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PAINTINGS BY EMMY VERSCHOOR

VOOR EMMY

Voor Emmy

Zijn het pluimen of bladeren
die ontsnappen uit je binnenste hartkamer
of is het de gloed van de kleur van kloppend bloed
hunkerend naar de stilte van rimpelloos
Water?

Als haar handen vloeibaar worden
krijgt de piano vleugels op het doek
Een boom verbijt haar vergezicht
In de diepte luisteren wortels verrukt
naar de zachte braille van haar bestaan
Tuinen hangen van de wolken
omlaag, omhoog groeien vreemde bloemen
uit een ingebeelde notenbalk.

Guido Vermeulen
14 november 2011


Muziek bij de video: Claude Debussy

maandag 31 maart 2014

Sligo Blues

SLIGO BLUES POEM by Guido Vermeulen, March 2014


This is the cave where Yeats slept
explained the Sligo guide to us.

Did he sleep in a cage?
someone from the tour group asked.

Maybe his house was one,
you decide that after our visit.

I smiled about the misunderstanding,
even small communication is difficult,
poems however are personal and universal
enigmas at the same time.

What are you thinking about?
The young son of the guide could read my old face.

What your father meant was that Yeats
slept and dreamed in these caves,
in the beauty of these mountains, in the green valleys,
in the nearby clouds, so near they touch our heads,
in the golden sunlight and the silvery moon one,
in the hearts of the people who have the privilege of living here,
in the soul of every one who reads him or has read him.

You really must love Mister Yeats?
Love dies naturally, I replied.
But the dreams of the dead are made of
spoken, written and abandoned poems.

Abandoned?
Mallarmé said that poets do not finish poems,
they only abandom them.
I add to that: it is a bit like the dead, they only abandon life.

Mister Yeats did that too, that’s why we are here today.


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._B._Yeats


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