Thursday 28 September 2017
Monday 25 September 2017
Friday 22 September 2017
Thursday 21 September 2017
Dèr Mouw: English translation of one of his 'heath' poems
’t Is nacht. ’k Zit op de hei. Nergens
geluid.
Over me staat, als transparant kristal
rondom een oude berggod in zijn hal,
een halve bol van stilte, die me omsluit:
’k hoor, hoe heel ver een lang gillende
fluit
een tunnel boort; mijn berg kraakt overal.
Een blaf, ginds, hakt een gat; en recht en
smal
knapt een spleet open, tot mijn oor hem
stuit.
’k Hoor ’t levend bloed, dat in mijn slapen
gonst –
Neen: ’t is het hart van de aarde: het
trilt, het bonst,
of ’t niet de god uit zijn verdoving wekt.
Om goed te luistren, doe ik de ogen dicht,
maar ’k word gehinderd nu door ’t
sterrelicht,
dat tikkelend door fijne gaatjes lekt.
It’s night. I’m on the heath. Nowhere a
sound.
Above, like a transparent crystal wall
round an old mountain god within his hall,
a hemisphere of silence, all around:
I hear far off a whistle shrill and clear
boring a tunnel, rock creaks everywhere.
A bark, there, hacks a hole; a straight and
hair-
line crack splits open, till checked by my
ear.
I hear live blood, making my temples buzz –
No: it’s the earth’s own heart: it quakes,
it thuds,
enough to rouse the god from his deep doze.
To listen better, I shut both eyes tight,
but I’m prevented by the stars’ bright
light
that trickles through a sieve of tiny
holes.
Monday 11 September 2017
Monday 4 September 2017
Klaus Høeck, 'Legacy', p. 478
as far as i’m con
cerned
one may use my poems
as a sour dough that’s
probably my best
way
of being of some BE
NEFIT in the world
to be used in the
bakery
of the new po
etry: what a joy
and then i have al
ways
loved rye bread wholemeal bread
and ‘lumberjack bread’
Friday 1 September 2017
'Black Dog' - poem by Frans Budé
Black
Dog
Return,
labrador retriever, to the house
of
your much-loved bitch, seek a way in.
I
know: it’s enough to make you whine, you, worn out
in
your old age, bad breath, your gums a
nasty
red, your failing kidneys.
The
lumps on your paws slow down your
former
tempo, your heart bangs away in the wrong
place.
Go on, return to your loved-one’s house.
She
strokes with her eyes, beckons with her ears,
between
the paws under her tail sparks
shoot
up that set you all ablaze.
So:
do, re, mi, duet! sings the clarinet:
give
your girlfriend your great male charm, approach
her
with affection, stretch out your crimson tongue,
feel
your heart beat and know as of old:
she
has a place for you, move that black coat of yours,
grow
back to your first night. Lug yourself
afterwards
off to your basket, poor old chap,
look
up, look down, music evokes the urge,
One
last spiral turn and sleep.
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