Tsead Bruinja
Tsead Bruinja Poems
sadness ripe and crumbling mirrors her
in the market salesman's trays
delicate is she who loves apples
he sees that he sees her stubbornly
...
my love nobody knows how in earlier lives
we passed each other by in the street or just missed the bus
in which one of us sat or in which you were my sister my mother
...
he galloped out of his final dream
like a rusty knight on a white-washed horse
with a rigid dick and tidings for his wife
of the joy he'd found in fantasies of her
...
he is the man who has to march
has to march and march and march
so full of desire
and hooked on women
...
each word I lay down before you
on the ground and at your feet
is a word too many
...
corrugated roofs mossy roofs with bleaching laundry sheets and wet pegs dancing in wind a human hand or head nowhere to be seen but there are stainless steel chimney-pots orange-red tiles with something black rain discarded running top to
...
night was a weapon that brought us together
growling browns buzzing whites
holy grey burning in desert looks
we grabbed for tough infected tools
...
Tsead Bruinja Biography
Tsead Bruinja (1974, Rinsumageest / The Netherlands) lives and works in Amsterdam (The Netherlands). He writes poetry, reviews of poetry and has organized several literary events such as the open-air poetry festival Dichters in de Prinsentuin (Poets in the Prince's garden). He writes in Dutch and Frisian and has published his work in a number of literary magazines. For a period of two years he was a member of the editorial board of the Frisian magazine Hjir.)
The Best Poem Of Tsead Bruinja
Buying Apples
sadness ripe and crumbling mirrors her
in the market salesman's trays
delicate is she who loves apples
he sees that he sees her stubbornly
laughing about his sweet-n-sour jokes
he'd like to draw his jack-knife now
and show her both the rough pip halves
she's doubtful for what seems a fruitless hour
in the nick of time she catches the last bus
when she goes off to the dancehall
she bears a basket laden with red cheeks
there on her sun-coloured arms
lean the childmen begging
to take waterfruit to roofhouse roof
but she goes there to dance
when she goes there
she goes there to dance
when she's there everything starts to dance
a little gospel squeal may sail across
from the south of tobacco faraway america
my lockhips want to sway
attempt her emptiness
until I am broken by dawn
and she is asleep beside me again
Translation by Willem Groenewegen
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4/28/2024 12:05:30 PM # 1.0.0.1119
