Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Paul van Ostaijen

YOUNG LANDSCAPE

So the two stand almost motionless in the meadow
the girl who hangs straight down on a rope from heaven
puts her long hand on the long straight line of the goat
that bears the earth on its tiny feet inversely
Against her white-and-black checked smock
the girl — in the whimsy of
my solitude I call het Ursula —
holds a poppy high

There are no words as graceful
as the rings in the zebu horns
as tanned by time as a zebu hide -—
shock inside of you their value bare
Such words I'd like to garner to a sheaf
for the girl with the goat

Across the edges of my hands
my hands
feel for my hands
incessantly

Jong Landschap

Jong Landschap

Zo staan beiden bijna roerloos in de weide
het meisje dat loodrecht aan een touw des hemels hangt
legt hare lange hand op de lange rechte lijn der geit
die aan haar dunne poten de aarde averechts draagt
Tegen haar wit en zwart geruite schort
houdt het meisje dat ik Ursula noem
— in \'t spelevaren met mijn eenzaamheid —
een klaproos hoog

Er zijn geen woorden die zo sierlik zijn
als ringen in zeboehorens
en tijdgetaand zoals een zeboehuid —
hun waarde bloot naar binnen schokken
Zulke woorden las ik gaarne tot een garve
voor het meisje met de geit

Over de randen van mijn handen
tasten mijn handen
naar mijn andere handen
onophoudelik
Close

YOUNG LANDSCAPE

So the two stand almost motionless in the meadow
the girl who hangs straight down on a rope from heaven
puts her long hand on the long straight line of the goat
that bears the earth on its tiny feet inversely
Against her white-and-black checked smock
the girl — in the whimsy of
my solitude I call het Ursula —
holds a poppy high

There are no words as graceful
as the rings in the zebu horns
as tanned by time as a zebu hide -—
shock inside of you their value bare
Such words I'd like to garner to a sheaf
for the girl with the goat

Across the edges of my hands
my hands
feel for my hands
incessantly

YOUNG LANDSCAPE

So the two stand almost motionless in the meadow
the girl who hangs straight down on a rope from heaven
puts her long hand on the long straight line of the goat
that bears the earth on its tiny feet inversely
Against her white-and-black checked smock
the girl — in the whimsy of
my solitude I call het Ursula —
holds a poppy high

There are no words as graceful
as the rings in the zebu horns
as tanned by time as a zebu hide -—
shock inside of you their value bare
Such words I'd like to garner to a sheaf
for the girl with the goat

Across the edges of my hands
my hands
feel for my hands
incessantly
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère