zkv92

ZKV92

lacunae

‘Your head’s like a sponge,’ ma says. I never know if this is a compliment, that it sucks up information at an impressive rate, or a criticism, that the holes in it are so large that information passes through without a squeeze.

I’ve done a lot of squeezing over the years. I have seven language systems to keep functional. The magnificent seven. No room for any more. Hasn’t been for years. They are my stalwart band of wayward warriors under their English commander. If the commander forgets a word, they can provide a clue. Or rather a clew, to lead me through the maze.

I’ve just seen the first boat in this year’s single-handed boat race, Silverrudder Challenge, pass by on the sound. Half an hour later another comes past. Rush hour.

I want the Danish word. It refuses to come. I try to latch onto the word in the other languages. Lacunae. Holes. Desertion. I’ve been monoglotted.

I sit still. Breathe slowly and deeply. I see rowing boats, those we could hire as kids and sail for half an hour on the pond. We would be called in when our time is up: ‘Come in Number 3!’ One by one the boats come in, their names alongside their numbers on the prow: myldretid, rusningstid, rushtid, Spitzenzeit, spitsuur, heure de pointe.

‘Time for tea,’ ma says.

zkv91

ZKV91

ibsen à la carte

On 18 July 1970, Clive Barnes wrote a review in The New York Times on two interpretations of ‘Hedda Gabler’ by Henrik Ibsen – by Miss Worth (in Ontario) and Miss Smith (in London). He found them extremely different but equally valid. The latter was directed by Ingmar Bergman, whose interpretation ‘eloquently scales down the play to a point where heroism is an illusion and tragedy a lapse of good manners’. Bergman’s ‘total concern is the sad littleness of life’. No heroics, no passion, like that of the Hedda played by Miss Worth. ‘Miss Smith is something both more wary and more vulnerable. She is suburban rather than patrician […] and there is a dry bitterness, a kind of sad humor, to her portrayal that in context is both sardonic and pathetic.’

It sounds convincing, but it wasn’t quite the case. I know. I was there in London. And saw Miss Smith in action – Miss Maggie still-going-strong Smith, to be more precise. She was electric on stage, dominating it by refusing to do so. And since I was brought up to believe that ‘heroism is an illusion and tragedy a lapse of good manners’, I was surprised that I could be so convinced by any play whatsoever, with my built-in distrust of ‘theatricals’. More means less if a concert by one classical guitarist on stage seems more powerful than a symphony orchestra at full throttle. Bergman took liberties with Ibsen, because he had his own obsessions and demons he wanted to get across. Miss Smith did the job.

ALS: 'Ontheffing'

17.05 exemption

I talk to the fluorescent man about exemption. His clothes are luminous, he can be seen from a great distance, he is entitled to exemption. In our neighbourhood, the secondary road N436 is being serviced, all motorised traffic has fallen silent – where there was always a din, everything has gone quiet. All the intersections are being watched over by luminous men and a single woman. I am a local resident – the term residential exemption applies to me. While I talk to the man about his family, where he lives and his mother, I realise for the first time that striving to gain exemption is of great importance in our kind of society. An official invalid does not have to pay parking money. A policeman has discretionary powers – in specific instances he is allowed to act as he sees fit. If you deal in apples, you eat apples. A car comes along, the controller makes his excuses, he opens the barrier, there is a woman behind the wheel, she delivers newspapers, she is allowed to cross the N436. He explains to me that a newspaper is a vital necessity, it is entitled to exemption. I ask him who decides that. His answer is: I do. A quarter of an hour later, the next car comes along, I see to my dismay a Polish number plate. I see him listen to the driver, he shakes his head, his lips do not move. The car turns round and drives back again. The man comes over to me again, he says without a trace of triumphalism: foreigners, I couldn’t understand them. That’s how it is – anyone who can’t be understood won’t get exemption.

ALS: 'De strik'

22.03 the noose

Le danger du succès, c’est qu’il nous fait oublier l’effroyable injustice du monde.

Il ne faut pas croire que la paresse soit inféconde. On y vit intensement, comme un lièvre qui écoute.

Le lièvre se blottit dans la haie, regarde les chiens dépistés et, tout à coup, sent que quelque chose le serre à la gorge: le collet.

the danger of success is that it causes us to forget the frightful injustice of the world.

So wrote Jules Renard on 13 January 1908 in his journal. When I read this, I happened to have a friend who had invented something which led to his becoming rich. I knew that he used that money to support people who had been devastated by some frightful injustice. On the quiet, he didn’t advertise the fact.

That same day, Renard wrote:

one would be wrong to think that laziness is unproductive. In such a state one lives intensely, like an alertly listening hare.

It occurs to me that I never see a hare any more. As I sit at table, I look outside across a large expanse of land. Earlier I often used to see hares frolicking, running, leaping over each other, lying there deathly still – that’s all over. No one is able to explain to me how this has come about, I can’t even blame the hunter, for there isn’t one. No hare, no hunter.

I leaf a bit through the journal. On 8 September 1907 he writes:

the hare snuggles up in the hedge, keeps an eye on the hounds that have lost the scent and, suddenly, feels something seize it by the throat: the noose.

A.L. Snijders: 'Tachtig'

11.01tachtig

In Woerden I am reading aloud short stories for eighty women in a small room – I’m the only man. I’ve been invited by the Woerden branch of the Dutch Association of Housewives, which has been in existence for eighty-five years. I’m well-prepared, I start with a story about a young man who is lying in his antique boat in a harbour that is designed for this type of boat. In a similar craft alongside is a female neighbour – they look at each other through the portholes. Her husband notices this, his jealousy is not destructive, in such a case he exerts himself a little more in matters of the heart. Not in vain – he regains pride of place. He cannot relax, however, for the neighbour is still there. But precisely this neighbour is content, for he is fond of women who are faithful. The housewives also approve, for all eighty of them clap their hands.

In the interval it would appear that I have been mistaken – only seven-nine have done the clapping. The one exception comes up to me in the interval and asks if I can’t pep things up a bit. After the interval, I have a story about a religious community in the Nevada desert. A strictly observant Buddhist couple live there in a plain tipi. One evening a tarantula enters the tent, the size of a hefty male fist. The woman is paralysed with fright, she mouths to her husband: ‘Kill it!’ He does not do so, she knows as well as he does that the whole of creation is sacred, that the taking of a life is the worst possible sin. The following day, she annuls their marriage. Now all the housewives clap. I can hear it – this time it really is all eighty of them.

Martinus Nijhoff: 'Mozart'

MOZART

The early sunlight quivers in each cypress,

Drifts like a long blond shadow through the grass

And, shivering, streams through high panes of glass,

Brightening the boudoir of the greying countess.

Each day's the same as that which has just yielded,

– Hear the bird trill above her though confined –

Once more her styled, white-powdered head's inclined

Over bright-tinted needlework, fine-gilded. 

At always the same hour someone's admitted

Who bows in silence and sits down to play,

And from the faint spinet's old heart each day

A tired sonata's faded scent's emitted.

Over the yellow keys she sees hands stalking,

– The themes expire yet constantly revive –

And through a window views the bridge, the drive,

The tiny coaches, those who are out walking. 

To see the original poem, go to here

Alex Garff: 'Septembers himmel er så blå'

Septembers himmel er så blå, 

dens skyer lyser hvide, 

og lydt vi hører lærken slå 

som for ved forårstide. 

Den unge rug af mulden gror 

med grønne lyse klinger, 

men storken længst af lande for 

med sol på sine vinger. 

Der er en søndagsstille ro 

imellem træ'r og tage, 

en munter glæde ved at gro, 

som var det sommerdage. 

Og koen rusker i sit græs 

med saften om sin mule, 

mens bonden kører hjem med læs 

der lyser solskinsgule. 

Hver stubbet mark, vi stirrer på, 

står brun og gul og gylden, 

og røn star rød og slaen blå, 

og purpursort står hylden. 

Og georginer spraglet gror 

blandt asters i vor have, 

sa rig er årets sidste flor: 

oktobers offergave. 

De røde æbler løsner let 

fra træets trætte kviste, 

Snart lysner kronens bladenet, 

og hvert et løv må briste. 

Når aftensolen på sin flugt 

bag sorte grene svinder, 

om årets sidste røde frugt 

den tungt og mildt os minder. 

At flyve som et forårsfrø 

for sommerblomst at blive 

er kun at visne for at dø, 

kan ingen frugt du give. 

Hvis modenhedens milde magt 

af livet selv du lærte, 

da slår bag falmet rosendragt 

dit røde hybenhjerte.

September’s skies are tall and blue,

its clouds gleam white and drifting,

and loudly trills the lark, anew

its springtime song uplifting.

From rich dark soil young rye has grown,

its green blades upward thrusting,

the stork though long since off has flown

with sun its wings encrusting.

A Sunday calm is everywhere

midst trees and roof-tops reigning,

a zestful growing fills the air,

past summer’s joy retaining.

At grass cows tug and munch away

with juice their mouths are swimming,

while farmers harvest home the hay

that golden sunshine’s skimming.

Each stubbled field we gaze on too

is golden, brown and yellow,

the rowan red, the sloe dull blue,

the elder’s purple mellow.

And dahlias of motley hue

midst asters now brim over,

their final flourish says adieu,

bids welcome to October.

Red apples will have loosened soon

from branches tired and weighted,

And tree-tops their thick crown have strewn,

each leaf to earth gyrated.

When evening sun drops down behind

black branches, fades and dwindles,

year’s last ripe fruit it calls to mind,

fond memories it kindles.

Like some spring seed to swirl and fly

and be some summer flower

is just to wither and to die

if fruit you can’t empower.

If though from life itself you gain

mature mild strength unfleeting,

when petals fade you will retain

a rose-hip heart full-beating.

Poem by the Irish poet Michael Longley in Danish

After Amergin

                 

I am the trout that vanishes

Between the stepping stones.

I am the elver that lingers

Under the little bridge.

I am the leveret that breakfasts

Close to the fuchsia hedge.

I am the stoat that dances

Around the erratic boulder.

I am the skein of sheep’s wool

Wind and barbed wire tangle.

I am the mud and spittle

That make the swallows’ nest.

I am the stonechat’s music

Of pebble striking pebble.

I am the overhead raven

With his eye on the lamb’s eye.

I am the night-flying whimbrel

That whistles down the chimney.

I am the pipistrelle bat

At home among constellations.

I am the raindrop enclosing

Fairy flax or brookweed.

I am waterlily blossom

And autumn lady’s tresses.

I am the thunderstorm

That penetrates the keyhole.

I am the sooty hailstone

Melting by the fireside.

I am the otter’s holt and

The badger’s sett in the dunes.

I am the badger drowning

At spring tide among flotsam.

I am the otter dying

On top of the burial mound.

Efter Amergin

  

Jeg er ørreden der forsvinder

Mellem vadestenene.

Jeg er glasålen der nøler

Under den lille bro.

Jeg er harekillingen der spiser morgenmad

Tæt op ad fuchsiahækken.

Jeg er lækatten der danser

Rundt vandreblokken.

Jeg er feddet af fåreuld

Viklet ind af vind og pigtråd.

Jeg er leret og spyttet

Der udgør svalens rede.

Jeg er den sortstrubede bynkefugls musik

Af rullesten mod rullesten.

Jeg er ravnen højt oppe

Der øjner lammets øje.

Jeg er den lille natflyvende regnspove

Der hvisler ned ad skorstenen.

Jeg er dværgflagermusen

Der er hjemme blandt stjernebilleder.

Jeg er regndråben der omslutter

Vild hør og samel.

Jeg er åkandeblomst

Og skrueaks.

Jeg er tordenvejret

Der trænger igennem nøglehullet.

Jeg er den sodsværtede hagl

Der smelter ved kaminen.

Jeg er odderboet og

Grævlingegraven i klitterne.

Jeg er grævlingen der drukner

Ved springflod blandt strandingsgods.

Jeg er odderen der omkommer

Oven på gravhøjen.

See Amergin Glúingel here

Dèr Mouw: 'the notes are swallows'

Nog hoorbaar, heel heel ver, is de avondtrein.–

Blauw naast groen korenveld een boer aan ’t werk.

Hei. Boven bos de toren van een kerk.

Rust, overal; ’t diepst op de spoorweglijn.

’t Is of de vijf telegraafdraden zijn

een notenbalk; de sleutel – ginds, die berk;

de noten zwaluwen, zwart op ’t rode zwerk;

de vlaggetjes hun staarten, lang en fijn.

En Mendelssohnse melodieën zingen

op ’t beukenpodium de gietelingen;

de nachtegaal vangt zijn nocturnes aan:

dat hij bij ’t hoogtepunt van zijn gezangen

goed uit zal halen, komt herinn’rend hangen,

als scheef point-d’orgue, ‘t boogje van de maan.

Still audible, far off, is the evening train.–

A farmer, blue against green corn, at work.

Heath. Above woods the tower of a church.

Quiet reigns – the railway track its prime domain.

Five lines of telegraph wires seem to trail

a stave; the clef – that birch tree can suffice;

the notes are swallows, black against red skies,

with stems and flags formed by their fine, long tails.

And from their beech-tree platform blackbirds sing

melodies with a Mendelssohnian ring;

the nightingale will start his nocturnes soon:

and, to remind him to call loud and clear

when his song gains its climax, there appears,

as skewed point-d’orgue, the crescent of the moon.

Link to the CD project of Pauline Oostenrijk here

HCA in his mid-20s - a poem to the ladies

Avis aux lectrices

Und wenn Du schiltst und wenn Du tobst,

Ich werd’ es geduldig leiden;

Doch wenn Du meine Werke’ nicht lobst,

Laß ich mich von dir scheiden.

H. Heine

I’m lacking something! – shall I state it clearly?

It’s common and comes hardly as a shock;

I’m lacking – yes – a young girl to love dearly –

Ah, heav’ns above! I’m now a laughing stock!

Should I then ne’er dare love, sweet dreams be tending?

What? Am I then not old enough for such?

God knows, I’d not a soul e’er be offending,

No, great affection’s what I crave so much!

For every poet, even folk most lowly

Have their own sweetheart – what a blessèd boon!

One’s feels so sad, quite faint, sighs come not slowly,

Oh, let me join them, join them very soon.

As yet though I see no one I’m in want of

That from my yearning heart can set me free;

God knows, my poetry I’m greatly fond of,

But, dearest Lord, that’s not enough for me!

No, I must have – ah, words are so deficient –

A sweetheart, shall my heart at last find rest;

A young girl, just a tiny one’s sufficient,

For I have love for two within my breast!

Oh come! keep my sweet hope from e’er decreasing;

For those in love great beauty too beget.

Though all my poems you must praise unceasing,

For I will break things off, should you forget!

“Fantasies and Sketches”, 1831