zkv46

A Toon Tellegen poem about the world of words

at a window

I stand at a window.

I see words coming.

Some words I recognise:

although, red, previously,

nevertheless in its flapping jacket,

truthfulness, imperfect...

Some clamber onto each other’s shoulders.

‘Who are you?’ they shout.

‘Overcast,’ I shout.

‘Heavily or fairly?’ they ask.

‘Slightly,’ I say. ‘Slightly overcast.’

I lower my eyes.

I wish I was glittering

or somewhat

or even more: notwithstanding.

It starts to rain.

Although looks up, her cheeks grow wet.

Far and wide run away.

Darkness falls.

Poem by the Flemish poet Andy Fierens

MUMMIES AND DADDIES

mummies love daddies

daddies love mummies

usually a mummy gives

her love to one daddy

(the converse also applies)

day after day

just gives love

to the same daddy

or the same mummy

it sometimes happens

that the one contains

more love

than the other is

                      equal to

we say about these others

that he/she is satiated

or quenched

the one (daddy/mummy) then has

a residue of love

and we sometimes call this

the surplus (that is jargon)

pay attention now

what follows is important

love has a limited shelf life

that means

that it can go sour

just like milk

what’s such a daddy or mummy to do

with that surplus?

let it go bad?

let it languish in some corner?

or could they

perhaps

use it to make

someone else happy?

a daddy or mummy who is lonely?

no right-minded

person can

object to that

you might think

or?

but as you all know

with adults

you never know

imagine mummy gives her surplus

to another daddy

one of those who’s lonely

then there’s a big chance that your

daddy will call your mummy a whore

that means that daddy is not happy

that he

is ventilating his dis-satis-fac-tion

or imagine daddy gives some love

to some lonely mummy or other

then it’s not unlikely that your mummy

runs through the house

screaming strange things

such as i’ll milk you dry

to the last penny

or

just wait till you’re asleep you bastard

and i’ll smear

tar on your balls

that’s terrible

it sometimes happens that a daddy gives

his surplus to another daddy

and sometimes things get patched up

between mummy and daddy

(but if daddy gives his surplus

to another daddy

usually not)

that’s how it goes with adults

later when you’ve become an adult

and married

or live together with someone

or have a living-apart-together realisation

the chance is pretty big

that you’ll notice sooner or later

that you’ve a surplus

then above all you must make

someone else happy with it

for life is short

and senseless without love

but you’ll probably have to learn

to keep your mouth clamped shut

for silence is golden

and girls you don’t want to be whores do you?

and boys you don’t want tar on your balls do you?

but such worries are for the future

just start by looking up the meaning

of the word jargon

zkv45

Early poem by David Koker (27 November 1921 - 23 February 1945)

Sabbath

We looked up at each other from our reading

quite simultaneously. And through our eyes

there passed the very same serene surprise

that everything could be so good and pleasing.

Within these walls, where joy all haste is spurning,

where in their sunlike, unassuming shine

white, slender Sabbath candles now are burning,

life’s smallest things can seem both whole and fine.

Glimmering light-spots dancing on the ceiling

the table of a never-ending white,

with dishes motionless and softly gleaming,

the wine, the pure white bread. Oh how this sight

expressed such solemn presence, nonetheless

seemed so aloof. We find ourselves constrained

for just one instant by bright giddiness

yet to what’s innermost have been ordained,

and like the things around us self-contained

have we become as we observe each other,

re-find ourselves in space so bountiful.

Each in his solitude and yet together –
such was our Sabbath, and so wonderful.

A poem by C. Buddingh'

Pluk de dag

vanochtend na het ontbijt

ontdekte ik, door mijn verstrooidheid,

dat het deksel van een middelgroot potje marmite

(het 4 oz net formaat)

precies past op een klein potje heinz sandwich spread

natuurlijk heb ik toen meteen geprobeerd

of het sandwich spread-dekseltje

ook op het marmite-potje paste

en jawel hoor: het paste eveneens

Seize the day

this morning after breakfast

I discovered, through my absent-mindedness,

that the lid of a medium-sized jar of marmite

(the 4 oz net one)

precisely fits a small jar of heinz sandwich spread

naturally I immediately checked

if the sandwich spread lid

also fitted the marmite jar

and yes indeed: it fitted as well

HCA the Scandinavian

‘A Scandinavian I!’

We Scandinavians are a single people,

Although three kingdoms are our native lands;

Yet one of heaven’s great gifts makes us equal:

Our hearts now form a whole with steadfast bands!

Let all past wrongs between us be forgotten:

Margrethe’s purer spirit is begotten

That now unites us, threefold strength supplies us,

Our language unifies us.

On hills, in woods, on night-blue sea I cry

Aloud with joy: A Scandinavian I!

Join me on Dovre’s peaks and Jökel’s glacier,

Hear thundering waters, farming maiden’s song;

Fresh lake and mountain air breathe in and savour,

I walk where once Norse gods did stride along;

And if I most would hear of men of glory,

Of Olaf, Hakon, Harald and their story,

Then mountainwards! with mighty rock-built castles

Stands Norway richly marshalled

In gleam of Northern lights, where seas run high;

I love you well! A Scandinavian I!

Come, take the swiftest boat, let steam transport us,

Let rivers and great lakes our roads now be!

Sail over mountains with tall birch below us

Exhaling scent! Oh, Sweden I love thee!

From here once Gustav Adolf’s name resounded,

The last true Northern knight of fame unbounded.

Some bark-bread, and the Swedish peasant’s singing,

Frugality him winging,

He sings the songs that bards did once supply,

As we do too: A Scandinavian I!

A fresh bouquet of corn and hops and clover

Is Denmark! Come and see our woods of beech!

The gentle plains its spirit’s sons rove over,

And horses’ clanging hooves all corners reach –

To art and science we Denmark would be showing,

Of this small land all Europe shall be knowing:

Through Thorvaldsen its name in stone is ringing,

Through Tycho first set winging;

A rose is Denmark! Scandinavian, tell

Of sea-tossed land where flowering spirits dwell!

Let not this unity e’er wilt or wither,

Let Norway, Sweden, Denmark stay as one;

The ancient folk-songs bind us all together,

Their melody’s a bond surpassed by none.

The seed of unity promotes good harvest,

To East and West our bold gaze reaches farthest,

In joy and sorrow, here our home is nearest!

Here those live who are dearest!

From fir and birch and beech, in sea and sky

Let joy’s song sound: A Scandinavian I!