Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Hugo Claus

WEST FLANDERS

Sparse song dark thread
land like a sheet
that sinks.

Springland of hooves and milk
and children of willow.

Fever and summerland when the sun
makes its young in the corn.

Blond fencing
with the deaf-mute farmers by the dead firesides
that pray ‘May God forgive us for
what he has done to us’.

With the fishermen who burn on their boats
with the spotted animals the foaming women
that sink.

Land you break into me. My eyes are shards.
I in Ithaca with holes in my skin,
I borrow your air in my words.
Your bushes your lime trees hide in my language.

My letters are: West Flanders dune and polder.

I drown in you,
land. you become a gong in my skull and sometimes
later in the harbours
a conch: May and beetle. dim light
earth.

WEST-VLAANDEREN

WEST-VLAANDEREN

Dun lied donkere draad
land als een laken
dat zinkt.

Lenteland van hoeven en melk
en kinderen van wilgehout.

Koorts en zomerIand wanneer de zon
haar jongen in het koren maakt.

Blonde omheining
met de doofstomme boeren bij de dode haarden
die bidden ‘Dat God ons vergeve voor
wat hij ons heeft aangedaan’.

Met de vissers die op hun boten branden
met de gevlekte dieren de schuimbekkende vrouwen
die zinken.

Land, gij breekt mij aan. Mijn ogen zijn scherven.
Ik in Ithaka met gaten in mijn vel,
ik leen uw lucht in mijn woorden.
Uw struiken uw linden schuilen in mijn taal.

Mijn letters zijn: West-VIaanderen duin en polder.

Ik verdrink in u,
land. gij wordt een gong in mijn schedel en soms
later in de havend
een kinkhoorn: mei en kever. duistere lichte
aarde.
Close

WEST FLANDERS

Sparse song dark thread
land like a sheet
that sinks.

Springland of hooves and milk
and children of willow.

Fever and summerland when the sun
makes its young in the corn.

Blond fencing
with the deaf-mute farmers by the dead firesides
that pray ‘May God forgive us for
what he has done to us’.

With the fishermen who burn on their boats
with the spotted animals the foaming women
that sink.

Land you break into me. My eyes are shards.
I in Ithaca with holes in my skin,
I borrow your air in my words.
Your bushes your lime trees hide in my language.

My letters are: West Flanders dune and polder.

I drown in you,
land. you become a gong in my skull and sometimes
later in the harbours
a conch: May and beetle. dim light
earth.

WEST FLANDERS

Sparse song dark thread
land like a sheet
that sinks.

Springland of hooves and milk
and children of willow.

Fever and summerland when the sun
makes its young in the corn.

Blond fencing
with the deaf-mute farmers by the dead firesides
that pray ‘May God forgive us for
what he has done to us’.

With the fishermen who burn on their boats
with the spotted animals the foaming women
that sink.

Land you break into me. My eyes are shards.
I in Ithaca with holes in my skin,
I borrow your air in my words.
Your bushes your lime trees hide in my language.

My letters are: West Flanders dune and polder.

I drown in you,
land. you become a gong in my skull and sometimes
later in the harbours
a conch: May and beetle. dim light
earth.
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