Poem by the Dutch writer Eva Gerlach

CRUMBS

Whatever’s whole we fail to see, it is

too big for us, non-fitting, it won’t go

inside our head

but what is chopped up, frittered, pounded fine,

crumbs, puréed, blown to dust, disintegrating –

all that is split up sticks in us for good.

Poem by the Flemish writer Peter Holvoet-Hanssen

song for the dead

Upsadaisy. From hobby-horse to hearse over the cobblestones.

It drizzled when grandmother was buried.

In September her daughter scrubs the grave though no one

ever comes by. My knees are ruined, she muses. So many

wasted years. If I ever get Alzheimer’s, give me a jab. Or:

poor old granny was afraid the rabbits would nibble at her toes

in the cemetery. When my time comes, I’m going to let myself be

cremated. Mr Death’s a gourmet underground.

In the mist above the graves: a little room at her house. Grey

dove stares at the tube, doesn’t recognise her. ‘I only get twenty

degrees and the TV guide offers only lousy programmes. You’re

not sleeping with that man from downstairs, are you? How could you? He’s

a thief, I hide my money.’

The smell of burning potato leaves. Mum says goodbye

to the swans. The skies are heavy, the mud sucks. Arthritis

in the shoulder. Quickly back to the house.

A radio drama in the living room. Nobody listens.

The hit parade. Anti-wrinkle cream. And a rosary in the drawer.

Poem from 'Galgenfrist' (has to be an image to keep the formatting)

Short Emil Aarestrup poem - NEW VERSION

Angst

Hold fastere omkring mig

Med dine runde Arme;

Hold fast, imens dit Hjerte

Endnu har Blod og Varme.

Om lidt, saa er vi skilt ad,

Som Bærrene paa Hækken;

Om lidt, er vi forsvundne,

Som Boblerne i Bækken.

Fear

Hold tighter still, your firm arms

Place round me and enfold me.

Hold tight while yet your heart beats

And let its warmth console me.

A short while, and we’re parted,

Like berries in the hedgerow;

A short while, and we’ve vanished

Like bubbles in the stream’s flow.

Another 'Galgenfrist' poem

 

Lapidary landscapes

i

a ship sails in the air

a gable is lit on the invisible

surface of the water

these low shores offer no resistance

this night is kindly disposed

ii

the late brush of the birch

against the icy sky, the silver sun’s

waxing eye

the poem is finished

iii

the steppe-grass whispers in a thousand telephones

directs the night wind with its waves

countersunk in itself the small eye

of the well stares hard at eternity

iv

like sticks in the fire

glowing

for a second still visible

this city no longer exists

v

even these corn-ears and stars

            these voices on the terrace

                        and clouds at bedtime

have other properties

            contain truths and threats

                        only temporarily hidden

(the distant blue harvest lightnings

            only hesitate, spare this:

a provisional state

            of mosquito song and bindweed)

far into the night, into oblivion

            i of course know it

The second poem of 'Galgenfrist' (Short Respite) from 1958 by the Danish poet Ivan Malinovski

Autumn suite

I

Bastard in this light

wordless among these voices

the dahlias the gleaming drops

of the rowan

the maize and marrows calling from the market square

rows of asters and marigolds

                                                      each with its own cry

oh this silent smell of potatoes cabbage turnips

homeless homeless

among the lady apples of naked trees

the fat blister beetles of fallen leaves

in this richness

so rich in poverty

only you so dumb on the earth

so empty-handed at this season the season of thirst

hungering for supplies travels possession

apple-sweet melancholy

kernel root

the wriggling pupa under the eaves

an affront to his restlessness

enters the day dazzled

goes shrunken among mosquitoes

now the sparrows’ bush

stands ablaze

and nothing shall be his

II

now you sink back

                  into an old darkness

impossible recognition

                  images you have never seen

are called out along

                  strangely secret streets

flee with the leaves

                  flee in geese-wedges

find confused the spot

                  where some other where you

kissed her first

                  wanted her happiness

seek seek seek

                  but nothing is understandable

everything is reversed

                  everything is absurd and self-evident

the cemetery has not changed

                  the melons have the same taste

among all these corridors

                  not one even so that is yours

the thread is broken but heavily

                  you incline towards a past

(the stones the roots the darkness)

                  suddenly you can sigh

without knowing the reason

                  all at once you recall

an old death in the family

                  an unusual illumination

a mountain bonfire nighttime courage

                  (the stones the roots the darkness)

the sole trace of this

                  the sole recollection of the leap:

the wedge in the twilight now

                  above the woods of reeds

III

there then

the smell of autumn in the living room: green apples

there then

while the sky is saturated with melancholy moisture

the leaves weep

there then out there

the light: a column above the earth’s fatness

there then there then the mouse’s self-comfort

the stubble with dew’s filigree

and the snail’s small ear duct

listening clenched around an echo’s salt

consumptus est the red-fruit jelly

the kiosk’s supply of beer

the lobster we took home from the fishing village at midsummer

the hip-flasks are long since rusty

tinder and birchwood gone up in smoke

the nivea tin empty

our summerland properly assigned

to mould mosquitoes and mice

to resign

close oneself like the snail round an echo

form a membrane as a defence against hoar frost

and eat into a lost salt

there then

– – –

then the room blackens in panic:

ten thousands of bird’s wings

my dream my haste

Time for a Komrij

MOEDER

Soms bloeide mijn moeder op

En kon ze als Brugman praten –

Een waterval, kip zonder kop –

Een verleden zonder hiaten –

Meestal zweeg ze. Ik denk aan haar

Als aan een ijzig rustende,

Onbenaderbare pilaar.

Je zou haar niet snel kussen.

Dement. Ze kakelde weer.

‘Jongen, wat ben je groot’

‘Het was fijn, maar nu niet meer’

‘Wanneer ga je weg?’ – en toen dood.

MOTHER

My mother at times came alive

Was granted the gift of the gab –

She gabbled on fixed overdrive –

A seamless past made up of blab –

But most of the time she said nowt.

Reminding me most of a pillar

Unreachable, steely throughout.

To kiss her would not be a thriller.

Quite senile. She cackled away.

‘Good gracious, how well you’ve been fed’

‘What times we once had, not today’

‘And when will you leave?’ – and then dead.