Poem By Roland Jooris

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

a dove is a very
simple line void of air
on a rooftop;

a spring season leaves wet
stains on the paper
of the sky;

and look, now this is true
reality: I shall presently
let it rain
on my poem
so that it runs
into a watercolor
of sodden
illegible words.

Translated by Peter Nijmeijer

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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