Geranium
From the badly-sitting
school bench in a smell of dust
old wood and piss, underneath high windows
in blistered frame, the red
of the geranium.
My grandmother slaving away above
a tub in the garden and beside
the neat tile path in a row, in the red
of which my grandpa spoke at
meetings: geraniums.
At home we had one
that never wanted to flower because
everyone put their fags out
in the pot. O lord, the sadness
of its hairy-green, bony
stem!
Geranium, splendid flower
that's not beautiful, wine
from the grocer, chicken
among the birds, jewel
of all that is cheap and nasty.
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Hans Vlek [1947] |
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