Marie Brummelhuis: 'Hunkeren'

 

Hankering

 

If you look up another word for hankering

at synonym.net, are you then perhaps pale and unhappy

with a worn-out corduroy jacket; a doomed poet

who hankers and gazes through a misted window-pane?

Tick tick tick, not the sound of a loved one’s heart

but the heating that has been turned up.

 

But there’s a draught in my cardboard attic room

mice rustle, at night I mummify myself

and listen to the groaning of creaking beds.

My downstairs neighbours are doing what people do

who are happy, or if not happy at least together,

there is no other word

for hankering.

 

Marie Brummelhuis: 'Natuurlijk ben je niet dood'

 *

 

Of course you’re not dead

 

otherwise your beard hairs

wouldn’t be sticking to the razor

that’s lying next to the soap dish

on the washbasin and otherwise

the woollen pullovers lying

in an untidy heap

on your side of the wardrobe

certainly wouldn’t smell of you

 

besides your voice is right there

on our ansaphone

I’ve probably listened to it eleven times this morning

and all eleven times you’ve promised to call back anyone

who says something after the tone as soon as possible

and the reason you haven’t done so in my case

is of course because I didn’t record anything

or perhaps you were busy with something else

I really mustn’t be so impatient

 

what’s more your passport with what is quite obviously

your photo is lying where our important papers 

always lie, in the top kitchen drawer

you know that as well as I do

only yesterday I looked there and oh yes

 

in that photo you’re surreptitiously wearing your quirky smile

something which according to the local authority officials

you’re apparently not allowed to

but fortunately you couldn’t care less about that

 

so it we wanted to

we could today still

be able to pack our suitcases

to go off travelling together.

Marie Brummelhuis: 'Mijn moeder is een mottig berin'

 

My mother is a moth-eaten she-bear,

behind her wheeled walker she roams back and forth

with lead in our shoes we children

come and visit her,

swimming in her belly

we have long since been deprived of.

All feeding forbidden

the sign next to the cage reminds us,

is stroking not allowed either?

 

We follow all commands obediently,

we maintain a suitable distance

though I want to cuddle her, when no one’s looking

I’ll cuddle her to death on the sly, or no

I’ll smuggle her out of here, she completely

harmless, she’ll never have to accept

fish again that was left over at the auction

or custard desserts in one of those Duralex plastic cups

doing tricks is over, no more psychologists

at her bedside who with a sneaky smile

ask you what day of the week it is

as if they themselves were senile.

 

My mother was a blackbird

I’ll take her straight to the garden

where she comes from, blue hortensias are in bloom

she is a hind and leaps over ditches

she’ll once more become the child that picks red berries,

no anti-bedsore mattress needed any more

native soil is so much softer.

 

Marie Brummelhuis: 'Stockholmsyndroom'

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME

 

Mum, how about a game of chess, he says for the umpteenth time.

The sun in his gaze if I don’t shake my head at once

I no longer dare to put out.

 

So we sit silently hunched over the chessboard

and cautiously slide our pieces over the smooth wood.

We are skaters afraid of slipping and falling, my son and I,

so different from how earlier my father let his black knights

dance over the battlefield with loud crashes,

his broad fingers ready to take grab my very last pawn.

Is it since then that I am a no longer a girl

that is fond of games?

 

The clock ticks too loudly, in the silent room I hear my own breath,

I want this plodding away through drifting snow

to be over quickly, let pieces be taken and feign regret,

My son drags out the game, chews cheerfully away

on chewing gum that has long since lost its flavour.

 

Get a move on, I say more sharply than I meant to,

he quickly sacrifices his rook, now our game will last a while yet.

At the same time we hold each other hostage: who’s the cat, who’s the mouse?

 

Grumpily our dead fathers look on.

 

Marie Brummelhuis: 'Heb je een begrafenisondernemer weleens zien huilen?'

 HAVE YOU EVER SEEN AN UNDERTAKER CRY?

 

Already as a toddler

I knew what I wanted to become,

definitely not a teacher or mother, that was boring and stupid,

not a pilot or firefighter either,

no, something so mysterious

I didn’t even know the word for it.

 

In the sandpit I practised digging holes,

for you don’t learn swimming from a book.

When my hamster Wiegel died

I consigned her (my mother thought

it was a female) to the earth

behind the shed in the garden,

sleep little baby, I hummed to myself.

That I wept and wept

made it all more lovely and genuine.

 

After that came some trickier fieldwork:

taking leave of my grandma.

I was allowed to be at the mass and the cemetery,

the jersey I was wearing was itchy

we scattered rose petals

I could throw farther than my younger brother,

we’d forgotten our handkerchiefs so I blew

a bogeyman into my new corduroy dress.

 

The moment you died

and I stayed tearless from misery,

my training was complete.

C.M. Bellman: 'Charon i luren tutar'

 

Fredman’s Epistle No. 79

 

Charon his horn is sounding,

Storm winds commence their howling,

Hawsers, ropes, sails start bounding

and come loose apace;

Moon’s nightly round is ending

Stars gleam with dismal cowling,

To its great change is bending

Life’s allotted space;

Soon will my hour-glass have emptied,

Charon’s oars all have attempted,

       Purling they burrow

       Deep in each furrow,

       Through bright waves sliding,

       Death’s bark is gliding,

Jet-black the funeral ferry down the river strokes

       To dust and smoke://:

       And ghosts’ loud bays.

 

Landladies oh so dashing,

Brace me for this my journey,

When on my fathers’ ashes

I’ll be heaped tonight.

Red-faced and voice quite throttled

Innkeepers stand there sternly,

Chalk me up nigh a bottle 

For my hat – that’s right.

Ma’am take the slate at the counter,

Rub out two pence for the flounder;

       Likewise please cut a

       Penny for butter;

       Further the eel-fish

       There in the green-dish;

Further the plump potato on which now I dine,

       It was most fine ://:

       And round and light.

 

While at my tankard sitting,

I my last will am writing;

This document most fitting,

Read, Ma’am, I implore;

Gone is this world’s dominion,

See how its taste’s more biting,

Heaven with stars its minions

Now above me soar.

I keep my tankard in motion –

Clang, what a brew, what a potion,

       Foam mounts and frizzles,

       Froth almost sizzles,

       Drops in full spate float

       Down on my greatcoat.

That hit the spot, Ma’am Maja, that was beer that sang.

       Clang, Ma’am, cling-clang! ://:

       Off Charon’s shore.

 

My head droops at all angles,

All of me’s forward nosing,

It seems my neck just dangles.

But, ye Gods, I wince

As tearful eyed I’m glaring

At all my rags imposing

Which once, no padding sparing,

Buttoned as if pinned;

Aren’t though my breeches quite charming,

These garments oh so disarming?

       Waistcoat’s distended

       All the rest mended

       Stockings in creases,

       Heels worn to pieces,

And that fine shirt, Ma’am Maja, was – please note my thrift –

       Beckman’s wife’s shift ://:

       Just two years since.

 

Now midships I stand quaking,

Heav’ns, how the rudder’s creaking,

Shadows all for the taking,

Lapping waves so slight;

Aeolus drowns all crying,

Charon’s shrill whistle’s shrieking,

Help! Hear dark shadows sighing

How their moans affright;

Thunder and northern lights’ flashes,

Lightning that through the sky dashes

       Arched o’er the river,

       See the Plough quiver,

       Stars no more quicken.

       Shores slowly thicken,

Till from the sombre shadow all last light departs;

       My torment starts. ://:

       So, Ma’am, good night!

Pereboom

 

ZKG14

 

ZKG14

 

november

 

and i left my wailing wife

and walked the country roads

awash with leaves long dead

and emptiness

and the lapwing's swooping flight

across ploughed fields

and its whooping cry

that does not mean but is

 

Dèr Mouw: 'Dof violet is 't west en paarsig grijs.'

 

Dof violet is ’t west en paarsig grijs.

Nog wandel ’k door het zwaar berijpte gras,

en hoor naast me op de vaart het fijn gekras

van schaatsen over ’t hol rinkelend ijs:

 

ik heb ’t gevoel, of ’k op ’t bevroren glas

cirklend, zwevend, zwenkend op kunst’ge wijs,

met ’t buigend bovenlichaam daal en rijs:

’t is in mijn rug, of ’k zelf op schaatsen was.

 

Zo hoop ’k dat, langs wiens geest mijn verzen glijen,

alleen, in paren, of in lange rijen,

schomm’lend op maat en rijm van hollands staal,

 

dat hij de wind, die mij droeg, zelf hoort waaien,

en ’t fijn slierten en ’t heerlijk brede zwaaien

voelt van zijn eigen stemming in mijn taal.

 

 

 

Dull mauve and purple-grey the western skies.

I’m walking still through frost-encrusted grass,

and hear on the canal close by the harsh

thin scrape of skates on hollow-tinkling ice:

 

and on the frozen glass it feels as though,

circling, floating, swerving with artful skill,

bent from the waist, I rise and fall at will:

my back feels as if skating made it flow.

 

I hope who thus can feel my verses glide –

alone, in pairs, or rows that stretch out wide,

rolling on pulse and rhyme of prime Dutch steel –

 

that he the wind that bore me can hear playing,

and in my words the marvellous broad swaying 

and sliding of his spirits too may feel.

 

 

Hans Adolph Brorson (1694-1764): 'Op! al den ting som Gud har gjort'

 

Up! Everything that God has made

 

Up! Everything that God has made,

His glory now be praising,

The smallest creature too is great,

And proves his might amazing.

 

Though earth’s great kings came forward, clad

In all their might and mettle,

The smallest leaf they could not add

To but a single nettle.

 

Yea! all the angels with their power,

Like sceptres in high station,

Have never caused at any hour

A speck of dust’s creation.

 

The smallest blade in vale or wood

No wonder can excel it,

Where should I wisdom gain and could

Find ample words to tell it?

 

What should I do now when my mind

Is slow in comprehending

How great the host of humankind

Their earthly way are wending.

 

What shall I utter, when I see

The woods with life abounding,

The many birds that leap with glee

Beneath the heaven’s rounding?

 

What shall I utter, when I walk

Among the meadow’s flowers,

When all the birds in song do talk

Like thousand harp-string showers?

 

What shall I utter, when my mind

Down on the sea’s bed merely

So little in its depths can find

And many mouths see clearly?

 

What shall I utter, when I yearn

To gaze at heaven rightly,

And all my thoughts will upwards turn

To where the sun reigns brightly?

 

What shall I utter, when I see

How hosts of stars are gleaming,

How mildly each smiles down at me,

And I return their beaming?

 

What shall I utter, when I soar

In spirit to my Maker?

And see th’angelic hosts in awe

Stand mustered by the acre?

 

What shall I utter? All I say

Says nothing and seems mindless;

Oh God! Your wisdom rules alway,

As do your power and kindness.

 

All that’s imbued with spirit shall

Our Maker soon be meeting.

His praise shall sound in hill and vale,

This earthly world completing.

 

Oh! Praise the Lord all those below

With voice and senses willing,

And all who dwell above now show

Our Maker’s praise in singing.

 

Let all below with one accord

Join joyfully in winging

Their Hallelujah! Great our Lord –

Amen the heav’ns are ringing.