Marcel Rademakers (Belgium)

Mark MEEKERS (Belgium)

(Pen name of Marcel Rademakers, ° Blaasveld, May 1939)

Studied Philosophy and Literature (modern history, KU Leuven). Published 79 books and brochures: 26 books of poetry, 1 novel, 2 books with essays, 3 art monographs, many anthologies. He was a member of numerous editorial boards of literary journals and was chairman of the jury for poetry competitions on several occasions. His poems were translated, set to music and recorded in many journals, newspapers and anthologies. “Mark Meekers and Hugo Claus are the two most award winning Flemish poets.” (De Standaard). Meekers also composed some 120 songs (poetical text and music) which he regularly performed in the sixties and the seventies.
He was committed to the European Poetry Center (Leuven), founder and chairman of the poets’ collective Mengmettaal, chairman of the Dutch-Flemish literary organisation Concept, the first ‘village poet’ of Doel, poetry ambassador of the province of Brabant, guest of honor at the “Woordfees” (Windhoek).

He is also active as a painter under his real name. He established 2 international art groups (“Lumen Numen” (Belgium) and “Fusion” (France)). He held 150 expositions in Belgium and abroad. His visual poetry and his wordpoems form a bridge between literature and the visual arts.

 

FRIGHTENING IMAGE

colourless, odourless the lime trees,
all debarked. god begins with the scream
in Gethsemane, the fear that nails us
to the earth. we sweat blood.

mysterious darkness reaches far beyond
the stars. father, why did you
leave me? every kiss falls on a cold
stone. no more shining jack ladder or

organs with pipes. silence in a pit.
what sense do I give to my children when
beach buckets have been pushed aside,
they jump out of the rope of innocence?

I save my drowning head from the whirls
of the pillow, feverish from bed to kitchen,
fill my mouth with instant coffee. freezer-
cold like the desperate man on Golgotha.

 

SCHRIKBEELD

de bomen kleurloos, geurloos linde. 
alles ontschorst. god begint bij de gil 
in Getsemane, de angst die ons vast-
spijkert aan de aarde. we zweten bloed.

Delfisch duister reikt tot ver voorbij 
de sterren. vader waarom heb je mij 
verlaten? elke kus valt op een koude
steen. geen lichtende jakobsladder of

pijpende orgels meer. stilte ingekuild. 
welke zin geef ik mijn kinderen mee als 
de strandemmertjes opzij geschoven zijn, 
ze uit het touwtje van de onschuld springen?

ik red mijn verdrinkend hoofd uit de draai-
kolk van het kussen, ijl van bed naar keuken, 
stop de mond met oploskoffie. diepvries-
koud als de radeloze man op Golgotha

 

REFUGE

the tongue strap stuck, prayer straps
cut in two. no demand and no offer
anymore from upstairs. what else can we do
then seek asylum at each other? doubtful

grinding becomes finding. healing hands
grow on us. irrefutably like we’re
lying on the sheet, in one sound, blank
on white, snowman ice woman. our hearts

big as beets, ensiled in our chest.
I try to go into your golden ratio and yet
I’m not able to break the limits, you stay
a foreign country and I am just a visitor.

you are the most delicious disease of which
I never healed, I your most brilliant sommelier.
the turbulent water within is getting quiet,
we over-sleep death like two non-people.

 

TOEVLUCHT

de tongriem klem, gebedsriemen door-
gesneden. geen vraag en geen aanbod 
meer van boven. wat kunnen wij anders 
dan asiel zoeken bij elkander? twijfelend

tasten wordt vinden. helende handen 
groeien ons aan. onweerlegbaar lijk wij 
op het laken liggen, in éénklank, blank 
op wit, sneeuwman ijsvrouw. onze harten

groot als bieten, ingekuild in onze borst.
ik ga op je gulden snede in en toch kan 
ik de grenzen niet echt slechten, blijf jij 
een buitenland waar ik op visite ben.

jij bent de zaligste ziekte waar ik nooit 
van genas, ik je briljantste sommelier. 
het woelwater binnenin bedaard, over-
slapen wij de dood als twee on-mensen.

 

Translation: Hannie Rouweler

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