English translation of Els Moors’ poem ‘De witte fuckende konijnen’,
first published in the literary journal Yang (2004 nr. 4).
Translation by Willem Groenewegen, 2008, on request of the Flemish Literature Fund.
Audio and more poems by Els Moors available on Lyrikline.org
the white shagging rabbits shag
and they raise the roof shagging together
and no remote control
echo echo morning has broken!
morning has broken in this wet land
this toothpaste and chocolate spread land
this wet and worn out field
there are three camping caravans with
orange curtains a wisp of fog having appeared
of its own accord passes sideways before my eyes
–
strange things happen in this house
where the walls don’t want to be straightened out
– don’t want to be straight –
men are sleeping in the bed
usually the door swings to by itself
–
in this footlight I search for the white shagging
rabbits emptiness stands up bier
one two three march let us move
together and not needlessly crack vertebrae
lay both hands around this brain and love it
we are homewards bound
to the white shagging rabbit
–
the old white shagging rabbit never did anything else but shag
it shagged and then it shagged and then it shagged some more
exactly so – it doesn’t cast a horny glance at this black-and-white
striped summer dress – the old white shagging rabbit blindly shags
an offspring ahead
–
the stork brings the child and sings
cheerful trees spin through the grass
this new life is a shag-rabbit
it shags and shags and shags
–
the white shagging rabbit shags jump-falling
while oysters are breaking on the scarlet bed
this is where I could be sticking my tongue in
fiery water or let it slip across the full surface
of his soles and store the better feeling
a body till it fits me
–
the white shagging rabbits live
below rusty church towers close to the place
‘do not dump waste’ they are sliding in and out of
one another especially there where nobody suspects them
they enclose the soft white pelt with their paws
–
one morning when I wake up
now beside the white shagging rabbits in the grass
the extended fields are barren still – bare –
is morning through the window