Dutch poetry calendar's poem of the day - by Gerrit Komrij

DREGS

Poets, we read them and our eyes stay dry.

Where are the times of lifeblood freely shed?

Where songs full of compassion’s heartfelt cry?

The litanies – where now? All gone. Quite dead.

Blood turned to grit and slag. Tears turned to glass.

Sorrow was pasteboard. What now sold a treat

Were grimace, shriek and brutal pain. (En masse,

Per piece, you name it). Vinegar was sweet.

The poet, nowadays, is just a freak.

He clowns around and poses in full view.

What’s left: a single-track, obsessive streak.

The wounds he licks. The music too.