Komrij, a Dèr Mouw fan, could turn a pretty sonnet himself

the language-forger

Language’s consonants and vowels portray

The corset and the flaccid belly’s spread.

A poet’s one who’s able to display

An ease when boning them that seems inbred.

Obese or slim, his words without delay

Unite, in fluid couplets sweetly wed.

His secret’s effortlessness, not to lay

A smoke screen. He takes language off to bed.

His flask of wine is language – A to Z.

And when half-drunk – albeit just in play –

He spawns a child, an epic or quartet,

Or something in-between – a sonnet, say.

His fight with blubber, though, and whalebone stay

The reader never knows is left unsaid.