By Anne Mulleners
Poets are grand, giant and foremost capable.
Giants in a world filled with midgets,
where ‘like’ and ‘fuck’ seem to win
on a screen as big as half a book
have hypnotised the masses.
I try, I’ve tried, but words
are as butter in the summer’s sun
and ever-worn floppy T-shirts,
stuck to my body, never changing
Forlorn, thus far, magestic;
the language of the Brit
is like running through endless mossy fields,
never old, eternal kid
Mijn taal, my language
when shall I cease to be
merely a recording and more to my advantage
a fluent, formidable word artist
at the top of its profession?