The Captain of the Butterflies

by Cees Nooteboom

In this, his first collection of poetry published in English, acclaimed Dutch novelist and poet Cees Nooteboom reveals a wry mix of surrealist-like language in dialogue with precise, realistic images. The result is a wonderful poetry of energy and wit. "The page lies on the lily, / and on the leaves of the lily. / The poem is all mirrors".

163 pages, Paperback

First published June 1, 1997

About the author

Cees Nooteboom (born Cornelis Johannes Jacobus Maria Nooteboom) was a Dutch author. He has won the Prijs der Nederlandse Letteren, the P.C. Hooft Award, the Pegasus Prize, the Ferdinand Bordewijk Prijs for Rituelen, the Austrian State Prize for European Literature and the Constantijn Huygens Prize, and has frequently been mentioned as a candidate for the Nobel Prize in literature.

His works include Rituelen (Rituals, 1980); Een lied van schijn en wezen (A Song of Truth and Semblance, 1981); Berlijnse notities (Berlin Notes, 1990); Het volgende verhaal (The Following Story, 1991); Allerzielen (All Souls' Day, 1998) and Paradijs verloren (Paradise Lost, 2004). (Het volgende verhaal won him the Aristeion Prize in 1993.) In 2005 he published "De slapende goden | Sueños y otras mentiras", with lithographs by Jürgen Partenheimer.

Reviews

[Tracy O · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a LITTLE bit Kahlil Gibran meets I don't know what maybe, Naomi Shihab Nye - I mean there's a tiny bit of metaphysical stuff that might strike you as a bit twee, but this is a very solid book of poetry. If you don't believe me try one:

Trinidad

This I have often been:
a man on a road,
a man on a plane,
a man with a woman.

And this I have often been:
man who wanted to hide
under stone
to avoid seeing light.

These two men
carry my luggage,
read my papers,
eat my bread.

Together we travel the sound
and air of the world
in search of the invisible statue,
in which the three of us wil meet
in the form
of one.

And, I have to add one more - I just have to:

Nighthour

I write
the way my kind does
among the regalia of daily life
in a poem that seems translated
from the Spanish
so stiff and innocent.

Unimaginagle how,
on such nights,
that which I call reality
puffs itself up:
the clock not ticking
but croacking like a frog.

Only the poet holds still
and peels the skill off the hours
clock, poet, frog,

and depises time.

Search this one out - it's totally worth it.