatteerde hemden, zwijgzaam.

Systeembeheerders telen tijm en steranijs,
beleggers kruisen cox’s orange pippins met elstars,
bewakers worden gladiolenboeren,
gevallen yuppen worden imkers:
ze slaan de stropdas over de schouder
en beginnen verwoed te slingeren,
achter onooglijke vensters,
boven hooiwagenmassagraven, bij peertjeslicht.

Hier kussen duivenmelkers verloren doffers op de mond.

Hier hokt de tomaatpureerder
met zijn driftbuien en zijn pasfiet.

Hier huizen nevels met tuinhandschoenen aan,
komt angst uit de ondergroei gewankeld.

In de olmenrook is het gevaarlijk dwalen.
Storthopen draaien zich onverschillig ruftend
op hun andere zij. Maar dat ziet ze niet.

Roza groeit onnozel op en ziet dit:
tussen kluiten aarde
zitten nachtegalen te stralen van geluk.
Later wordt ze pas gewaar
hoe de purperen planeten stroop lekken
en daarmee zoogdieren uit hun holen lokken.
Haar, uit haar bed.

Bij de ingekuilde prei staat een petroleumlamp te branden.
Hij bewierookt bonenstaken.
Niemand vraagt zich af
wie die lamp daar heeft gezet
en voorgoed is weggeslopen.

Welkom in Grout, vagebond. 

Ze ziet gezinnen achter lappen wonen,
hoort oma’s klagen en moeders bidden boven de schillen.
Bestaan is het kabaal dat zich verstaanbaar maakt
tussen gestoorde radiozenders
en het ratelen van aftandse wasmachines.

Kijk, de magere schim in zijn kleed.
Hij klopt met vlakke handen op de muur,
sleept oud papier onder kramen vandaan.
Zijn kornuiten en hij, ze steken het aan
en hurken bij het vuile vuur.
Soms turen ze wantrouwig
in de richting van de muur.

Orb ligt in het landschap
als een lichtende kroon,
een roemrijke koepel,
mythisch rijk.

Men zegt
dat de mensen er glanzen.
Dat de duiven er worden geruimd
en de wind er wordt geweerd.
Dat er garanties bestaan.
Dat het oog er wordt gecontroleerd.
Dat vaartuigen er guirlandes trekken
door de atmosfeer.
Dat nanodeeltjes goud
er als gondels door bloedbanen varen.
Close

Grout

Rummaging in the glow by the viaduct,
bucked beneath descending soot,
their necks shielded against ricocheting gravel,
they stoop, composting
with their wellington boots in honey tobacco nursery beds,
solid in quilted shirts, untalkative.

Administrators grow thyme and star anise,
investors cross Cox's orange pippins with Elstars,
security guards become gladiolus growers,
fallen yuppies become bee-keepers:
throwing their ties over their shoulders
they begin furiously swaying,
behind unsightly windows,
above hay wain mass graves, by pearlight.

Here, pigeon fanciers peck kisses on lost cockbirds' mouths.

Here, the tomato puree'er is shacked up
with his temper tantrums and his sieve.

Here, mists in gardening gloves reside,
fear lurches out of the undergrowth.

Straying into the elm smoke is hazardous.
Compost heaps lethargically turn in their sleep,
farting. But she doesn't see that.

Roza grows up simple and sees this:
amidst clods of earth
nightingales beam blissfully.
Only later does she become aware
of how the purple planets seep syrup
luring mammals from their lairs.
Her from her bed.

By the entrenched leeks, a petrol lamp is burning,
censing the beanpoles.
No one wonders
who put the lamp there
and stole away for good.

Welcome to Grout, vagabond

She sees families living behind rags,
hears grannies and mothers praying over the peelings
Life is the comprehensible cacophony
amidst the crackling of radio interference
and the rattle of dilapidated washing machines

See the emaciated shade in his shroud.
Slapping at the wall with the flat of his hands,
pulling old papers from beneath market stalls.
He and his companions, they set it ablaze
and crouch by the foul fire.
Sometimes they peer suspiciously
in the direction of the wall.

Orb nestles in the landscape
like an illuminating crown
an illustrious dome,
mythical realm.

They say
that, there, the people have a sheen.
That they cull the pigeons
and keep out the wind.
That there's such a thing as a guarantee.
That, there, the eye is inspected.
That ships and garlands
glide through the atmosphere.
That nano-particles of gold
sail through bloodstreams like gondolas.


Grout

Rummaging in the glow by the viaduct,
bucked beneath descending soot,
their necks shielded against ricocheting gravel,
they stoop, composting
with their wellington boots in honey tobacco nursery beds,
solid in quilted shirts, untalkative.

Administrators grow thyme and star anise,
investors cross Cox's orange pippins with Elstars,
security guards become gladiolus growers,
fallen yuppies become bee-keepers:
throwing their ties over their shoulders
they begin furiously swaying,
behind unsightly windows,
above hay wain mass graves, by pearlight.

Here, pigeon fanciers peck kisses on lost cockbirds' mouths.

Here, the tomato puree'er is shacked up
with his temper tantrums and his sieve.

Here, mists in gardening gloves reside,
fear lurches out of the undergrowth.

Straying into the elm smoke is hazardous.
Compost heaps lethargically turn in their sleep,
farting. But she doesn't see that.

Roza grows up simple and sees this:
amidst clods of earth
nightingales beam blissfully.
Only later does she become aware
of how the purple planets seep syrup
luring mammals from their lairs.
Her from her bed.

By the entrenched leeks, a petrol lamp is burning,
censing the beanpoles.
No one wonders
who put the lamp there
and stole away for good.

Welcome to Grout, vagabond

She sees families living behind rags,
hears grannies and mothers praying over the peelings
Life is the comprehensible cacophony
amidst the crackling of radio interference
and the rattle of dilapidated washing machines

See the emaciated shade in his shroud.
Slapping at the wall with the flat of his hands,
pulling old papers from beneath market stalls.
He and his companions, they set it ablaze
and crouch by the foul fire.
Sometimes they peer suspiciously
in the direction of the wall.

Orb nestles in the landscape
like an illuminating crown
an illustrious dome,
mythical realm.

They say
that, there, the people have a sheen.
That they cull the pigeons
and keep out the wind.
That there's such a thing as a guarantee.
That, there, the eye is inspected.
That ships and garlands
glide through the atmosphere.
That nano-particles of gold
sail through bloodstreams like gondolas.


Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
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