Het kan ook heel anders, dichten omtrent de dood.
Dat bewijst de uit Noord Ierland afkomstige dichter, nu in North Carolina USA levend, Adrian Rice (1958) besproken als gedicht van de week in The Guardian van 22 april.
Met als ondertitel: A poem about final acts of love that spans playfulness, anger and delicate eroticism.

En hier graag in de collectie van onze binnentuin opgenomen.



What is death,
but a letting go
of breath?

One of the last
things he did
was to blow up

the children’s balloons
for the birthday party,
joking and mock-cursing

as he struggled
to tie all
those futtery teats.

Then he flicked them
into the air
for the children

to fight over.
Some of them
survived the party,

and were still there,
after the funeral,
in every room of the house,

bobbing around
in the least draft.


She thought about
murdering them
with her sharpest knife,

each loud pop
an angry bullet
from her heart.

Instead, in the quietness
that followed her
children’s sleep,

she patiently gathered
them all up,
slowly undoing

each raggedy nipple,
and, one by one, she took his
last breaths into her mouth.

What is life
but a drawing in
of breath?