Manuel Kneepkens: 'Tuin van eetlust'

 

TUIN VAN EETLUST

 

Op koele zomeravonden als de familie smakkend tot zich nam

groene haring, gevolgd door slierasperges in botersaus

biefstuk, salade, pommes frites, en toe

aardbeien, slagroom, mocca en vanille

 

dan deinden zij, de tantes, als pioenrozen, als zwaargassige

ballonnen op hun steel, op de golfslag van hun lacherigheid

in alle malse borsten koerde hoorbaar Wagner

 

zo dronken ze wijn na wijn

tot elk hoofd paus pius twaalf leek in het Heilig Jaar

zo bleek!

 

tenslotte nam dan oom na oom, stomdronken, afscheid

en van elke tante wiegde het romig achterwerk weg

alleen de nacht bleef over, die hele oude dame

die pauwblauwe waaier voor de eenzame glimlach

van het heelal

god van de vlinders, dan sliep je!

de ramen open, kostbare dromen ten prooi

 

 

THE GARDEN OF EATING

 

On cool summer evenings when the family noisily consumed

green herring, followed by choice asparagus in butter sauce

a steak, salad, french fries, topped off with

strawberries and cream, mocha and vanilla

 

they then heaved, the aunts, like peonies, like gas-brimful

balloons on their stems, on the swell of their eruptive laughter

in every tender breast Wagner audibly cooed

 

they then drank glass after glass of wine

until each head resembled Pope Pius XII in the Jubilee Year

so pale!

 

finally uncle after uncle, drunk as a lord, said goodbye

and the creamy derriere of every aunt swayed away

leaving only the night, that ancient lady

that peacock-blue fan for the lonely smile

of the universe

god of the butterflies, then you slept!

the windows open, a prey to precious dreams

 

Patty Scholten: 'Hollandse eenheidsprijzen maatschappij Amsterdam'

 

Hollandse

eenheidsprijzen

maatschappij Amsterdam

 

Zo Hollands als de erwtensoep met spek.

Het volk is één, al zitten er scholieren

te SMS’en, kletsen met z’n vieren.

Een kind sproeit roze Fristi in my neck.

 

Bejaarden hebben hier hun vaste stek

voor stamppot, boerenkool met worst, papieren

servetje in hun boord tegen het klieren.

Ook havermout met basterd is in trek.

 

Het restaurant heet nu joyeus De Keuken,

met tegels om de keuken op te leuken.

Er zijn wel negen soorten vruchtenthee.

 

Marie en Fientje werden Marthe, Fini

en een kadetje noemt men een panini.

Straks moeten we aan de saucisse fumée.

 

 

Dutch

single-price

company Amsterdam

 

As truly Dutch as pea soup with diced bacon.

One nation all, though school children are at

their texting, foursomes at the chat.

And down my neck pink Fristi some child’s shaken.

 

The oldies here consume their daily ration

of hotchpotch, kale and sausage, on their plate

a paper serviette to keep things straight.

And porridge with brown sugar’s quite in fashion.

 

The Kitchen is the restaurant’s swish name,

with lots of tiles to imitate the same.

They’ve nine or so fruit teas in fine array.

 

Marie and Fientje changed to Marthe, Fini

and a long roll is now called a panini.

It’s time we tackled the saucisse fumée.

 

Eduard Mörike (1804-75): 'September-Morgen'

 

September-Morgen

 

Im Nebel ruhet noch die Welt,

Noch träumen Wald und Wiesen:

Bald siehst du, wenn der Schleier fällt,

Den blauen Himmel unverstellt,

Herbstkräftig die gedämpfte Welt

In warmem Golde fließen.

To hear the poem read in German, go to here.

 

 

September Morning

 

In daybreak mist still rests the world,

With meadows, woods still dreaming:

Soon, once the veil far off has swirled,

The blue sky you will see unfurled,

The autumn-strong though muted world

In warm gold gently streaming.

To hear the poem read in English, go to here.

 

(1827)

Joris Iven: 'Je vrienden zeggen dat...'

 

JE VRIENDEN ZEGGEN DAT…

 

aan Pearse H. 

 

Gister was ik op Cap Gris Nez, niet ver van hier.  

Ornithologen zaten er op vouwstoeltjes 

in het hellinggras. Ze bestudeerden met verrekijkers het migratiegedrag 

van vogels. Deze kaap

is een oriëntatiepunt op hun trek naar het zuiden.  

Collega’s zeggen dat je breekbaar bent geworden, ook je vrienden

zeggen dat. Ik ken het pad van de kroeg

langs de achtertuinen naar je huis. Catalaanse muts, eeuwige regenjas,

draagtas met blikken Heineken. Ik ken je pad. 

Je moet niets verklaren,

je moet voor niets verontschuldiging vragen. Er is weinig gebeurd

sinds we elkaar laatst zagen. Ik ben teruggekeerd naar

deze uithoek waar altijd weinig gebeurt. Het is genoeg geweest,

ook, het is genoeg geweest. Heel soms 

tuft een auto door de straat en waaien bladeren van berken en wilde

kastanjebomen op. In de vooravond tikt

de verwarming. Vanmorgen tijdens een wandeling 

zag ik late paddestoelen in het bermgras. 

Ik praat in termen van een gebeurtenis.

Het is oktober. Je handen zijn bijna doorzichtig geworden,

je stappen bijna richtingloos. Ook dat zeggen je vrienden. En jij –

onnozele ziel die in ware zachtaardigheid leefde –

zocht hen op waar ze ook waren.

Op Cap Gris Nez kon ik sommige vogels – 

sternen, paapjes en tapuiten – nauwelijks onderscheiden 

van de rotsrichel waarop ze zaten.  

Slierten dichte mist hingen voor de kust –

een sedimentatie van kalksteen, krijt en leem,

zandsteen en zand. Jij las gedichten in het Keltisch, zocht taallagen in 

plaatsnamen, strandde in Achnasheen. 

Barcelona, Belfast, Achnasheen.

Uiteindelijk strandde je. Ik praat deze dagen vaak met je, 

in gedachten. Mensen als wij oriënteren zich op mensen

als wij. Mijn moeder zegt: kluizenaars, 

dronkaards. Hoe dan ook, 

als ik je kom bezoeken, breng ik Belgisch bier mee, 

en boeken.

 

 

YOUR FRIENDS SAY SO…

 

to Pearse Hutchinson

 

Yesterday I was on Cap Gris Nez, not far from here.

Ornithologists were sitting there on folding-chairs

in the hillside grass. They were studying through binoculars 

the migration behaviour of birds. This cape

is a point of reference on their flight south.

People say you have become fragile, your friends

say so, too. I know the path from the pub

past the back-gardens to your house. Catalan cap, eternal rain-coat,

bag with cans of Heineken. I know your path.

You don’t have to explain anything,

you don’t have to ask an excuse for anything. Nothing much has happened

since we last met. I have returned to

this remote corner where nothing much ever happens. Enough, though,

it’s also been enough. Once in a while

a car chugs through the street and leaves of birches and wild

chestnuts swirl up. In the early evening the heating

clicks. On my walk this morning

I saw late toadstools in the roadside grass.

I’m talking of an event here.

It is October. Your hands have become nearly transparent,

your steps almost lack direction. This your friends say too. And you –

a simple soul living in true gentleness –

called on them wherever they were.

On Cap Gris Nez I was scarcely able

to distinguish some birds – terns, whinchats and wheatears –

from the ledge of rock on which they sat.

Trails of dense mist hung off the coast –

deposits of limestone, chalk and clay,

sandstone and sand. You read poems in Gaelic, sought linguistic strata

in place names, stranded in Achnasheen.  

Barcelona, Belfast, Achnasheen.

Finally you stranded. I often talk with you at present,

in my thoughts. People like us gravitate to people

like us. Hermits, my mother says,

drunkards. Anyway, 

when I come to visit you, I'll have Belgian beer with me,

and books.

Gerrit Komrij: 'Contragewicht'

 

CONTRAGEWICHT

 

Er is een land dat ik met pijn verliet,

Er is een land dat ik met pijn bewoon.

Een derde land daartussen is er niet.

Mijn leven volgt een zonderling patroon:

 

Want waar ik heenga voel ik me niet thuis

En waar ik thuis ben wil ik telkens weg.

De grens wordt smal tussen geluk en kruis,

Steeds minder denk ik wat ik hardop zeg.

 

Ik heb, om aan dit noodlot te ontkomen,

Een derde land verzonnen in mijn hoofd,

Een land vertroud met leugens en fantomen.

 

Aan diepgewortelde en zware bomen

Hangen honkvast de loden trossen ooft

Van al mijn vederlicht geworden dromen.

 

 

COUNTERWEIGHT

 

There is a land I left behind with pain,

There is a land which I in pain inhabit.

A third land in between is sought in vain.

My life observes a pattern that’s erratic.

 

Wherever I part for I’m not at home,

Wherever I'm at home I’d rather part.

Torment and joy will soon resemble clones,

My words and thoughts are growing miles apart.

 

I have, in order to escape this fate,

Invented a third land within my head,

A land where lies and phantoms congregate.

 

On firmly rooted trees that ride all weathers

Hangs the home-loving fruit, like weights of lead,

Of all my dreams now light as any feather.

 

Joris Iven: 'Acht uur'

 

EIGHT O’CLOCK

 

As often as not I have gone and sat down at my writing desk at eight o’clock.

I have switched on the lamp. I have leaned forward over the white sheet

of paper and the words danced before my eyes. As often as not

I have then thought of great exemplary figures. Of Isaak Babel,

for example, who wrote that no iron can pierce a human heart with

such icy cold as the point that is placed at precisely the right

moment. That kind of sentence surfaced in me and I wrote nothing down.

I have wanted to commit myself to everything, though not to a woman,

a house, a form. Then I thought, keep going, don’t digress,

don’t dawdle. Time has passed quickly since eight o’clock,

when I switched on the lamp and sat down here. I didn’t read, or

talk. Who on earth should I talk to alone in this house?

As often as not I have thought that the unspoken word

could accomplish more than the mightiest deed. But no matter

how hard I laboured at it, I have never written a single line

that knew of my existence. Often I have wanted to get up and hand

myself over to life. On one occasion I lacked the courage

to do it, on another occasion I choked back my fear. But I have always

experienced life as being exhausting; not writing.

Just once in a while everything could become clear above a sheet of

paper. For that one instant I have sat for hours at the writing

desk. For each time that I have lived, I have

passed myself by. I looked up and it was eight o’clock.

To see the original poem, go to 'Onderdak', Parnassusreeks · 23, p. 83

 

 

Joris Iven: 'Je ging de verkeerde richting uit...'

 

YOU WENT IN THE WRONG DIRECTION…

 

To Katherina M.

 

My father has asked me to send you his prayer card.

I have often followed in his footsteps, also when he

visited you. One afternoon, we spent

a whole afternoon lazing around

in Brasserie Le Soleil,

sipping at our glasses, playing billiards, phoning.

Hell has a past, it has a name

and a face.

It lies down at te end of the A604,

on the other side of the Maas,

turn right, exit Boverie.

Everything is grey there, the sky, the hills, the houses. Clouds of smoke

rise up from cooling towers and storage tanks. Chimneys, electricity masts,

antenna towers have dropped down in the city like arrows of god. The sombre

Cockerill Sambre. You wandered in the poverty of textile workshops,

collapsed roofs, smashed windows. You dreamt

you were far away in Las Vegas. The lorries that left the Lager

were chock-full. Young men, emaciated bodies, ravaged hearts.

Fremdarbeiter, Fremdkörper. You did not want to travel with them.

You came all the way here from Kassel on your own, you went

in the wrong direction, and you didn’t

go quite far enough.

We made the wrong decisions,

Kathya, we made the wrong decisions.

You ended up stranded

on the Place des Tourterelles.

Couldn’t you have found some other spot in the whole world, you lame-winged

turtle dove? I see you standing with this letter, this card, in your hand,

six floors up, by the window. In your field of vision

grey barracks of natural stone, trash cans, willow trees,

rusty playground gear. A bent old woman goes inside,

a daughter unloads shopping from her car. The square is deserted.

The wind decides the rhythm of the rain. Droplets stick to the glass

for a moment,

and then slide slowly off.

The panes go misty.

You recall

that afternoon with my father.

Years of searching, tossing and turning and not being able to sleep

fill the room. A shaft of light falls in –

and explodes in the glass chandelier

above the table.

On the cabinet the photo of your likeness trembles. No one says

anything about a daughter, a walking stick, a hearing aid.

It was that damn brain haemmorhage that crippled you.

You feel giddy, even when lying down.

You have arthritis.

Your gestures slow down.

I give you a cigarette

and you say:

this is all I need.

 

To see the original, go to 'Onderdak', Parnassusreeks · 23, pp. 104-105

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Paris'

Paris

 

Paris, hvor er Du dog lystig og glad,

En dandsende Adam uden Figenblad!

Du spiser af Frugten, og uden al Sky.

Og naar den er spiist — vil Du have en ny.

 

 

Paris

 

Oh Paris, you’re merry beyond all belief

An Adam who’s dancing though wearing no leaf!

You’ve tasted the fruit, and without any shame.

And when it’s been eaten – want more of the same.

 

Anna Greta Wide: 'Det knaggliga. Det småttiga'

 

Det knaggliga. Det småttiga.

Det av rena toner och klara tårar evigt oförlösta.

Själens småsår, alltid på samma ställen,

upprivna, alltid på nytt, av samma smutsiga naglar.

Knappast blödande. Bara kliande.

Blod är skönt och farligt. Klåda är bara löjlig,

löjlig och ful ... Och ingen kärlek hjälper —

bara smärtan kan, i en stund av bittraste frihet,

plötsligt rista ett rakt rött streck över alltsammans,

blödande ymnigt och rent.

 

 

The craggy. The piffling.

The eternally unresolved by pure tones and clear tears.

The soul’s small wounds, always in the same places,

scratched open, time after time, by the same dirty nails.

Hardly bleeding. Merely itching.

Blood is lovely and dangerous. Itchiness simply pitiful,

pitiful and ugly… And no love helps –

only pain can, in a moment of the bitterest freedom,

suddenly slash a straight red streak through everything,

bloodily copious and pure.

 

 

Ragnar Thoursie: 'Kråkorna skrattar'

 

The crows are laughing

Contents

 

 

 

Prelude:

CROWS AROUND TEGNÉR

 

 

Chorus of crows’ and old men’s voices:

EARTHLY LAMENTATION

Motto from Esias Tegnér’s ‘Spleen’, 1825

 

I                    (To annihilation)

II                  (November)

III                (Hearing of prayer)

IV                (Death unavoidable)

V                  (Death’s kiss)

VI                (The crow and the old man)

VII               (The old man and the swallows)

VIII             (Downwards)

IX                (The final room)

X                  (The waiting)

XI                (Tired of life)

XII              (Wordless poem)

XIII            (Repairing tailor)

XIV             (Washing day at the old-man poet’s)

XV               (Poet at twilight)

XVI             (Madman’s guard)

XVII           (The devil’s mirror)

XVIII         (The harangue)

XIX             (Cancer’s secret)

XX               (The old man’s complaint)

XXI             (The mark)

XXII           (Alone)

XXIII         (On sight and care)

XXIV         (Cold)

XXV           (Understand first now)

XXVI         (Lamentation)

XXVII       (Blessed beverage)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The crows are laughing

 

 

Prelude:

 

Crows around Tegnér

 

 

Crows in sleet;

black limes against the white sky of the episcopal

residence. The scavengers flock together, laugh

at Death, the Right Reverend,

my torment. And under the Cathedral’s double spire – a

skyward claw – the scrawny city huddles.

 

In broad daylight, shamelessly to any eye-

witness, he comes in the litter, ‘The Old Man on the Hill’;

crows escort him – they start their

day’s work. Soon as witnesses they sit wide-eyed in a row on a roof-edge

resemble poorly-paid clergymen; black

cloaks folded on their backs and stained waistcoats.

Along with co-opted house-sparrows: peck at horse droppings

on Main Street.

                                           All this while Doctor Selldén’s wife lifts her chemise

                                                                                                   for the great man.

 

They believe they have seen what ought not to be seen.

They believe they have heard what ought not to be heard.

They believe something has happened anew that ought not to happen.

They caw indignantly their message

with cracked voices into the late-winter day.

 

. . .

 

What is the more shameless? To caw

like crows in Växjö – every morning the gossip

becomes World History. Or to make love

to Emili and subsequently mount a pulpit.

 

What does the early-bird crow care about the night’s

torment. What do those that yawn and gossip,

that flutter their black wings at the sky in the daytime

matter to you when you alone

                                                         are to meet our Lord and Maker.

 

 

 

 

Chorus

of crow and old men’s voices

 

 

Earthly lamentation

 

 

 

 

 

‘Tell me, you watchman, how the night progresses!

Is it unceasing, will it never end?

The moon, half-eaten, through the sky’s still presses,

The tearful stars still through the heavens wend.

My pulse beats fast as in my youth’s successes,

Hours of affliction though it cannot mend.’

 

 

 

I

 

Today myriads of vermin, small black

bugs: on my profusely flowering Hibiscus.

 

And in my life they also gush forth – unexpectedly

myriads of black memory-bugs: fierce small

nips, poisonous words, mortal stings, hordes of secret signs

of hatred... Time to put an end to this, my Hibiscus!

 

 

II

 

Darkness slowly descends

over my garden. Soon only black

contours visible: the juniper on its lonely

watch in the snow, and the impenetrable hedge.

Night grows more compact around my life, what is past.

Only the longing for You lights with a flickering flame.

 

 

III

 

Else I’d expected on life’s last slope.

Carnations, not hatred’s envelope.

 

Clothes black as night. Faces veils are concealing.

Guests sadly gliding, with shoes that are gleaming.

Then she thanks God, who has answered her prayer.

 

 

IV

 

Death unavoidable

is blocking my path.

With an evil grin,

the keen scythe

laid over his knee.

 

Doesn’t budge this time.

Wants to see me give way.

 

-------------

 

Don’t believe Death –

not mild, but scrawny.

No, He hacks

hungrily with the axe.

 

Gauges exactly

the depth of your torment.

 

-------------

 

Spruce forest snow-laden

mile upon mile.

Such is the path

 

up to the old one’s meeting.

 

 

V

 

Poor my preparation.

Woe, alas and dread in my soul.

It most resembles a rag in shreds.

No plucky resolve to stay silent

and suffer. No, a coward’s

moaning, when night tightly holds me.

       A kiss so cold, a claw-like toe.

       What use is welfare on

       a farewell journey. No son, no sister

       allays death’s pain,

       now numbing my heart.

 

 

VI

 

Dirty grey, ruffled by rain,

heavy with years, despised.

- Crow in the courtyard. Attempts a dignified walk:

teeters, totters, scouts (like a weather-vane);

 

laboriously takes off, a crash,

                                           to another corner of the yard.

 

. . .

 

Behind the curtain a pop-eyed old man.

Scratches his beard-stubble, his nails cracked,

nasty taste in his mouth: lonely

                                                                the final years.

 

 

VII

 

Close to the heavy front-door of my rented lodgings

       (that will be my last)

swallows have built their airy nest, briefly,

       in a ventilator eaten by rust.

 

Old man thinks every morning: - Ah, if only my soul

       could leave earthly life as lightly as those on the wing!

 

 

VIII

 

Sixteen stairs. Heavier each

time; hand on banister. Somewhere

memory fails. Seventh stair

and the old man’s forgotten:

Why did I set out? Thinks: count-

less rounds, up – and down.

Up to carry out,

down to recall. What.

Slowly life passes. Downwards.

 

 

IX

 

Four walls limit

my field of vision, the ceiling a lid:

a box, rented from co-op housing.

Wait and see – when the contract

the white one signed by the Lord

may expire and the box be nailed shut again...

 

like a coffin – it soon shall be closed, and reassured

I once more whisper through my evening prayer.

 

 

X

 

Precisely, almost scientifically

pedantically I keep the ledger of my

nonsensical life. In so doing

bring order into what it is meaning-

less. While waiting.

 

 

XI

 

Lion in cage.

Three paces, satiated with power.

And back. The broad nose

kisses the steel wall.

 

I likewise in my final

asylum: lap upon lap

my thoughts take

the last paces. In vain

 

searching for an exit.

 

 

XII

 

Old poet writes poems

                                           about death.

As if discovered first now

                                           where life is heading.

Astonished the eye blinks at the inexorable.

No longer a play on words – no

                                           a wordless while

when you conclude your last poem.

 

 

XIII

 

Old trousers as if new – before

when they were turned inside-out.

 

But the known, accustomed

and much-turned words: turn them

around and inside out. But no

more meaning came out of that!

 

 

XIV

 

Old-man poet much to do:

Mops up a drop, dirty behind.

Darns a stanza that’s got a hole.

- White as a sheet, I grassp my penn.

Oh, what laundrying it would need

were I to wash my past until

clean! Here all that’s to be done is

to darn and mend and wash one’s life’s

most noticeable stains.

 

 

XV

 

Seven lines, seldom more.

And yet too much.

 

So little his day’s work

and yet immense:

 

                      to find

                      the final

                                    words.

 

 

XVI

 

The deranged, demented, debilitated

deservedly guarded.

 

Arrogantly rattling heavy

key-bunches of prohibitions.

 

. . .

 

But no longer do the

keys fit his existence.

 

Seeks in vain to guard

over his own insanity.

 

 

XVII

 

Pointed nose, varicosed legs.

paunch heavy and ditto pouch.

Memory poor – for injusticies ever young.

Coquettish: wig awry and a wine-

red swearing to the black ulster.

Look in the mirror: Who are you like,

old man? Oh yes, the Evil One himself;

 

friendly smile he still bestows

on your world whose end near grows.

 

 

XVIII

 

Like an intractable old crone:

knows plenty, has learnt little.

shuts her dentured mouth up tight

except when it ought to stay silent.

Blue veins, red eye-slits,

strands of beard – and yet coquetting

with her conceit. Boasts

of her age, insists on respect

for her ailments. Sucks on her

lump of sugar. Such is

 

Humanity’s last madness: wrangles with death.

 

 

XIX

 

Grey-stony. Stock-still. Mute.

So does the old man seem: Seals off his mind

from the world. Broods on himself;

remembers. And all the while the cancer

 

grows in his flesh, incessantly: The only thing

that lives – works indefatigably towards death.

 

 

XX

 

Give up! All time’s no longer yours.

Your time is up! Always you

hope in vain. The Angel’s

revelation came to pass too late.

A grave prepared! From blackest soil grows

                                    worms’ yellowest rose.

 

 

XXI

 

Today – how far away

the present is for sure.

       How unreal

reality.

       How uncertain

the only certain thing.

 

-----------

 

All the temporary

seems permanent.

All our efforts, so futile

       richly rewarded!

All our striving, so absurd,

       the only noble thing!

 

-----------

 

The present,

the real,

the only certain thing: –

       my limbs’ mark,

       the sign of putrefaction!

 

 

XXII

 

Of love the grown-ups do not speak

to the lad who is in anguish.

 

The path to death the old man

takes alone in torment.

 

       Yes, all the gravity of life

       must be learnt alone.

 

 

XXIII

 

Misty my gaze:

looks away

ever further away.

 

As if earlier

clear-sightedness had been

in what was closest?

 

No, I see

I’ve never seen –

never perceived

 

what is closest to me.

 

 

XXIV

 

Crow on chimney presses.

       Seeks a smidgin of warmth.

 

I have recourse to the same

       in memory of you.

 

 

XXV

 

Understand first now

what I’ve always known.

 

       To live

       Is to be crushed.

 

       To live on –

       become whole anew.

 

 

XXVI

 

Good thing no one can hear me – except the Lord

on high! From where he has seen so much devilry.

Buchenwald, Vietnam, Cambodia, Nicaragua and Gulag.

The question is whether he is in the slightest bit

interested in me lying here in Växjö

awake in my white nightshirt and howling soul.

 

 

XXVII

 

                                                                Inspection of Granhult’s old church

 

‘The evil elf bit without warning deep into my heart.’

Then did I flee to the Lord’s sacred sanctuary –

but found here too a place full of Devils painted on wood

in great magnificence, in green and gold, with jowls

run red and venom running down for a hundred years.

What succour came from the Vicar’s words and Dove above his head!

I was tormented by endless singing, from old crones with dragons’

necks and old men like me on the edge of the grave.

Only a deceased field-mouse under the pew kept my heart

awake. Finally the litany was over. We trooped out like

criminals. Though in the parish house the soul felt freer.

– God’s word is great; but its light does not light up our dead bodies

until after talk of this and that and several cups of coffee.