wachtruimte

kijk hoe smal behuisd we zijn
te klein om gisteren
te kunnen meten

zie ons enkel staande blijven
tegen niets meer weten in

vanavond
zullen we in het lage licht
de moeite laten varen

louter nog maar luisteren
naar het kruien van ijs
in de kamer

 

levenslang

ik tastte
naar mijn vroegste thuis
trof een vloer vol negatieven

en jouw vleugels
aan de wand
te drogen

nu vrees ik het toerental
van de schrammen
die zich voegen

ik pel je hartslag van de muren
bedek je ogen met een kleed
ik wit je stem

terwijl ik weet
dat dit huis ons altijd
zal onthouden

 

fade-out

(Voor Arthur Jaspers)

aan de schemerende gracht
hapert een man
gewikkeld in vroeger

en niemand streelt hem door zijn haren

hij wiegt zijn verliezende lijf
op de maat van passanten breekt
de laatste dagen van dit zo besloten feest
waarop iedereen te vroeg ging slapen

en sinds de kruisen
binnenstromen verkruimelt hij
de laatste bomen

barst nooit meer
in bloemen uit

 

Forgetfulness

Julian Grey maakte deze bijzondere animatie op het gedicht ‘Forgetfulness’ van Billy Collins.

Forgetfulness

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Billy Collins

The man with the beautiful eyes

Een korte film van Jonathan Hodgson naar Charles Bukowski’s gedicht ‘The man with the beautiful eyes’.

The Man With The Beautiful Eyes

When we were kids
there was a strange house
all the shades were
always
drawn
and we never heard voices
in there
and the yard was full of
bamboo
and we liked to play in
the bamboo
pretend we were
Tarzan
(although there was no
Jane)
and there was a
fish pond
a large one
full of the
fattest goldfish
you ever saw
and they were
tame.
They came to the
surface of the water
and took pieces of
bread
from our hands.

Our parents had
told us:
” never go near that
house”
so, of course,
we went.

We wondered if anybody
lived there.
Weeks went by and we
never saw
anybody.

Then one day
we heard
a voice
from the house
” YOU GOD DAMNED
WHORE!”

It was a man’s
voice.
Then the screen
door
of the house was
flung open
and the man
walked out.

He was holding a
fifth of whiskey
in his right
hand.
He was about
30.
He had a cigar
in his
mouth,
needed a
shave.
His hair was
wild and
uncombed
and he was
barefoot.
In undershirt
and pants
but his eyes
were
bright
they BLAZED
with brightness
and he said,
“hey, little
gentleman,
having a good
time, I
hope?”

Then he gave a
little laugh
and walked
back into the
house.

We left,
went back to my
parents’ yard
and thought
about it.

Our parents,
we decided
had wanted us
to stay away
from there
because they
never wanted us
to see a man
like
that,
a strong natural
man
with
beautiful
eyes.

Our parents
were ashamed
that they were
not
like that
man,
thats why they
wanted us to stay
away.

But
we went back
to that house
and the bamboo
and the tame
goldfish.
We went back
many times
for many
weeks
but we never
saw
or heard
the man
again.

The shades were
down
as always
and it was
quiet.

Then one day
as we came back from
school
we saw the
house.

It had burned
down,
there was nothing
left,
just a smoldering
twisted black
foundation
and we went to
the fish pond
and there was
no water
in it
and the fat
orange goldfish
were dead
there,
drying out.

We went back to
my parents’ yard
and talked about
it
and decided that
our parents had
burned their
house down,
had killed
them
had killed the
goldfish
because it was
all too
beautiful,
even the bamboo
forest had
burned.

They had been
afraid of
the man with the
beautiful
eyes.

And
we were afraid
then
that
all throughout our lives
things like that
would happen,
that nobody
wanted
anybody
to be
strong and
beautiful
like that,
that
others would never
allow it,
and that
many people
would have to
die.

Charles Bukowski

Just as, after a point, Job cried out

Het post-apocalyptische gedicht ‘Just as, after a point, Job cried out’ van K.A. Hays werd door Emma Burghardt voorzien van een prachtige animatie.

JUST AS, AFTER A POINT, JOB CRIED OUT

The soil froze, cursing the weather. It turned a stoic face
to winter’s switchblade and brass knuckles

so that when the warm rain came, the soil said, Go on,
there’s no room for you now. Let the backyards

pool up, and the river pitch to the bridges, dragging
the bridges down. Now the billboards will become great

silent rafts so anyone can climb on them and look out,
saying, I would have done the same.

When the water covered the tree trunks and crept up,
the ground shrugged. See, it said. Now,

weather, do you understand? Soon,
there will be no resting place.

K.A. Hays

Render, Render

Het gedicht ‘Render, Render’ van Thomas Lux werd door Jeff Saunders in een korte film gevat.

RENDER, RENDER

Boil it down: feet, skin, gristle,
bones, vertebrae, heart muscle, boil
it down, skim, and boil
again, dreams, history, add them and boil
again, boil and skim
in closed cauldrons, boil your horse, his hooves,
the runned-over dog you loved, the girl
by the pencil sharpener
who looked at you, looked away,
boil that for hours, render it
down, take more from the top as more settles to the bottom,
the heavier, the denser, throw in ache
and sperm, and a bead
of sweat that slid from your armpit to your waist
as you sat stiff-backed before a test, turn up
the fire, boil and skim, boil
some more, add a fever
and the virus that blinded an eye, now’s the time
to add guilt and fear, throw
logs on the fire, coal, gasoline, throw
two goldfish in the pot (their swim bladders
used for “clearing”), boil and boil, render
it down and distill,
concentrate
that for which there is no
other use at all
, boil it down, down,
then stir it with rosewater, that
which is now one dense, fatty, scented red essence
which you smear on your lips
and go forth
to plant as many kisses upon the world
as the world can bear!

Thomas Lux

Bluebird

Monika Umba maakte een animatie gebaseerd op Charles Bukowski’s gedicht ‘Bluebird’. Gelezen door Dean Stanton.

Bluebird

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

Charles Bukowski

Old Astronauts

Een animatie van Emma Burghardt, gebaseerd op Tim Nolans gedicht ‘Old Astronauts’.

Old Astronauts

When they get together now—
they nod to one another—
don’t talk about the pitch-
black of airless space—
don’t want to remember
the dust of the Moon
in the treads of their boots—
They fall in bathrooms—
just like everyone else—
but from a greater height—
and before their heads
hit the tiled floor—
they float for awhile—
weightless—seeming to dance
at the end of a cord—
One of them found
Noah’s Ark—or is just
about to—mostly—they
remain dead silent—
Whatever they saw and felt—
lost for generations—it’s that
they were led to believe
they really could escape—
the pull—of the molten core—

Tim Nolan