Poem
Jos De Haes
DELPHI I
Navel of God’s earth. From our seatwe hear sparrow hawks descend and drink.
The sound’s like metals that clink
and melt in an azure heat.
A snake, a divine disgrace,
over flaking walls slides,
or lies, permanent, abides
where clay pots and bones leave their trace.
The camomile’s dry teats
crumble on our lip.
At last taste will slip
away from sated taste buds’ seats.
And then, your left hand in my right,
two last enrichments of matter,
we shall be food on a platter
in God’s fire-proof funnel bright.
© Translation: 2007, Paul Vincent
Delphi I
Delphi I
Navel der aarde Gods. Wij zittenen horen sperwers water drinken.
Dat is alsof metalen klinken
en smelten in een blauwe hitte.
Een slang, een goddelijke schaamte,
schuift over schilferende muren,
of ligt te blijven en te duren
bij kleibaksels en geraamten.
De droge tepels der kamille
verpulveren tussen onze lippen.
Het laatst zal ons de smaak ontglippen
uit de verzadigde papillen.
En dan, uw linker in mijn rechter,
twee laatste stofveredelingen,
zijn wij zelf eetbare dingen
in Gods vuurvaste trechter.
© 1964, The Estate of Jos De Haes
From: Gedichten
Publisher: Lannoo/Atlas, Tielt/Amsterdam
From: Gedichten
Publisher: Lannoo/Atlas, Tielt/Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Jos De Haes
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DELPHI I
Navel of God’s earth. From our seatwe hear sparrow hawks descend and drink.
The sound’s like metals that clink
and melt in an azure heat.
A snake, a divine disgrace,
over flaking walls slides,
or lies, permanent, abides
where clay pots and bones leave their trace.
The camomile’s dry teats
crumble on our lip.
At last taste will slip
away from sated taste buds’ seats.
And then, your left hand in my right,
two last enrichments of matter,
we shall be food on a platter
in God’s fire-proof funnel bright.
© 2007, Paul Vincent
From: Gedichten
From: Gedichten
DELPHI I
Navel of God’s earth. From our seatwe hear sparrow hawks descend and drink.
The sound’s like metals that clink
and melt in an azure heat.
A snake, a divine disgrace,
over flaking walls slides,
or lies, permanent, abides
where clay pots and bones leave their trace.
The camomile’s dry teats
crumble on our lip.
At last taste will slip
away from sated taste buds’ seats.
And then, your left hand in my right,
two last enrichments of matter,
we shall be food on a platter
in God’s fire-proof funnel bright.
© 2007, Paul Vincent
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