Poem of the Day

Els Moor

op het dak van het huis met de windwijzer zet een reiger een steile vlucht af de gasten wandelen traag naar de tot aan de rand gevulde vijver dit is een middag en het regent ramen zijn deuren om doorheen te stappen een hond rent achter het kind op het gazon stemmen blijven hangen boven het gras het geluid wordt gedempt door het geluid van de snelweg de man die ongevraagd naar boven liep slaapt met het gezicht diep in de kussens op het feest is iemand onwel geworden op het feest loopt altijd iemand met een strop om de hals de vuilniszak hangt aan de klink van de deur het mes wordt in de cake gezet

on the roof of the house with the wind vane a heron takes off on a steep incline all the guests walk slowly to the pond that is filled to the brim this is an afternoon and it’s raining windows become doors to step through a dog chases after a child on the lawn voices stay behind above the grass the sound is muffled by the sound of the motorway the man who went upstairs without asking is asleep with his head deep in the pillows at the party someone is being sick at the party there’s always someone with a noose around his neck the bin liner hangs from the door handle a knife is stuck into the cake © 2006, Els Moors From: er hangt een hoge lucht boven ons Publisher: Nieuw Amsterdam, Amsterdam, 2006 ISBN: 90 468 0015 6 © Translation: 2008, Willem Groenewegen- on the roof of the house with the wind vane

And from the above poem from Amsterdam, beget this poem from me...a true story.


The Sun Parlor

In the Sun Parlor the man with the blanket wrapped around his legs isn't dead yet. His mouth is open and his breath comes in whistles and stops, a slight moaning is heard from his chest, his top teeth are missing. His cheeks are sucked in where once he was fat with drink and jolly. His arm is swollen with fluid, his hand has a bluish tint to it.

Upstairs the daughter of the man with the blanket wrapped around his legs
sips coffee from a styrofoam cup. She reaches into a box on the nightstand
and pulls out a lipstick, swirling it up and down while she cradles the
phone between shoulder and ear and talks. Every now and again a sob escapes from her throat and she catches it by putting her hand over her mouth as if she is coughing.

A few rooms over from the dying man dinner is being served. Macaroni is being spooned into bright plates and the people around the table chatter as if nothing is different or out of place.
Another daughter passes the cheese. His son spreads butter evenly and deliberately over
a slice of crusty italian bread. The sun shines brightly through the old panes of glass in the windows. People are always eating in this house.

In the room where the dying man lies, a young man sits near the body, talking
softly. He recounts the score of the recent football game, talks about the draft choices from his grandfather's favorite team, tells the man about his new girlfriend.
Quietly he wipes a tear from his face. They are streaming steadily as the man's breathing becomes more and more labored, eventually pouring like water from a drain pipe on the ledge of the big old stucco house.
This is the hardest thing he's ever had to do. Everyone cries when they enter this room.

--lisa walsh