By Anne Mulleners 

Poets are grand, giant and foremost capable.

Giants in a world filled with midgets,

where ‘like’ and ‘fuck’ seem to win

And digets

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

so boring.


Forlorn, thus far, magestic;

the language of the Brit

is like running through endless mossy fields,

never old, eternal kid

inexhaustible forever.


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?