Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Mark Boog

MORNING

The chill, called morning, lies calmly on the burnt land.
A distant, grey murmur can be heard: the calm, wide sea,
luring us listlessly, much too used to victories.

The dryness of our tongues recalls yesterday, everything
recalls yesterday, and we stand up. To run naked
through the surf perhaps? Infernal cold? Great emptiness?

When ridiculous enough we get dressed. The all too great
escapes us, we handle the salt mill to make the hard eggs
palatable. Our earholes uninhabited, fossilised.

OCHTEND

OCHTEND

De kilte, ochtend genaamd, ligt rustig op het verbrande land.
Een veraf, grijs ruisen is hoorbaar: de kalme, brede zee,
ons lusteloos lokkend, te zeer gewend aan overwinningen.

De droogte van onze tongen herinnert aan gisteren, alles
herinnert aan gisteren, en we staan op. Naakt rondrennen
door de branding misschien? Helse kou? Grootse leegte?

Wanneer voldoende belachelijk kleden we ons. Het te grote
ontschiet ons, we hanteren de zoutmolen om ons de harde
eieren te doen smaken. Onze oorschelpen onbewoond, fossiel.
Close

MORNING

The chill, called morning, lies calmly on the burnt land.
A distant, grey murmur can be heard: the calm, wide sea,
luring us listlessly, much too used to victories.

The dryness of our tongues recalls yesterday, everything
recalls yesterday, and we stand up. To run naked
through the surf perhaps? Infernal cold? Great emptiness?

When ridiculous enough we get dressed. The all too great
escapes us, we handle the salt mill to make the hard eggs
palatable. Our earholes uninhabited, fossilised.

MORNING

The chill, called morning, lies calmly on the burnt land.
A distant, grey murmur can be heard: the calm, wide sea,
luring us listlessly, much too used to victories.

The dryness of our tongues recalls yesterday, everything
recalls yesterday, and we stand up. To run naked
through the surf perhaps? Infernal cold? Great emptiness?

When ridiculous enough we get dressed. The all too great
escapes us, we handle the salt mill to make the hard eggs
palatable. Our earholes uninhabited, fossilised.
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
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