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Two Translations

Mountain song

My wafer-thin flanks are ours. Our feet are ubiquitous, day and night we cry. We rustle pure rustle silver and sweet our weeping. That’s the trickle you hear.

Those who perish perish in us. Well-mannered we stand around them in well-cut shrubs and woods. The firebreaks derive from this or silence us open. They are silent in each individual case.
It’s quite a buzz. Those who perish in us perish infallibly.

Ask the skies, the cattle. Where we rustle, ooze, sigh, they ring. My wafer-thin flanks are ours. The firebreaks derive from this. Ask the guards, the sea.
Our feet are everywhere. Our feet are serif letters. They sing softly. Wordlessly still.

Even the unfathomable, the rock solid is ours. Born from motion we freeze. Ice cold. We stand, lie, serve our time. Lean over you, roughly survive.
There are, certainly, those who perish in us, but we are also dance floor, stirrup, there’s liveliness and lots of praying.
The tinkle is additional. Cattle, believers, things like that. We trickle.


Forest management

Armstrong, our Benjamin, closes the line. Fingerling and Birdwhistle protect Rustlelove, I cherish my crown as the highest point of the curve.

We sway shoulder to shoulder, speechlessly joining together, embracing the wind, carrying the cloud, which never looks like us. Jackdaws’ meeting punctually in the plush.

Millions of names we sprinkle between our toes, the itch in the earth’s armpit houses their whispers and we whisper along. Toe language. Breath hymn.

The curve that makes us psalm vapor circuit, woolly resilience, we peal like palms.

The saw awaits us.

Armstrong was the first to know. We called the nestlers and rollers. They came in droves, cloudlessly approaching us. Benefit free of charge. What accumulates is the curve, breathes fear, willing will.

Rearguard sent the latest news, we know him, he cannot lie. Chton confirmed it in stone and fire. Ants, she called them, ‘‘they don’t know anything’’. I said that ants know a lot. It was just a metaphor, according to Chton. Armstrong trembled.

We sway speechlessly, shoulders together, embrace the wind, carry the nests, the cloud that does not resemble us. Standing is a breeze.

The saw awaits us.

Rustlelove is doing what he has to do now. Unmistakably abele. In the hope of awakening in resurrection. The heavenly rivulet.


from: Songs from the Primeval Forest, 2020

ill. Piet Mondriaan, Bomen aan het Gein, 1907-8

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Vergeten kun je me niet
ik kan je niet beroeren wanneer ik dat wil
ik besta slechts
in herinnering

Sluit je ogen en wees eerlijk
zie je me nog?
hier ben ik zeker niet

Wend je blik ten hemel
reik me de ring die ik achterliet
je denkt aan mij
al ben ik niet langer hier

Er zijn er die bijwijlen aan mij denken
jij blijft me maar vaarwel zeggen
al weet zelfs ik niet dat ik niet meer ben

Ik bezie je met aandacht
tot ik je op een dag zal meevoeren
doe wat je kan zolang je kan

Mijn nabeeld
als jij het leven voedt
is me om het even

Ik heb er lang naar geloerd
niets aan mij gaat teloor


Maya Inoue













Maya Inoue


foto: Tetsuro Higashi


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she,straddling my lap,

              she, straddling my lap,
hinges(wherewith I tongue each eager pap)
and,reaching down,by merely fingertips
the hungry Visitor steers to love’s lips
Whom(justly as she now begins to sit,
almost by almost giving her sweet weight)
O,how those hot thighs juicily embrace!
and(instant by deep instant)as her face
watches,scarcely alive,that magic Feast
greedily disappearing least by least—
through what a dizzily palpitating host
sharp inch by inch)swoons sternly my huge Guest!
until(quite when our touching bellied dream)
unvisibly love’s furthest secrets rhyme.

e.e. cummings


(from Late Poems, in ETCETERA – The unpublished poems of EE CUMMINGS,
ed. G.J. Firmage & R.S. Kennedy, Liveright, New York London 1973-1983)


ill. Maurizio Barraco, El recuerdo

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She lead me into the deepest woods
where silence spoke in loving whisps
and showed her ample longing hips
to open places of the weirdest moods

And bade me welcome to her open space
where I was lost in dreams and tangled hair
she bit my lips & skin in sunlight fair
and all was air & gasp & utter grace

For every fear was blown away
in seconds from my trembling brow
the sky lit up in drunken sway

Ere we suspected when & how
see where love would lay
and praise the proper then & now




ill. Gustav Klimt





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The Works of Fertility


rant Anup’s children this:

To howl with you, Queen Isis,
Over the scattered limbs of wronged Osiris.

What harder fate than to be woman?
She makes and she unmakes her man.

In Jackal-land it is no secret
Who tempted red-haired, ass-eared Set
To such bloody extreme; who most
Must therefore mourn and fret
To pacify the unquiet ghost.

And when Horus your son
Avenges this divulsion
Sceptre in fist, sandals on feet,
We shall return across the sand
From loyal Jackal-land
To gorge five nights and days on ass’s meat.


~ Robert Graves ~


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The most beautiful gesture in the world


The most beautiful gesture in the world


death leers at you and apes
with harp and flesh-wound
the pink twilight of your eye

beaming your worldly smile
with your eternal sloppy joe
under which your terrific breasts
the left one pretty

than the other

death on the look-out in every smelling thicket
harpy wings snare the mermaid
bearing your fish love

jeans stripped off hastily come
i am your nymphomane diverted my
functionalist sheath

ever so proud of your death in me

sure lust for the lasso
the noose on my nut
the gob and the froth

fall for foul fuckers but you
your lovely eyes take me
ere i perish
and grief

ah my love sweet love never
left from my song
this be the day

death lurks but lingers
snaps out
at our amiss






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Gisternacht toen alles sliep


Het geheimzinnige vaartuig


Gisternacht toen alles sliep,
amper wind met afgemeten
zuchtjes door de straten liep
en mijn slaap het af liet weten,
hielp geen pil, noch wat ons diep
slapen laat: een goed geweten.


Zonder de gewenste slaap,
liep ik eindelijk naar het strand,
zag, onder een milde maan,
man en schuit op ’t warme zand,
slaperig beide, herder, schaap:
slaperig stak de schuit van land.


Wel een uur lang, leek het mij
(of een maand, een jaar, om ’t even!)
dat mijn denken ’t had begeven
’t werd een grote grijze brij,
’k werd een afgrond in gedreven,
bodemloos – toen was ’t voorbij.


Ochtend – op het diepe donker
van de afgrond, welbehoed,
lag een vaartuig. Alom klonk er:
Wat was loos? Wat zag je? Bloed? –
Het bleef stil! Wij sliepen, sliepen
allen ach zo goed, zo goed!



Friedrich Nietzsche

vert. Ard Posthuma


met dank aan Wim Noordhoek




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Viva Retorica



Viva Retorica


this is a wondrous poem fine
with no content nor heavy line

just therefore it should get an award
oh the soundtrack is so fucking smart

so present-day yet elevated
all about life and death lucidly stated

straight from the country and just so true
telling of love and the utterly wicked and woo

and in between the lines all dressed up in white
the bridesmaids the pagemen who in rhyme delight

look how in person with scorchéd breast
trips over her own rhetorical anapaest

for a final embarrassing stride
the devious devious bride


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I.M. Menno Wigman


In Conclusion


I know the melancholy of copy centres,
of hollow men with yellowed papers,
bespectacled mothers with new addresses,

the smell of letters, of old bank statements,
of income tax returns and tenancy agreements,
demeaning ink that says that we exist.

And I have seen new suburbs, fresh and dead,
where people do their best to seem like people,
the street a fair impression of a street.

Who are they copying? Who am I?
A father, mother, world, some DNA,
you stand there with that shining name of yours,

your head crammed full of cribbed and clever hopes
of peace, promotion, kids and piles of cash.
And I’m a dog that’s kennelled in its cantos

and howls for something new, something to say.
Light. Heaven. Love and death. Decay.
I know the melancholy of copy centres.

Menno Wigman, 1966–2018
translated by David Colmer

photo © ANP

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For Max Beckmann


Let’s bleed in yellow and in red
take this couch for a gentle bed
and dream of songs and sounds
whispering in your eye, that counts

For all the blood that’s been shed
over all this shivering shy sonnet
touching new and ancient wounds
and woes, that stick to all that blooms

Like sweeter singing nouns
that have been fostered, fed
on your own account, and found

Loosening your cruel corselet
and precious peering rounds
praying like an anitique amulet.


Max Beckmann, Frau mit Mandoline in Gelb und Rot, 1950

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Fabulous frowning sky

This fabulous frowning sky
peeling down her gown of milk
weeps with us for what’s forlorn

and still is visible for the ancient eye
flushed and swimming down upstream
against all odds in darker hues of blue

what the fickle fate is this swarm to us
a poem, a letter of love, a home?
all we do is sing and shedding soul

kneelin’ alone beside the fire
smell your armpits as reliable
as the swallowing hedgehog 

in the shrubs declaring the dark
as snug and better hug
than all our favourite fuck





image: Weeping Willow by Guido Utermark

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The Grammar of The Future

If density shows eyesight mirroring spongy bodies hiding in soul without no verb
one should wonder where the fingers around the vocals should leave or sieve herb

or disappear

Signing tiny whines of automatic soft design we are the melting machine gathering
in word what breath would hiss hush should bacteria tree fish tell from smothering

the varied beginning

Now no snow is hiding all burns in swim skin high towards the flame world without
end stumbling to the final whimper of an unannounced touch of brim skin and shout




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Some notes about fertility and beginnings from swerve of shore to bend of bay as reported by Π knock i eau amongst others present:



pt th gd wtht vwls
th gd wtht n sh
t strtch tslf pn

pt th gd wth n bwls
th gd wtht n cntnt
n gts t rl pn

pt th gd wtht vwls
pt ths wh cvr p th sh
thr dpndnc klld

wtht th bndnt sh



t strtd wth th fml
t ndd wth th mpty skn
crs cnsstng f n mr thn
th htd fr lttr wrd

th pthtc gd stmblng
jst clth n clthng
wtht n flsh
t mbrc wmn

t strtd wth th
t ndd wth th dng snk
hssng wth htrd
fr thy tk hs skn

th spchlss gd s mmblng
thrgh hs slnt mgphn
hs lst hs wn nd nl lv
t th wrrrs f ht

wtht th bndnt sh



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I.M. Rietje Gijsbers



:-)Y Y(-:


Man Ray – Marcel Duchamp & Bronia Perlmutter 1924




Excerpt from the accounts of Chton


Excerpt from the accounts of Chton[i]

              – for Jac Naber

…alfway totters                                   the ant rabble                                    

manner of convoy equipped quenchless […] temper

digging digging

swallowed up froze in the prime mess
which we is set off to be
            we is salt current ice pulp

                                               boil fluid

in coil shrink exploding



gay geysering tide time
spinning in the spire span
            cosmococoon? we is cosmococooncook!                                         [-clock(?)]


half sublunary we is rainbow white
monkeys whirling
                                               newborn snow


in the lightless silence time


                                   we is always ever

[…] and all is just flowing
petrifies                      encircles
to powder purple fright

our amber is billions carat
we belches from the map […] prime forest
branches waving fall down
all the woody

just keep lying there for a while

after us the ant man
after the ant man
the licking sea

[let] be licking the sea
past the escape route signposting
of dull housing ants
on our burner without personnel

                                               we stays […]
                                               we flogs […]
                                               we spits […]                                                   [fire]

here at our whimpering hearth
lava harbour till ha…




[i] [largely] illegible petrefact xyloscript


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Hapo mwanzo Mungu aliziumba mbingu na nchi.
Nayo nchi ilikuwa ukiwa, tena utupu,
na giza lilikuwa juu ya uso wa vilindi vya maji;
Roho ya Mungu ikatulia juu ya uso wa maji.
Mungu akasema, Iwe nuru; ikawa nuru.
Mungu akaiona nuru, ya kuwa ni njema;
Mungu akatenga nuru na giza.
Mungu akaiita nuru Mchana, na giza akaliita Usiku.
Ikawa jioni ikawa asubuhi, siku moja.

Mwanzo 1:1-5

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    Beau del Aire


– Con fuerza y diminuendo al niente –

So huge so heavy schwere Lasten heben
Sísifo faudrait courage such a task
Though although greater vuur I ask
Ars longa flüchtig ist das Leben

Fern from famous sepulcralia
Vers um obscuro cemitério
Mijn hartentrom funéreo
Schlägt still haar dodenaria

Menig jewel sleeps bedolven
Under darkness y papaverkolven
Far, far from pikhouweel en sonde

Manche Blume exalam vol spijt
Heur scent doux comme vergetelheid
Über the deepest afgrondwonde



Grâce à Delfim Guimarães, Therese Robinson, William Aggeler, Roy Campbell, George Dillon, Marc Tiefenthal
y last but not least de grote woordensmid Charles Baudelaire


Verschenen in Als engel, maar met roofdierogen – Je t’adore à l’égal de la voûte nocturne
Charles Baudelaire – met reflecties van hedendaagse dichters / et mises en regard de poètes contemporains
Ter gelegenheid van de 150e jaardag van het overlijden van de dichter
Uitgeverij Spleen Amsterdam 2017




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In The Year 5963

In The Year 5963


In the year 5963
the moon polishes her cheeks along the hills
and all from the generous soil arise the houses
the beasts the swimmers the children
shake the sand from their hair
and the houses the houses they grow and sleep
oversleep in the patient grass

In the year 5963
the houses regain wings
the women bear laundry again
for their men their sons on all sides
we save stamp upon stamp
for the clumsy walls
that shake loose from their
dull-&-dumb dreams

In the year 5963
the dunes brood on cattle
children hit the calm
in the fingers and fins of the
immeasurable day

In the year 5963
the birds walk on stilts
water and earth are free to go as they want
seldom now the black box is consulted
wherein your fiends so often hide
as we pass

In the year 5963
even the sun
sticks to the constitution
the digger unearths the manuscript
of all what is primitive, prehistorical and precipice
while the whale ponders on his brandnew paws

A once covered distance
will never be repeated
nor nowhere forgotten

And whatever they say and write
all over everywhere sings the sea