Still now allready, you might say.
surely you're running out of breath
at over seventy years of age.
should I continue to concentrate only
on the conservative poems
or should I put down a recital on the stage?
something that lingers on from oatmeal to oatmeal,
during the grip around the microphone on stage
I try to crush short intriguing poems or as prose in length.
something that must also have a permanent taste
of an endless chocolate bar and an aura that draws
the listener to you as I cut my words without trimming,
even if I let them roar loudly from a passionate crater.
will my poetic writing now stagnate in history?
it is like floating in polluted water.
I am no longer writing about the later,
am bound by my own fetters and so I linger on
as yet another crisis that wants to interfere with the passage.
yes, the wordless view is in sight.
the bilge is close by and is not moving,
that is what the 'reality' is illuminating;
I am a man of few words, nor of endless artistry
and address myself more as a bricklayer
who has to limit himself to his core in a short time.
I have sufficiently explained my limitations.
and have landed back on earth:
the scope of my work is defined
by the space available on paper.
I wonder if this is the way I still love to write,
if this is the end or a new beginning.
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Ik ben , en gebruik soms ook wel de schuilnaam Julius V.E. Dreyfsandt zu Schlamm.
