I
remember as if it were only yesterday
(I
was maybe 22): I sat
brooding
over a poem, and
near the window
my
mother was peeling the potatoes
the
verse was not working: my back was
dripping
with sweat and
I thought with annoyance:
how in the name of god
can one
write
poetry in the same room
someone
is peeling potatoes ?
That
evening, when everyone was sleeping, I finished
the
verse: it was an exceptionally bad verse
and
I understood only very much later: the best
poetry
is written while peeling potatoes
Original title: 'ars poetica' -from the collection 'Is dit genoeg: een stuk of wat gedichten - honderd jaar Noord- en Zuidnederlandse poëzie (1880-1980) in dertig thema's - dl.II - samengesteld door C. Buddingh' en Eddy van Vliet - 1982 - Uitgeverij Elsevier Manteau, Amsterdam/Antwerpen
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