Frans Budé: 'The Sifting of the Light'

Frans Budé

The sifting of the light

Poems on a work by Fons Lemmens

1

The ever-continuous line, without

intertwining aware of its infinity. 

No hustling, only the acceptance of time,

reflecting among all the heavenly bodies.

A line that raises itself and bends, descends then

is present ever again before and behind

the mists of the smothering light. And then once more

reaches the sky and is reflected back to where we are.

2

In an abandoned outdoor pool small red flags

unitedly moving to the rhythm of the summer breeze.

A while later shadows lengthen, stretching out comfortably

and uninhibitedly. Imperturbable the endlessly

turning wheel of time. Not one single time a contrary

creaking. And us? We are contemporaries together,

abandon ourselves, promise ourselves a new day,

pay attention to every tick of the clock, or pretend to.

3

Surfaces in their geometry breathe inaudibly –

they radiate. Their strength unceasingly changes

our thinking, moves inquisitively inwards,

stretches out like a taut surface of water. It comes

and disappears, becomes present without moving.

Nothing changes and yet it does. That is what there is,

what there is not, and gradually acquires meaning:

like breathing unexpectedly mists a window pane.

4

How skilfully you bent the steel into tight lines,

gave the words of the poet a warm spot

–      In a spectrum of diversity / time runs together –

and the surrounding park watches appeasingly too.

It’s said: At night the sculpture gets up

and only returns at break of dawn. In the refined

morning light the work contentedly takes its place

once more, prouder than ever on the rim of the day.

5

So deliberately you sift the light, allow it to

descend in batches along a vertical path. You look

up, down, grant it access to your work.

In spheres of unprecedented brilliance you lead it

to the very spot where it does not fall apart, oh no,

you bring it to life where you have brought it,

so close and intimate than I want to  walk through it,

into the farthest fields, towards the well.

6

Continually seeking form and colour you grow

away from that which exists, abandon yourself to a new

song of the wind. Nothing can hold you back, no

hesitation about the path to be taken when you close your eyes,

create a new world. That, with Rilke’s Panther,

you can capture the world anew and accommodate it

in line and colour. Hear the animal tell stories of beginning

and end, of what breathlessly descends from old dreams.