Anton van Duinkerken: 'Melancholie der bomen in september'

 

Melancholie der bomen in september,

Die weldra niet meer samen groen zult zijn,

Doch draagt uw eigen kleur van diepe wijn,

Van donker bier, van roggebrood, van gember...

 

Hoe anders was de jeugd, waarin ik droomde

Samen met vrienden, sterk want eensgezind

't Leven te maken tot een vreugdbewind.

Hoe anders is vandaag het ingetoomde                                         

 

Bestaan van ieder onzer, door zijn plichten

En zijn verlangens een eenzelvig man,

Die zoekt te maken wat hij maken kan

Van zijn gezin, zijn taak en zijn gedichten!

 

Het wintert over ons in deze dagen

En elk staat eenzaam; de gebondenheid

Ontbond zichzelf, en makkers, waar gij zijt,

Ik durf uw vriendschap nauwlijks meer te vragen!

 

Ieder zwierf uit op doortocht naar het eigen

Intiem domein en vond de ander niet.

Hij schiep zijn eigen toon en zong zijn lied,

Of hij verloor zich in zijn eigen zwijgen.

 

Zullen wij eenmaal nog tezamenkomen,

Hier of hiernamaals, in gemeenzaam spel?

Wij waren destijds vroom en wisten wel

Dat ons iets beters wachtte dan te dromen.

 

Maar geen verzadiging bracht een der onzen

't Geluk van't vroegere verlangen weer,

Wij willen telkens nog de eerste keer

Herleven van 't gezaamlijk hartebonzen.

 

Ik zie de bomen in september doven

Hun groen tot goud, hun goud tot blekend geel.

En het blijft mijn droefheid, dat ik nooit geheel

In enig mens als eenling kan geloven.

 

 

The melancholy of trees in September,

The same green soon you no more will define,

You’ll wear your various shades of deep-red wine,

Of dark beer, rye bread, ginger’s dullish amber…

 

How different was youth – to dreams addicted,

I felt with my like-minded friends so strong

And planned life as a joyous reign ere long.

How different the present day’s constricted

 

Existence each one has, by duties’ curse

And many longings each a timid man

Who seeks to make of things just what he can

Of family, set tasks and writing verse!

 

Over us winter looms as days grow shorter

Each man’s alone; the former bond so dear

Has come undone, and, old pals far and near,

I scarcely dare beg friendship from your quarter!

 

Each man roamed far in search of just his own

Domain, a place where he no others found.

He sang his song, created his own sound,

Or lost himself in silence all alone.

 

And shall we come together just once more,

In this life or the next, meet up and share?

We were devout back then and well aware

That better things than dreaming lay in store.

 

No satisfaction though meant we re-won

The joy our former longing brought alive,

We wish, time and again, we could revive

Togetherness in hearts that beat as one.

 

I see September’s slowly fading leaves,

Their green turns gold, their gold a pallid yellow

My sadness stems from being a lone fellow

Who in no fellow-man can quite believe.

 

 

ZKV 12:

SEPTEMBER 28TH, 1938

Two days before the signing of the Munich agreement, my father was sent a bill from Larg & Sons (London) Ltd. for 90 guineas – roughly the price of a car at the time. The bill would be covered by my mother’s father as it was for his wedding present to them. They could choose between a car and: ‘One Upright Mahogany Overstrung Piano Model 1a No. 123014 by Blüthner’. From Leipzig in Nazi Germany. They chose the piano.

Before I start school at just under five, I sit at it, legs dangling and ‘tinkle’. From five onwards, I have lessons. It is a fine instrument, rich in tone, particularly in the bass, unboasting but rounded, calling for a fairly light touch. I am taught classical music, but even that is deemed too frivolous for Sundays by my father, who only permits ‘sacred music’ to be played on that day of the week. The Methodist Hymn Book stands on top of it, alongside a box of Black Magic chocolates.

In the early 1990s, when my mother was to move to a nursing home, my brother swathed it in blankets and it was sent across the North Sea to Odense. The man in the removal van swore and cussed as he unloaded it and refused to take it further than the front lawn, so as not to ruin his back. It took a while to get his boss to relent and send two professionals to cart it into the house. While it was on the path by the front lawn, I sat down at it and started to play. To my surprise my fingers would only play hymn tunes.

The piano stands a few metres away from where I write. It is my oldest companion. I am still wary of if, suspecting it of being a Blüthner pianola in disguise. At will, it can insert punched rolls into my brain and play me, while I sit, watching time being erased.

Emil Aarestrup: 'Angst'

 

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 flow.

 

Emil Aarestrup (1800-56): Tag dette Kys, og Tusind til, du Søde'

 

 

 

TAG DETTE KYS, OG TUSIND TIL, DU SØDE

 

Tag dette Kys, og Tusind til, du Søde,

Lad Øiet tale frit, Amor indskrænker

Kun Stemmens plumpe Sprog; og i hans Lænker

Er Kys, Omfavnelser ei nogen Brøde.

 

Jo tiere sig vore Læber møde,

Jo meer beruust paa ingenting jeg tænker.

Min Prosa jeg til Cancelliet skjænker,

Og saa kan Riim og Vers elskværdigst gløde.

 

Vel føler jeg, for Elskovsild tilfulde

Er Formen, skal den være reen og plastisk,

Kun den, som dine Arme aabner, Hulde.

 

Men for min Tænksomhed et Net jeg fletter,

For mine Viisdomssuk, et ret elastisk,

Og dog et smukt og snævert, i Sonetter.

 

 

ACCEPT THIS KISS, A THOUSAND MORE, MY TREASURE

 

Accept this kiss, a thousand more, my treasure,

Let eyes be darts, for Cupid muddles letters

To tongue-tie lovers’ speech, while in his fetters

Are kisses and embraces guiltless pleasure.

 

The more our lips fulfil their fated mission,

The more my thoughts intoxicated hover.

My prose to state officials I hand over,

So rhyme and verse can find their sweet fruition.

 

It’s true I feel, for passion’s flame is really

Form pure and simple, if it would be plastic,

But that, my love, which your arms open freely.

 

But for my thoughtfulness a net I fashion -

One for my sighs of wisdom quite elastic -

The beauteous sonnet’s fine and tight-meshed scansion.

 

Henricus Keuls (1883-1968): De wijzen blijven achter bij de dwazen' (PS 73)

 

DE WIJZEN BLIJVEN ACHTER BIJ DE DWAZEN

 

De wijzen blijven achter bij de dwazen,

De wijsheid wandelt traag op stugge voet,

De dwazen hebben de muziek in ’t bloed

En houden nimmer op zich te verbazen.

 

De wijze formuleert in strakke phrasen

Het laatste oordeel over kwaad en goed,

De dwaas zweeft tussen wanhoop en extase

En gaat dansend zijn noodlot tegemoet.

 

Het eindpunt van de wijsheid is altoos

Het weten dat men nooit iets heeft geweten

Of weten zal. De dwaas plukt snel een roos

Om in een droom de waarheid te vergeten.

Al worden werelden uiteengereten,

De wijsheid preekt, de dwaas blijft zorgeloos.

 

 

WISE MEN WILL LAG BEHIND THOSE WHO ARE FOOLS

 

Wise men will lag behind those who are fools,

For wisdom’s steps are slow and thick with mud,

The foolish all have music in their blood

And live in wonder as they flout fixed rules.

 

Wise men form phrases rigid and uptight

For good and evil that are up to date,

Fools hover twixt despair and wild delight

And cheerfully dance off to meet their fate.

 

What wisdom ends up claiming that it knows

Is nothing has been known by anyone

Or ever will. The fool just plucks a rose

So he in dreams truth can forget and shun.

Though worlds be torn apart, their course be run,

Wisdom will preach, the carefree fool have fun.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 73

 

Morten Blok: 'Da jeg vågner...'

 

When I wake up I see my skull

reflected in a glass of water.

 

Then the sounds arise

of dried fish slapping against the frames in the breeze

insects and the women’s stilettos against the pavement

 

and the water quivers strongly.

Martinus Nijhoff: 'Memlinc'

 

Memlinc

 

Ernstig en eenzaam staat

Tusschen de holten van

Hemel en aarde de man

Die Gods woorden verstaat,

 

Antwoord weet, maar nog zwijgt

Zoo lang de vraag nog klinkt,

Wacht tot de wereld verzinkt

En een ster de zon overstijgt.

 

Hong’rend naar eeuwigheid

Brak hij zijn leven als brood,

Proefde in dit voedsel den dood,

Deed afstand, en houdt zich bereid.

 

Luisterend, zwijgend, en in

Vroomheid bereid: voorwaar,

Dit is geen einde nog, maar

Een voorgoed begonnen begin.

 

 

Memlinc

 

Solemn and lonely stands

Between the hollows of

Heaven and Earth the man

Who God’s word understands,

 

Has answers, yet stays mum

While questioning’s not done,

Waits till the world sinks down

And a star outsoars the sun.

 

Hung’ring for endlessness

This life he broke like bread

In this food tasting death,

Stepped back, in readiness.

 

Listening, silent, and in

Piety primed: though no

Clear ending as yet, a slow

But permanent way to begin.

 

 

Willem Jan Otten: 'Begin november'

 

BEGIN NOVEMBER

 

De zwaluwen zijn er lang van tussen.

Toch woei vandaag de dwarrelende wind

die zwaluwen herinnert aan hun Nijl,

de wrede warme zomerrest die zegt

ziel is dat wat kwetterende lussen

trekt in een al lang verlaten lucht.

 

 

EARLY NOVEMBER

 

The swallows have flitted a long time since.

Today, though, eddies swirled of such a wind

as makes the swallows recollect their Nile,

a vestige, hot and cruel, of summer saying

soul is what twirls and swoops in twittering

loops against a long-deserted sky.

 

 

Gerrit Komrij: 'Boetseren'

BOETSEREN

 

Een zeemeermin zonder staart

Wordt door een kundige hand

Een harige vrouw met een baard.

De ezel wordt een olifant.

 

Een simpel vingermechaniek

Maakt van de doffe Keulse pot

Een glinsterende basiliek,

Een geile duivel van een god.

 

De aarde hijgt en krimpt en zwelt -

Ze wordt een kubus, wordt een bol.

Gekneed wordt ze, vervormd, hersteld -

Ik staak - ik val niet uit mijn rol.

 

 

MODELLING

 

A tailless mermaid, something weird,

Becomes when formed by skilful hand

A hirsute woman with a beard.

The ass becomes an elephant.

 

Ten dextrous fingers in a trice

Turn the lack-lustre Cologne pot

Into a glinting cockatrice,

A horny devil of a god.

 

The clay breathes hard and shrinks and swells -

Becomes a cube, becomes a ball.

Is kneaded, is transformed, rejells -

I pack it in - stick to my role.

 

 

J.A. dèr Mouw: 'Tussen golven en sterren...'

 

Tussen golven en sterren, vreemd aan de aard’,

zeilt de albatros zijn wijdgewiekte vlucht,

en dubb’le oneindigheid van nacht en lucht

orakelt rond zijn eenzaam trotse vaart.

 

Hem, diep vertrouwd met storm en sterren, spaart

de wijze zeeman; de ander is een klucht

zijn neergeruiste hoogheid, dat tot vlucht

hij sart, die hem van de ondergang bewaart.

 

Mijn liefde, groot van storm en sterrelicht,

streek uit de rand van ’t eindige op je neer; 

 

jouw zeilenpracht, door weiflend roer gericht,

vlindert naar helle nacht van bliksemweer.

 

Jou redt, breekt eens ’t verblind gewilde los,

niet weggeschrikt, jouw mystische albatros.

 

 

A stranger to the earth, twixt waves and stars,

the albatross sails on its wide-winged flight,

a dual eternity of air and night

prophesies round its proud and lonely path.

 

The bird, at home with storm and starry height,

the prudent sailor spares; the other views

its swished-down majesty as farce, and shoos

it, though it saves from shipwreck, into flight.

 

My love, that storm and starlight greatness gave,

dived at you from the finite’s outer rim;

 

the helm unsure, nought can your great sails trim,

which flutter to bright night where lightnings toss.

 

Should what is blindly willed break loose, you’re saved

by your unscared-off, mystic albatross.

J.A. dèr Mouw: 'De zee schuimt wolken naar de wolkenlagen'

 

De zee schuimt wolken naar de wolkenlagen,

de wolken reegnen zeeën in de oceaan;

boven de storm langs rustig zonn’ge baan

drijft de albatros, door windstilte gedragen:

 

hij hoort van ver de galop van de orkaan

door echoënd dal tussen de golven jagen

op ’t bliksemvolk dat, om zijn drift te plagen,

zijn fakkeldans op golftop rond doet gaan;

 

hij ziet in de afgrond van een wolkenkoker

ham’ren de wereldzee, witgroene moker;

en vastelanden scheuren dondrend los;

 

en boven dubb’le zee van zee en wolken,

aaneengeprikt door dans van bliksemvolken,

drijft breed in ’t stille zonlicht de albatros.

 

 

The sea flecks up clouds to where cloud banks stack,

the clouds rain seas into the sea below;

above the storm, borne on a breezeless flow,

the albatross drifts on its calm, bright track:

 

it hears far off the hurricane’s wild chase

galloping through great troughs that dip and lift

of lightning-folk who, keen to spoil this drift,

around the wave-tops let their torch-dance race;

 

it glimpses at a cloud-shaft’s bottom edge

the world-sea hammering, a white-green sledge;

and mainlands snap off at its pitch and toss...

 

above a double sea of clouds and ocean

pricked through with dancing torches, in slow motion

and steady sunlight drifts the albatross.

 

Inger Elisabeth Hansen: 'Å være eller ikke være albatross'

 

Å VÆRE ELLER IKKE VÆRE ALBATROSS

 

Drep ikke en albatross

la den få dø på vinden

den transoseaniske albatrossen jager ikke etter vind, den kan dø på vinden

Dreper du en albatross blir den hengende ved deg

den henger seg rundt halsen din og drar deg ned, ned

det vet gamle sjøfolk, de vet at det bringer ulykke med seg

å drepe en albatross, ve den skuta som har en albatross som er drept om bord

ve den skuta, albatrossen drar den ned, ned

for albatrossen skal dø på vinden

om vindene skifter retning, om alt er et jag etter vind

har albatrossen sin los, den kan dø på vinden, den kan lande der landes skulle

i form av bare fjær, fjærene etter seg selv

bare albatrossen kan det, den har losen på plass, den beste minnelosen

det vet gamle sjøfolk, skulle vindene skifte retning, skulle havet bli fullt

skulle elvene slutte å renne slik de før har rent

står Atlantis fremdeles på kartet i skallen på albatrossen

den kretser over Atlantis, der den har sin tid

slikt var det bare albatrossen som kunne

Når sluttet albatrossen

å kunne slikt som bare albatrosser kan?

Når begynte albatrossen å gå på kroken, å sprenge seg

i linene og bli et avfallsprodukt av lønnsomt linefiske? Spørsmålet er:

når forsvant albatrossen i albatrossen? Når begynte albatrossen

å dø på feil måter? Når begynte den å ta feil?

Når begynte den å forveksle plast med mat, når tippet den over

og ble en ripofag med en sykelig trang til å fortære søppel?

Hvor mange meter plast kan man hale ut av tarmen på en albatross?

Har du sett inn i tarmen på en albatross?

Når ble den en søppelavhengig, selvdestruerende styrtet skrott uten los?

Når tippet albatrossen over og ble en ripofag som snurrer rundt der ute

over havene av plast som snurrer og snurrer rundt der ute

uten minnelos, der Atlantis, der Atlantis?

 

 

TO BE OR NOT TO BE AN ALBATROSS

 

Do not kill an albatross

allow it to die on the wind

the transoceanic albatross is not chasing after the wind, it can die on the wind.

 

If you kill an albatross, it will keep hanging onto you

it will hang around your neck and pull you down, down

old mariners know this, they know that it brings bad luck

to kill an albatross, woe to the vessel that has a killed albatross on board

woe to that vessel, the albatross will pull it down, down

for the albatross is to die on the wind

if the winds change direction, if everything is a chasing after the wind

the albatross has its pilot, can die on the wind, can land where landing should take place

in the form of just feathers, the feathers left of it

only the albatross can do this, it has its pilot in place, the best memory pilot

old mariners know this, even if the winds were to change direction, the sea be full

the rivers cease to flow as they formerly have flowed

Atlantis would still be on the map in the skull of the albatross

it circles above Atlantis, where it has its time and season

as only the albatross is able to do

 

When did the albatross cease

to be able to do what only albatrosses can?

When did the albatross start to rise to the bait, to wear itself out

in the lines and become a waste product of profitable line fishing? The question is:

when did the albatross in the albatross disappear? When did the albatross start

to die in the wrong ways? When did it start to go wrong?

When did it start to mistake plastic for food, when did it tip over

and become saprophagous with a morbid urge to devour refuse?

How many metres of plastic can one pull out of the intestines of an albatross?

Have you seen inside the intestines of an albatross?

When did it become a refuse-dependent, self-destructive crashed carcass with no pilot?

When did the albatross tip over and become saprophagous, spinning around out there

above the seas of plastic that spin around and around out there

without a memory pilot where Atlantis, where Atlantis?