Workshop poem by the Dutch poet J.C. Bloem - fifth draft

DE NACHTEGALEN

Ik heb van ’t leven vrijwel niets verwacht,

’t Geluk is nu eenmaal niet te achterhalen.

Wat geeft het? – In de koude voorjaarsnacht

Zingen de onsterfelijke nachtegalen.

THE NIGHTINGALES

Of life my expectations have been slight,

Joy’s just a thing to which we go on clinging.

What does it matter? – In the cold spring night

Once more the immortal nightingales are singing.

This is the second Bloem workshop poem. To see the first go to here, and the second here.

Poem by the Swedish poet Hjalmar Gullberg

Jag trodde på en gud

Jag trodde på en gud men han visste det inte,

han fick aldrig veta att jag trodde på honom

ännu många år efter han var död.

Vid ingående förhör med mig om saken

blev jag upplyst om det verkliga förhållandet.

O slocknade stjärnors ljus som når försenat fram

till ögon i natten! Jag har skådat min gud

som han var i sin härlighet före katastrofen.

Han fick aldrig veta att jag trodde på honom

och att jag inte visste han var död.

I believed in a god

I believed in a god but he did not know it;

he never found out that I believed in him

even many years after he was dead.

On close interrogation with me on the matter

I was informed of the actual state of things.

Oh, light of extinguished stars that reaches

delayed the nighttime eye! I have viewed my god

as he was in his glory before the catastrophe.

He never found out that I believed in him

and that I did not know he was dead.

Poem by the Dutch writer René Puthaar

HOMECOMING

(after Mallarmé's 'Brise Marine')

The sailors are silent. Only the heart sings now.

Beneath the keel the deep reef calls, the mast is tall,

A zephyr softly strokes the ship’s deck and its prow;

No seaman’s grave is once more promised by some gale.

By hope so sorely vexed all human senses grow

Contrary now the flag flies from the harbour wall.

Farewell, exotic nature. Lower your anchor,

Steamer, homecoming draws near. See the people wave.

Nothing about the mother and her child has altered,

Nothing still guards from stories the empty page

When morning light pronounces doom on loneliness

And, capable of all questions, pulls up more weeds.

Waylaid the heart fast plummets, but with steely face.

Between the so familiar foam and sky I see

Birds, foolhardy, drunk, though almost home. Home ahead!

The flesh is sad, alas! and all the books are read.

(To see the original poem and Arthur Symon's translation, go to here)

Poem by the Dutch writer Alfred Schaffer

THE PARALLEL UNIVERSE

At that time Superman was known as extremely friendly.

He would greet politely at the breakfast table,

pass the sugar when asked

        and enjoy the breathtaking panorama.

He would play old music when making decisions

and afterwards phone his mother.

Until the night the windows of his birthplace were smashed

his balloon face hung like a boy’s dream

        throughout the town.

He asked: take pity on my situation,

but had to wave his fists

                to keep people’s attention.

He became The Great Absentee. He would sneak in

        and sit on the back row of theatres

and roar for another encore, or grin for minutes on end

at women in the lift via mirrors

                and bide his time.

He has done marvels by leaning forward

        at unguarded moments

and whispering something into an ear,

by adding moustaches to unknown people’s photos

in the scrapbooks he took with him to auditions.

He could actually fly. Whenever he felt bored

he simply rented a couple of comic films.

Poem by the Dutch writer Willem Jan Otten

ALEXANDER AND ETERNITY

1

His garden philosopher he called me,

but I was toothless and intrigued him

by being doting and untravelled.

I saw that something scared him,

hard to know precisely what, oh nonsense,

he said, and then I just let slip:

you fear the first of January.

What do you mean, he softly asked.

Eternal one, I said, a chance remark,

I spin on my own axis, while you move.

2

For a great conqueror time is

the forward downward thing,

the deep-descending chute where all

the realm collapses in a ceaseless fall.

Iskander was so right. Time only moves

in one direction. Shall. Shall.

But by the never-ending Royal Road,

at every hamlet’s edge there always stands,

just like a bar line in a music stave,

a mumbling philosopher like me, who waves

and tells Iskander: Your journey, that is me,

and I’ve a memory that’s pitiful,

not even you will I take to my grave.

3

There’s no direction and no downward path,

were there no toothless poet to be passed,

eternity is where the conqueror

without contrivance loses all his wits,

it’s just a flash, and then the sideways step,

the Mighty Will stills all his legions

and wipes the dotard drivel off my skin.