Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Meira Delmar

WATERCOLOR

It is the first hour.

From the orient
comes the sun.

The moon,
despoiled of the gold
of night,
goes down slowly towards the west
that waits for it under the line
of the horizon.

On the basso continuo
of the shore
the waves unravel,
one by one,
the music they bring
from as far
as time,
and it’s a tune, and another tune
and a thousand more tunes,
rhythmic, repeated,
spilled on the sand.

The seabirds
begin
their flights,
some swiftly, others
unhurriedly
they fall on the water, well-aimed,
they rise up, they fly away
until at last the sun´s glare
stumps them

Little by little you hear
voices, echoes, a song.

The breeze, gardener,
sprinkles orange blossoms
on the bright blue of the sea.

ACUARELA

ACUARELA

Es la hora primera.

Del oriente
llega el sol.

La luna,
despojada de los oros
de la noche,
baja lenta hacia el poniente
que la espera tras la raya
del horizonte.

Sobre el bajo continuo
de la orilla,
las olas desenvuelven,
una a una,
la música que traen
desde tan lejos
como el tiempo
y es un son, y otro son
y mil más sones,
acompasadotes, repetidos,
derramados en la arena.

Los pájaros marinos
inauguran
sus vuelos,
raudos algunos, otros
pausados,
caen al agua, certeros,
se levantan, se alejan,
los esfuma por fin
la resolana.

Poco a poco se oyen
voces, ecos, un canto.

La brisa, jardinera,
salpica de azahares
el vivo azul del mar.
Close

WATERCOLOR

It is the first hour.

From the orient
comes the sun.

The moon,
despoiled of the gold
of night,
goes down slowly towards the west
that waits for it under the line
of the horizon.

On the basso continuo
of the shore
the waves unravel,
one by one,
the music they bring
from as far
as time,
and it’s a tune, and another tune
and a thousand more tunes,
rhythmic, repeated,
spilled on the sand.

The seabirds
begin
their flights,
some swiftly, others
unhurriedly
they fall on the water, well-aimed,
they rise up, they fly away
until at last the sun´s glare
stumps them

Little by little you hear
voices, echoes, a song.

The breeze, gardener,
sprinkles orange blossoms
on the bright blue of the sea.

WATERCOLOR

It is the first hour.

From the orient
comes the sun.

The moon,
despoiled of the gold
of night,
goes down slowly towards the west
that waits for it under the line
of the horizon.

On the basso continuo
of the shore
the waves unravel,
one by one,
the music they bring
from as far
as time,
and it’s a tune, and another tune
and a thousand more tunes,
rhythmic, repeated,
spilled on the sand.

The seabirds
begin
their flights,
some swiftly, others
unhurriedly
they fall on the water, well-aimed,
they rise up, they fly away
until at last the sun´s glare
stumps them

Little by little you hear
voices, echoes, a song.

The breeze, gardener,
sprinkles orange blossoms
on the bright blue of the sea.
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