Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Benno Barnard

Adultery

When I tell her my lies,
her carnivorous mouth
gobbles my words like flies
in the air between us –

I am afraid of the thrust
of her sword, the tension
in her bow, the giant atavism
of the sacrificed breast in that angry head.

I love her
the way she doesn’t believe me.

I love her finger
pushing again and again
into her ring;
an eight-letter word swings
round and round
the edge of her scrabble playing mind:
she just can’t place it.

Her fingertip tickles
the underbelly of my imagination,
and she can’t face it.

I asked Plath whether,
in bed, with Ted,
she worshipped the owl or the totem pole.
“With whom?” she said.
She brayed like a man in a nightclub.

A golden boy helps.
A golden boy doesn’t help.

A Nazi big shot bangs away in the poetry of love.

Overspel

Overspel

Wanneer ik tegen haar lieg,
hapt haar vleesetende mond
ieder woord als een vlieg
uit de lucht tussen ons –

ik ben bang voor het brons
van haar zwaard, de spanning
in haar boog, het grote atavisme
van de geofferde borst in dat woedende hoofd.

Ik hou van haar
zoals ze me niet gelooft.

Ik hou van haar vinger
die telkens weer binnendringt
in haar ring;
een nomen van acht letters zingt
in haar scrabbelende hersens
rond en rond:
het weigert zich neer te leggen.

Haar vingertop kietelt
het weke deel van mijn verbeelding,
wou ik zeggen.

Ik vroeg aan Plath
of ze in bed, in Ted
de uil dan wel de totempaal aanbad.
Ze vroeg in wie.
Ze hinnikte als een man in een nachtclub.

Een gouden kind helpt.
Een gouden kind helpt niet.

Er neukt een hoge nazi in de liefdespoëzie.
Close

Adultery

When I tell her my lies,
her carnivorous mouth
gobbles my words like flies
in the air between us –

I am afraid of the thrust
of her sword, the tension
in her bow, the giant atavism
of the sacrificed breast in that angry head.

I love her
the way she doesn’t believe me.

I love her finger
pushing again and again
into her ring;
an eight-letter word swings
round and round
the edge of her scrabble playing mind:
she just can’t place it.

Her fingertip tickles
the underbelly of my imagination,
and she can’t face it.

I asked Plath whether,
in bed, with Ted,
she worshipped the owl or the totem pole.
“With whom?” she said.
She brayed like a man in a nightclub.

A golden boy helps.
A golden boy doesn’t help.

A Nazi big shot bangs away in the poetry of love.

Adultery

When I tell her my lies,
her carnivorous mouth
gobbles my words like flies
in the air between us –

I am afraid of the thrust
of her sword, the tension
in her bow, the giant atavism
of the sacrificed breast in that angry head.

I love her
the way she doesn’t believe me.

I love her finger
pushing again and again
into her ring;
an eight-letter word swings
round and round
the edge of her scrabble playing mind:
she just can’t place it.

Her fingertip tickles
the underbelly of my imagination,
and she can’t face it.

I asked Plath whether,
in bed, with Ted,
she worshipped the owl or the totem pole.
“With whom?” she said.
She brayed like a man in a nightclub.

A golden boy helps.
A golden boy doesn’t help.

A Nazi big shot bangs away in the poetry of love.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
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