Poem By Roland Jooris

For J.H.
There is no place
for the restless. Art
will not come home again,
its hiding-place knows no time

For every ambush
a hop, step and a jump, a
hazardous stint in the daring

How many notes lose
their footing, what turmoil
soughs on: we caress shrill

A rip has gouged out
beauty in canvas, in the street
a can of coke kicked
into a sculpture lies muted,
Nothing asks for a plinth

We croon dissonances
in the trees now it is getting
late and on the evening lake
the madness of the moon
once again is mirrored
in us

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Other poems of JOORIS


Mist. Say
nothing now.
Much is withheld.
Little is much.

In memoriam André du Bouchet

The sheet of paper
the plane from its
window, the sky chalks white,


is becoming that
gets stuck in the
rough, cracked


Can one draw a scratch of thought into the shaft
of a line that after long perusal suddenly head-on
finds its own depth?


What resides
intact in him
is no purity


a village is a circle
drawn by hand
around a church;