Hugo Claus: 'Het weer'

The weather

How the weather in the land was without you?

First a fog descended

over the concrete mountains,

Then the sun hung as mist

over the pearly sand.

Then the air stirred

and turned clammy as your armpits.

Sheet lightning set my teeth on edge.

And everywhere there rose the scent

of the great beasts that do not exist

unless in the rushing of your ear,

and the rustling of your hair.

That is how the weather was there without you.

You are the air pressure and the dew

and the snow inside my skull.

The poem exists in different versions. This translation is of the poem found here.

Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer: 'Sonnet voor Unesco'

Sonnet for Unesco

Back in a black and white science fiction age

in Paris once a space ship ended stranded

with astronauts from every clime force-landed

and art which at that time was all the rage.

The ship, illusion-laden, had set out

toward a future vision that enshrined

a set of values for all humankind

when such as yet had not been soured by doubt.

The ideal is of course anachronistic

as is a truly selfless being who

lives on a planet where truth’s cheap at best.

But memories of times so optimistic

give hope. One can cure a myopic view

when panoramic vistas are one’s quest.

To see the original Dutch sonnet and hear the poet reading it, go to the UNESCO Nederlandse Commissie website here.

Andy Fierens: 'De snurkers'

THE SNORERS

Nothing is more precious to me

than my father’s

snoring.

My father

like so many others

denied he was a snorer.

Not until I had taped

the rumbling sound

of his nocturne

did he admit the fact.

A couple of years later he died.

One of the few things

I still have of him

is the recording of his

sonorous breathing.

When the human race was still

in its infancy

the snorer was sacred. 

He slept 

on the outside of the circle

and with his chain-saw kept

wild animals

such as the

cave bear

at a distance.

Thus did he protect the tribe.

Today

recognisability makes

the snorer vulnerable.

Whenever in my youth

we went out camping

my father was

strictly forbidden

to enter the tent

before everyone else

was sleeping

like a log.

Is it mere chance that I

who in my whole life

had never snored

one single time

took over 

the torch from him

after his death?

Not infrequently

when we are camping

I am now banished

at night by my own children

to the confined

acoustics of

the car.

Like my father

I am a snorer

whose fugue

is despised

by the tribe

he seeks to protect.

I am a tolerant man.

I can comply with

the whims of the woman

at my side.

There is though one rule

that I observe:

now and then

I ask her to stay awake

until I am asleep

and then softly

close to my ear

play the tape. 

Then we snore together.

Two humming bees

who recognise each other

and in joy and merriment

dance through the night.

While snoring 

harmoniously brought together

our hearts beat as one.

At last father and son.

ALS: 'Herinnering'

Memory

When I lived in Amsterdam, I habitually used to pay a quick visit to the Stedelijk Museum to have a look at a painting. No more than a minute. I was on my bike. I lived in the southern part of the capital and biked to the city centre. The strange thing is that it never occurred to me to stop at the Stedelijk on my way home. I think I was fifteen or sixteen at the time – in the early 1950s. I can’t recall this habit of mine in all its details. I remember that the painting was an Odalisque by Matisse, an Arab woman lying on a bed, scantily clad. Matisse made a great many such paintings. I can’t remember if I had to pay anything. Perhaps there was an agreement to entice school pupils in free of charge so as to make cultural individuals out of them. Another recollection from that period also has something to do with art. It has to do with a friend of mine, Victor Dorvoets. He studied at the State Academy of Fine Arts on Stadhouderskade, the sculptural department. He lived somewhere in Brabant, but did not have enough money to pay for a room. He had come to Amsterdam in a clapped-out minivan and used it as his bedroom. After a short while he was so familiar with the city that he knew at which hotel he could get a free wash, where he could fetch the surplus food from the market and in which park he could sit in the sun undisturbed. Everything went well as long as he kept out of the reach of the higher echelons of society. Because he was an introvert and bided his time, he was able to live undisturbed for a few years. All this came to an end when a wrong girl fell in love with him. Wrong isn’t the right word – she was a lovely, affectionate and lively girl (I also had my eye on her). She unfortunately lived on Apollolaan, her father had a great deal of money and influence. When he discovered his daughter’s new love after a few months, things moved fast. Not only was she sent to a boarding school in Switzerland, but Victor Dorvoet’s car-life in Amsterdam was made so difficult by the authorities that he had to leave the city – and thereby the academy as well. I have never seen him since, he belongs to my memories. 

Ilja Pfeijffer: Overstroomd sonnet

Inundated sonnet

in which it is high tide in Venice

While fine young ladies seek to save their trailing

skirts from swirling water that’s ankle-deep,

palazzi have to picturesquely keep

on sinking due to what’s mere human failing.

The house fronts fringed with lace-trimmed porcelain

reflect the thickly made-up vistas cast

from nearby in the water and aghast

they see how many men death can retain.

For pinchbeck gold are waterways on offer.

And underpinning has been filched by greed.

Corruption breaches what are costly dikes.

The irate gods Atlantis once did proffer

to the sea. This city was doomed to bleed

to death from vulgar profit-seeking tykes.

Gerrit Komrij: 'The Stones of Venice'

    THE STONES OF VENICE

PALE OARSMAN ON HIS WAY TO THE CITY

You saw a rowboat coming from the Lido.

The oarsman’s rudder was a stave of glass;

His oars two stockfish; burly of frame he seemed to

You, through sluggish strokes, to hint of tenderness.

His countenance was pearly in its sheen.

His eyes like phantoms gazed towards the mainland,

His lips were trembling wordlessly. He seemed

Entranced, enraptured by what flimsy dreamland?

You studied him from the Campanile through

Opera glasses - caught your breath, when, pale as

Marble, he hauled his bulk up on the near-shore.

You saw him toil. His movements now appeared more

Jerky, till he began to come apart, to

Crumble into blackish, repulsive pieces.

THE LABYRINTH

We found out in the Calle delle Case

Nove we could go no further, admitted

We’d lost our way. Oh dear, we were now facing

3am plus. Above, the stars acquitted

Themselves, in quite unmatched magnificence, of

All their accepted, decorative duties.

We could but praise the light they shed - the sense of

Place their beacon gave, alas, was muted.

At quickened pace we hurried back, through all

Those alleys, lanes, those passages and byways -

Meeting no living soul in all the tried ways -

Faster we went, still faster, glimpsing all

At once a bridge we thought we could recall!

Thank God! we cried, collapsing gently sideways.

THE DREAM OF A VILLAGE LAD

The quays, I know them all now, the alleyways

And the Palazzos. Makes me feel real warm.

I’ve left my heart behind here, lots of places,

(And on the Academy bridge my arm,

The Rialto my kidney. And my liver -

Left at the Arsenale I recall.)

Oh, Venice as a city can deliver...

Though it’s a peep-show and a magic-hall.

Here you can snuff it in the poshest style

In some old locked-up mansion stuffed with riches,

Even a swindler needn’t feel a heel.

Oh, on my exit, hope you’ll stand awhile

On one of the huge Grand Canal’s fine bridges

And watch me gliding past just like an eel.

CHINESE LANTERNS AND FESTOONS

On board a ceremonious, decked-out sloop

They passed the rows of undermined old houses.

And from the formerly well-trodden stoop

The one-time water-pipes stuck out like hoses.

They proudly passed through locks in need of pitching.

We’re putting out to sea, they sang aloud.

Their jerkins were embroidered with gold stitching

From the caboose their emerald swelled out.

The smoke still came from the now distant housing

Dead sand was swirling in the gutter-drain.

Upon the water old stoves drifted, drowsing,

Though all was miles behind their craft’s long train.

No sooner did they hear the sea carousing

Than they sank too. Like someone with no brain.

THE CITY

Here dead birds roam, above the towers the grandees

From times so long since flown are gently floating,

The graveyards now are higher than the Andes!

Quiet, laddie, quiet. (Calm down.) This is worth noting.

You can of course remember the first hour

That we were here? The square becoming round,

The footman emperor, the water fire,

The sun a leper and the club-foot sound?

(Keep quiet, calm down: it’s only poetry,

It’s only turns of phrase.) But ow! That roar

Of the dead in the water, listen, more,

Listen how your entire life is in touch

With everything that hankers back to such,

And not with god-knows-what or he-or-she.

THE STENCH

Today the stench was really twice as bad.

From every chink thick smoke rose to the sky

That almost made you gag. The dregs that had

Come gurgling upwards looked like bile or lye.

And from the rebates percolated gas.

You asked the gondolier to move on faster.

You saw in houses cracks in walls and plaster

And how the paint was peeling off en masse.

‘Hurry, please, hurry!’ You would bear no more

That canal sewer full of slurry, slime,

And sought Palladio’s cathedral door.

But you were stuck there in the leaden sump

At the palace of Peggy Guggenheim,

That old, decrepit, vulgar Yankee frump.

IN THE NIGHT

The street musicians on San Marco square

Departed at the signal from the two Moors.

You scarcely heard, borne on the distant air,

Their chorus’ and the clock-tower’s final tremors.

Over the stones there scurried scraps of paper.

In some quiet gallery you sat, unseen.

The lights that first had been the square’s slim tapers

Went out. Only the cobbles softly gleamed.

Then all at once the Sirens were heard singing.

So rare. So high. The setts danced to a samba.

A pinnacle collapsed. The Moors were floored.

The waves slapped round your legs, now gently stinging,

The Sirens shrieked and whistled round the ramparts,

From the basilica a fire-gush roared.

Gerrit Komrij: 'Moeder'

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.

Gerrit Komrij: 'Pepper and Salt'

PEPPER AND SALT

(1980)

1

I had this fright. Is fright the word? Dismay

And adoration, rather, when I sighted

Him in the crowd that filled the street that day.

A fleeting moment. I stood undecided.

I thought: why had I not hurried across?

Too late. He was no longer within view.

And I knew somehow: that one second’s loss

Is crucial for miracles. Yet my two

Feet felt ungainly and leaden. Was such a

Package-bearer as I weighed down, full-stowed?

Oh no. Come on. I had just left the butcher’s.

A quarter of minced veal was all my load.

2

I’d been too fainthearted to throw away

The mince, with no show of mercy or shying.

I’d have inundated his neck, his face,

His mouth with kisses, kisses there’s no denying,

If only, ardently and with no hint

Of hesitation, I’d cast off my mince,

That quarter of mince at the very moment

Of truth. Oh yes, it would have been a cinch

To grasp and entwine him not with a hundred

But with a thousand liana embraces,

If I had flung away my mince, not blundered.

Now tears left on my cheeks their scalding traces.

3

I was a spark, yet in that flash alone

Became a sea of fire. My body kindled.

Out of my hand the mince now fell unhindered.

Too late, too late, I thought. (Another groan.)

I rushed around, scorching all things in my way.

No cliff, no obstacle could halt my progress.

I’d lost my head completely in the process.

(If lava does the same, I cannot say.)

I was a ball of fire. I sought the town,

The golden gate behind which he, enthralling,

Sat proudly in a splendid, dazzling gown.

And I, poor slave - my flame was falling, falling.

4

It seemed to me eternities ago

I’d seen him thus across the street, before

A car - if I remember, a Renault -

Obscured him from my sight, but, to be sure:

How short a time I’d vacillated there.

Now hours last years - time holds me in derision.

I simmer on. I smoulder in despair

I am the lonely martyr of provisions.

Those who see beauty slipping from their grasp

Through their devotion to all everyday things

Deserve no better than, with one last gasp,

To crash from cliffs. Dead. Unlamented playthings.

5

I still recall it all. His dark-brown tresses.

The coursing blood suffusing his young cheeks.

His ears, of bright-red cartilage recesses.

The light that from his forehead scattered sparks.

His body was so skinny. A small jumper,

An open checkered shirt made up of daft,

Queer aberrations, four or five in number,

Sat tightly wound around his upper half.

The hand he stroked his temple with was quite

Like ivory (and bluish - it was cold),

His neck was long, his lips were almost white,

His eyes, though - pepper and salt! Pepper and salt!

6

Each day I buy my quarter pound of veal

And hope the miracle will be repeated.

My glimmer’s broken me, though scarcely real.

My eyes are wizened blackish beads, unheated.

And will I sense again his scythe’s soft swathing?

Oh God, I cry, I only wish I might.

My sky has been deprived of his sun’s light.

Without him I am lifeless, a mere nothing.

O save me, save me, I beg with persistence

Of passers-by, on foot or bike deployed,

From this accursed, meandering existence

Between the butcher’s and the bitter void.

ALS: 'Zonder taal'

Without language

‘What shall I say about that house over on the left. That was where that young man used to live who you always had arguments with, wasn’t it? No, it wasn’t that young man. I often spoke to him back then – I would have noticed it, forget the idea. And that bloke who used to live in that house in the thirties, what was his name, he was always concerned about it, wasn’t he? Yes, true, he spoke about it later, but he disappeared too without coming up with a definite answer.’

This is what I heard in my father’s boathouse. Two men were busy working on the engine of the large sloop he often used to go out sea-fishing. It was a dialogue I didn’t understand one little bit of. I can’t remember exactly how old I was, I was probably in class six or seven at junior school. It was the first time I realised that language can be completely hermetic, be perhaps recognisable but meaningless.

Later, on the brink of adulthood you could say, my father told me that he once had met a man who travelled to countries where language offered him no handhold of any sort. It was no game, he stayed there a long time, sometimes a year or so. He had no money, he had to work. Life was completely unglamorous, he was unhappy and lonely. He had had a deaf-mute elder brother who had died in an accident. He never talked about him. He wanted to find out, with no escape route possible, the nature of the silence in which his brother had had to live. He had of course heard about stylites. They caught his attention, but they sat up there with a serious Christian message. That he regarded as a drawback, he was solely interested in the silence within which his brother had lived. My father never met him again after their first meeting. Well, he did actually suddenly run into him thirty years later, unasked and unexpectedly, in the Damrak in Amsterdam. He had returned to the Netherlands and owned a small tobacco shop. He seemed relaxed, my father was surprised at this. I wasn’t – you can’t keep your bow drawn tight for ever.

Dèr Mouw again: 'Kortlevend plankton'

Kortlevend plankton van de Brahmanzee,

zal ’k eenmaal naar hun vredebloei verzinken;

zoolang ik niet de koele dood mag drinken,

golf ik en eb met de oppervlakte mee;

zijn geheimzinn’ge stroom volg ik gedwee,

en als ’k uit wolkenschelp, die ’k rood zie blinken,

het ver geruisch van de eeuwigheid hoor klinken,

voel ik mijzelf de wind, zelf de avondvree.

Door golventop laat ik omhoog me tillen,

en ’k zie de verte parelmoerig trillen,

en ’k voel me toekomst, ben, wat eens zal zijn;

en laat de glazige afgrond neer me glijden,

dan zie ’k schemeren langverzonken tijden,

en ’t diepst verleden voel ’k bestendig mijn.

Brief-living plankton of the Brahman sea,

one day to their peace-flowering I’ll be sinking;

as long as I cool death may not be drinking,

with waves I surge and ebb incessantly;

its secret current meekly I observe,

and when I hear from cloud-conch coral flushing

the sound that is eternity’s faint rushing,

I feel myself the wind, and evening’s nerve.

I let the wave-crest lift me with a shiver,

and see the distance in a pearly quiver,

and feel I’m future, am what yet shall be;

and when the glassy abyss has me down-gliding,

a gloam of sunken ages I see hiding,

and feel what’s long since past’s still part of me.