A famous poem by P.C. Boutens in a revised edition

Nacht-stilte

Stil, wees stil: op zilvren voeten

Schrijdt de stilte door den nacht,

Stilte die der goden groeten

Overbrengt naar lage wacht...

Wat niet ziel tot ziel kon spreken

Door der dagen ijl gegons,

Spreekt uit overluchtsche streken,

Klaar als ster in licht zoû breken,

Zonder smet van taal of teeken

God in elk van ons.

Night-silence

Hush now, hush: on feet of silver

Through the night see silence go,

Silence that from gods delivers

Greetings to the watch below...

What ’twixt souls could not be spoken

In the daytime’s empty din

From high realms that night has woken,

Into light star-bright now broken,

Sullied by no word or token

God speaks deep within.

A poem by the Dutch writer P.N. van Eyck

the gardener and death

A Persian nobleman:

This morning, white with fear, my gardener flees

Into my house: ‘Master, a moment please!’

Out in the rose-beds, pruning shoots with care,

I looked behind me. Death was standing there.

I gave a start, and sought my getaway,

But glimpsed his hand that made as if to slay.

Master, your horse, and at full tilt I’ll ride,

Ere evening comes, in Isfahan I’ll hide!’ –

This afternoon (long since he off had set)

Amongst the cedars Death I also met.

‘Why,’ I inquire, since he waits silently,

‘Did you my servant treat so threateningly?’

Smiling he said: ‘A threat caused in no wise

Your gardener to flee. I showed surprise

To find still here and busy just the man

This evening I must fetch in Isfahan.’

A poem by Hendrik van Veldeke, 12th century poet who the locals claim wrote in Old Limburgish. Always included in Dutch poetry anthologies.

Swer ze der minne ist sô vruot,

       Daz er der minne dienen kan,

Und er durch minne pîne tuot,

       Wol im, derst ein saelic man!

Von minne kumet uns allez guot,

Diu minne machet reinen muot,

       Waz solte ich sunder minne dan?

Ich minne die schoenen sunder danc,

       Ich weiz wol, ir minne ist klâr.

Obe mîne minne ist kranc.

       Sô wirt ouch niemer minne wâr.

Ich sage ir mîner minne danc,

Bî ir minne stât mine sanc,

       Er ist tump, swers niht geloubet gar.

Whoe’er in love so wise can be

       That in love’s service he’ll withstand

The pain from which he’d seek to flee,

       Good luck to him, the happy man!

All goodness we from love get free,

       The mind through love gains purity,

How then should I without love stand?

I love the fair one, will or no,

       And know full well her love is clear.

Should my love have too weak a glow,

       Then no true love can be sincere.

Her for my love I thanks would show,

Without her love my song can’t flow,

       Who doubts this is a fool, I fear.

Time for a Bellman!

FREDMAN’S SONGS

No. 21

Mealtime song

Then off we’ll lumber, every one,

leave Bacchus’ din and noisy shout,

when death calls to us: ‘Neighbour, come,

       your hour-glass has run out.’

You, old man, put your crutches down,

and you, sweet youth, my law obey:

the fairest nymph whose smile you own

       link arms with right away.

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

You at your dram and rummer glass,

with cheeks all flushed and hat awry,

ere long your hearse will slowly pass

       and swathed in black go by!

And you who big words ne’er did shun,

your coat by stars and orders hid,

the joiner’s got your coffin done,

is planing smooth its lid!

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

But you who sit lips tightly pressed,

whom bolts, bars, iron and locks protect,

arms folded on your money chest

       shut in and circumspect;

and you who, jealous, smash again

all bottles, goblets, mirrors too,

now say goodnight, your wine-glass drain

       your rival greet anew;

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

And you with titles’ fine array

who gild your beggar’s staff each year,

who though of rank can hardly pay

       the cost of your own bier;

and you who angry, idle, base

would curse your infancy’s own hearth,

will e’er display your drunken face

       down to the cup’s last half;

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

You who to war have strode ahead

in bloodstained shirt at bugle’s call;

and you who romp in curtained bed,

       in Cloris’ fair arms sprawl;

and you who with your golden book

at temple’s echo stand and pause,

who shake your head with learnèd look,

       and wage disastrous wars;

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

And you who with such honest eyes

your friends blaspheme with undue zest

and at your wine them stigmatise

       and do so as in jest;

and you who fail them to defend.

though never fail them to allow

to give you drinks you then up-end,

       what is your answer now?

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

But you who till your dying day,

your host’s glass have not thought to chink

since to his table you did stray,

       although he calls out: Drink!

Force such a guest from food and wine,

Away with him and all his mob,

and wrench then with a look malign

the wine glass from his gob.

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

Say, neighbour, say, are you content?

Then praise your host when he appears.

And should we both be homeward bent,

       let’s walk together: Cheers!

But first with wine, both red and white,

let’s bow deep to our hostess fair,

and slip into the grave aright

       in evening star’s bright flare.

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

Another Bloem poem

RAIN AND MOONLIGHT

The summer night will soon pale into morning; 

As yet no trace of light invades the skies.

Only the rain’s small voice before the dawning

That at my open window sighs.

Though bed was sought to ease life’s long chastising

By one who longs for sleep when earth confines,

I seem to feel a lighter joy arising

Because the moon so brightly shines.

Oh restlessness on days when sun is hateful, 

Oh roads on which one suffers dust’s fierce bite,

Who after lethargy and fear would not feel grateful

At such a perfect light? 

All that I have withheld while life was calling,

A yearning without form and without name,

Has now turned into warm rain that is falling  

Outside a silver pane.

J.C. Bloem was good at short poems - here's one

breathing

Finding itself alone beneath the gleaming

Of autumn stars that glitter high above

A world grown calm, the heart can now approve:

There’s little more to life on earth than breathing.

But that is: in this vale’s depths to coerce

Into one’s self a space immensely greater,

And then, one shared unsteady moment later,

Return it to the plundered universe.

A poem by the Belgian 'Poet of the Fatherland' Charles Ducal (b. 1952)

MERCIFUL

Her head hung over the washbowl,

her midriff belled her defenceless buttocks.

The moment seemed ordained for the blow,

a simple neck-chop, without any fuss.

He briefly stroked with tormenting finger.

The skin went taut like the film on milk.

His urge got harder. He strove to desire her.

She cooed seductively: is this the moment?

Then he saw himself in the mirror,

the scrawny legs, the shirt that was huge.

The power of love made his eyes grow bigger.

He tweaked her buttocks, in merciful mood.

A poem from the 1880s movement in Dutch literature by Willem Kloos

The trees are wilting at the season’s end,

Awaiting motionless the approaching winter

How still it all is, deathly still... The stint of

My own brief life’s contained there, almost spent.

Ah, much, so much I dearly would have done,

Some Verses and some Love, – for who is eager

Without them to face death? But who by meagre

Rage or complaint has something ever won?

Contented, still and meek I now will be,

And nothing from that Life I take with me

Than this thought that is pounding in my brain:

One need not shudder at one’s own fond Death:

The dead flowers will not ever come again,

But I will in my Verse once more draw breath.

A poem by the Flemish writer Erik Spinoy

At the Jewish cemetery

many of the stones lie overturned. Their lie

does not seem random to me, nor their fall

as being caused by gravity, but rather by

a power that has an underlying reason.

So that each slab or tombstone there lies

thwacked down with a purpose – a soul – and waits

on the bühne of the cemetery till someone

who comprehends comes in from the wings.

But what then am I doing here? None of these

stone bodies moves at all, no voice is to

be heard that pierces their grey outlines.

We always stand as strangers next to one

another. From them to me no gesture reaches out

that can be long enough.

A poem by the Dutch writer Joke van Leeuwen

A woman who was old as old,

a hundred years or more,

kept far too much, so I’ve been told,

though where I’m not quite sure.

Those things that someone now forgot,

those things that no one saw,

those things worn out as like as not,

or things in some old drawer.

Those things deep in some antique chest

or in some hidden well,

those things that stuck out from the rest,

all bones or hard to tell.

Not like those found in secret dreams

and those too tired to care,

she’s taken them away, it seems,

though I’m not sure quite where.

A poem by the Swedish writer Hedvig Charlotta Nordenflycht (1718-1763)

Concerning a hyacinth

To – – –

You wondrous plant whose match in colour,

In sheen, allure I nowhere see,

In Flora’s realm I find no other

Whose beauty so enraptures me:

Your petals Nature is suffusing,

In art, in splendour sets alight;

A subtle balsam-scent diffusing,

You bring me pleasure and delight.

My tender care shall never fail you,

You get to breathe a milder air,

No sudden squall shall e’er assail you,

No heat and cold shall you impair.

A gentle breeze shall worries banish,

And infiltrate your every pore,

And when from warmth you greatly languish

A cooling tide shall you restore.

But when at last, all blooms displaying,

You grace my hut in full allure,

The cruel law of change obeying,

You fade and die and are no more.

You soon forget my pleasant duty,

And tire of all my watchful guard,

Conceal in meagre dust your beauty,

Are you ungrateful, then, and hard?

But shall I censure this poor flower,

Accuse a being frail as she,

Whose lot’s to alter by the hour,

She has to be what she must be.

She is as grass, she has to perish,

I bear no grudge because of this.

And cold grows too a heart I cherish

It has to be the way it is.