IN MEMORIAM ADRIAAN MORRIËN Comments

I was determined to say something. In poetic form, that is. You,
in your white suit, a slim cloud on earth, you
pour the word ‘tea' from a coffee pot;
mummy on your lap. It was you who bore your mother.

Sacrilegious wizard, vomiter of beauty,
in miniatures you did a dogs' dance with sheep,
not only your pen, but your sharpened phallus too was the weapon
with which you cracked walnuts and coconuts. In all your craziness

you were ‘perfectly normal'.

If you're in hell in the third row,
you're in your rightful place, next to Macbeth. No,
he's nearer the front. Continuing for long through
time was never

part of your sensitivity. What were you supposed to do in
an unambiguous, blue sky? They
play the harp there barefoot, and do not stroke
their Beautiful Daughters.

Dignified and underrated poet, I miss you, like
a kitchen in a house with no kitchen.

I visited you one evening. You forgave me, I you, all wrong. You
were almost dead already, but just jogged along.
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