THIRST FOR KNOWLEDGE Poem by Gerrit Komrij

He's beady-eyed. His jet-black cloak is heaving
Like some great bellows regularly fed.
I spurn his falls and rises. Who'd believe in
Salvation stemming from his birdlike head?

His trusting gaze impels me to submit.
Confessing to him trips right off the tongue.
‘It wasn't my dead mother,' I repeat,
‘Not wizened by the grave, not dead and gone -

The figure was intact and smooth. Commanding.
Anemones were blooming on her stave.
She was a mistress, and yet quite enchanting.
I do not know for sure what sign she gave.'