Elmar Kuiper

yn it reuzerêd gûlt in brutsen frijer.
yn 'e sweefmole gibelet in blondine.

"aksje!"

in kûgel rekket de gûlbek sabeare.
hy moat in bloedkapsule trochbite
foar it dramatyske effekt.

"aksje!"

hy lipket syn ynleine wurdsjes.
sy ferstiet him net.

it reade spul komt te bluisterich út 'e mûle.
de sêne moat noch in kear oer.
...

on the Ferris wheel a jilted lover weeps.
on the merry-go-round a blond girl giggles.

"action!"

a bullet supposedly slams into the crybaby.
he bites down on a capsule of blood
to create a dramatic effect.

"action!"

he slurs his rehearsed words.
she doesn't understand him.

the red goo oozes out of his mouth too luridly.
the scene has to be done all over again.
...

Keart it skot de man dy't falt
as kûgel yn it boarst sjit

hy himsels ferwûnet?

Of leart de kûgel ôf priis
te sjitten op in man dy't lûkt

yn it gûlende boarst omdat dea
út 'e loop libben ôfslút.

Ropt it lead moardman?

Betinkt dy kûgel fluitsjend
ûnderweis dy man
in libbene tel.
...

Does the shot stop the man who falls
when the bullet hits his chest

does it wound itself?

Or does the bullet learn not
to fire at a man who clutches

his weeping chest because death
from a barrel extinguishes life.

Does the slug cry out murderer?

Does the bullet think of the man
as it whistles through the air
for even one living second.
...

myn potlead stammet ôf fan in beam.

ik neam dyn namme, do stapst
út in skiere wrâld
en komst fleurich op my ta.

in fûgel knip ik út in boekje.
in fûgel plak ik yn in reade loft.

ik freegje dy:

wêrom sjongt in ljurk oan 'e himel
moaier
as in hûsmosk ûnder de pannen?

do seist:

"nifelje leaver wat om no't mûzels basten befolke
en gleie rûpen de tûken strippe. my kinst net reitsje
ek al sabelje tûzen beammen mei búkgryp om."

ik sjong in blierhertich ferske
slypje de snaffel oan in heldere stien.

ik neam dyn namme
dyn skerpe mûle leit it near
op dit fodsje papier.

myn potlead stammet ôf fan in sike beam.

ik slypje de punt
de punt slipet dy.
in útknipte fûgel rûkt nei plakkersguod.
in ferknipte fûgel kin net fluitsje.

bisto dy fûgel?
do bist dy fûgel.

dat antwurd tekenet my.
...

my pencil comes from a tree.

I call your name, you step
out of a gray world
and come cheerfully to me.

I cut a bird out of a book.
I paste a bird in a red sky.

I ask you:

why does a lark in the sky sing
more beautifully
than a sparrow beneath the eaves?

you say:

"better to get cracking now that measles infest the bark
and horny caterpillars strip the branches. you can't touch me
not even if a thousand trees are felled by flu."

I sing a light-hearted stanza
sharpen my beak on a sonorous stone.

I call your name
your sharp tongue curbs
this scrap of paper.

my pencil comes from a sick tree.

I sharpen the point
the point sharpens you.
a cut-out bird smells of paste.
a cut-up bird can't sing.

are you that bird?
you are that bird.

that reply sends me back to the drawing board.
...