Thursday, 22 August 2024

Frans August Brocatus: 'Sigmund Freud' (PS17)

 

SIGMUND FREUD

 

I

 

Het huis zo noemt hij het

en telt de kamers meet

met schuifelende stappen

de afstand van deuren naar ramen.

 

De kamer zegt hij valt in de hoeken

van zijn mond rangschikt voorwerpen

tafel stoelen foto’s aan de muur

chaise-longue en afwezigheid.

 

Hij richt zijn oor naar de straat

nadert stommelend in het trappenhuis

hout zo kraakt het onder zijn voeten.

 

Zijn oog valt op de schrijftafel

er zijn wolken de avond werpt een zadel

hij stijgt in de beugels, haalt dieper adem.

 

 

 

II

 

De kamer zo noemt hij het

en telt de voorwerpen meet

met het blote oog de afstand

van tafels naar foto’s aan de muur.

 

Het huis zegt hij valt in de hoeken

van zijn mond rangschikt instrumenten

sluit deur na deur schuifelt

chaise-longue en afwezigheid.

 

Zijn oor dat aan de stad

de straat met paardentram en regen

voetstappen maar geen woord.

 

Zijn oog schuift onder het glas

vandaan hij nevelt in de avond

stapvoets blauw, droomt zonder ruiter.

 

 

SIGMUND FREUD

 

I

 

The house that’s what he calls it

and counts the rooms measures

with shuffling steps

the distance from doors to windows.

 

The room he says falls into the corners

of his mouth arranges objects

table chairs photos on the wall

chaise-longue and absence.

 

He directs his ear to the street

approaches stumbling in the staircase

wood that’s how it creaks under his feet.

 

He happens to see the writing desk

there are clouds the evening throws a saddle

he mounts the stirrups, breathes more deeply.

 

 

II

 

The room that’s what he calls it

and counts the objects measures

with the naked eye the distance

from tables to the photos on the wall

 

The house he says falls into the corners

of his mouth arranges instruments

shuts door after door shuffles

chaise-longue and absence.

 

His ear that to the town

the street with horse-drawn trams and rain

footsteps but not a word.

 

His eye slides from under the glass

from where he mists in the evening

walking-pace blue, dreams without rider.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 17

 

Wednesday, 21 August 2024

Lars Wivallius: 'Klagevisa' (with parallel text version and original facsimile link)

 

Dirge over this dry and cold spring (1642)

A dry and cold spring speeds summer’s demise,
of winter food us depriving.
Grant help, heav’nly King, see spring how it flies
and little joy we’re deriving.
Sun warm us, don’t harm us!
For winds chastise
and cold the summer is riving.

Good May-rain set free, let drizzle allay,
let warm dew feed plants that famish!
let drought banished be, let frost cease to flay
and cause all young flowers to languish.
Your curse flee, show mercy!
For those I pray
who serve and fear God with anguish.

Let weather forlorn and drought so unkind
not force red roses to perish,
let fields meant for corn the farmer not find
so barren they no man can nourish! 
Make danger a stranger,
and always mind
the earth’s young crops so they flourish!

Let heaven’s great door wide open now swing
help clouds that would be ascending,
let us soon hear sweet nightingales sing
whose lays the cold’s been preventing!
Let voices rejoice as
young hearts take wing!
Let children’s dance know no ending!

Let folk hand in hand now dance, one and all,
let summer’s butterflies flutter!
On petals let stand, on leaves sweetly sprawl
moist pearls too lovely to utter!
let twitter and chitter
goldfinches small
with finest wagtails that scutter!

Give comfort and joy, let larks call and play,
let summer’s swallows not perish.
Our sad breasts alloy that only dismay
now feel, though Sweden we cherish!
Give summer, late-comer,
give good green hay,
let cuckoos cry out with relish!

When daybreak is near, or mild eventide
sees day with night alternating
We luring calls hear at summer’s divide,
God’s creatures dance, play, are mating!
in rivers there quiver
salmon and ide
their spawning anticipating!

Our days make them long, our nights make them clear,
let light, warm drizzle be falling
enticing to song all birds that have here
been mute in winter appalling!
let couples, redoubled
both far and near
rejoice, now summer is calling!

Make fruitful each crop, each creature beguile
o’er town and village when faring,
The ploughman’s limbs hop and dance all the while
he thin-spun linen is wearing.
Each thrush in dale gushes
and folk all smile
and many a trumpeter’s blaring.

Oh, sun ever bright, you poor man’s true friend,
your rays nobody denying,
light up our dwellings with summer again
let cold and drought off be hying!
Hard-pressed though soon blessed go
women and men
where’er sun’s warmth they are spying.

Our sorrows make brief, the ploughman befriend,
let green deck forest and valley,
from drought grant relief, and moisture now send
so farmers’ hearts soon may rally!
Rejoicing, let voices
in joy ascend
that yet but mournful words tally!

Let green clothe the trees, let fruit fill the earth,
ensure no need can oppress us,
to quickening breeze full-scented give birth
from field, mead, forest to bless us!
Grant garlanding, dancing
with measured mirth,
let bright-hued beds convalesce us!

Let grass become lush and flowers fair to see,
let ermines frolic and revel,
let cool breezes brush us far out at sea,
let soft winds hat-strings unravel!
In meadows find beds or
in green-clad lea
for those that nightly do travel.

Let craftsmen display the skill of their hand
and journey safe from all stealing,
let merchants find way on water and land
to where they fain would be dealing!
By nosegays and pathways
the joy expand
which high and low may be feeling!

Let days become warm! Let herdsmen still keep
their watch in pleasant shade hunching,
while shaking an arm at goats and at sheep,
on apples and berries lunching!
From ploughshare to bough fair
in one wide sweep
let oxen stare, their cud munching!

Let livestock now graze, from stalls oxen prise,
to forests drive cattle willing!
Let working beasts gaze ’neath God’s open skies,
let ploughmen rejoice while tilling!
Let fields share full yield where 
the final prize
is ripe corn ready for milling!

Their meadows let flower, their furrows turn green,
their granaries help replenish!
With farmers in power, no soldier has seen
from lack of bed he need perish.
Wrath cease now, give peace now!
Both lad and colleen
know endless joys they can cherish.

Let crowding bees hum round flower and leaf
while honey sweet they’re extracting!
The air though is dumb from screams and sore grief
where armies war are enacting.
Wrath cease now, give peace now,
God grant relief,
to stop our foes from impacting!

O’er war you are king, o’er all you are lord,
o’er heaven’s stronghold presiding.
And thus everything I do you accord.
Help us on foot or when riding!
Make flourish and nourish
what’s cold and flawed!
You are our solace abiding.

Oh God, we have sinned against you, forgive
our many failings’ confusion!
Let penance rescind them, for we would live
our new lives free from illusion.
Though wroth, be you loath our
hearts to misgive,
though free from harmful delusion!

Restrain our desires, and teach us through prayers
to rightly use what you’ve given!
Whatever transpires, pray lessen the cares
of those to frugal life driven,
assist and resist not
the hand that bears
a bowl that’s empty and riven!

Grant them a good year, and o’er them let reign
your sun that seasons does sever,
the moon too so clear, let wax and let wane
that its pure light they lack never!
But those who oppose you,
the sick disdain,
may each house shun them for ever!

For a parallel text file of this poem go to here

Saturday, 17 August 2024

Monique Wilmer-Leegwater: 'Nachtzijde'

 

Night side

 

I

 

It is accomplished, night falls

like an ambush. Around me I visualise

a space that is impenetrable.

Strengthen my limbs. Breathe out. Breathe in.

 

Animals on the shelves. Hares, pheasants, deer,

horses, pigs, sheep, rabbits, ducks.

 

Breasts, backs, lungs, paws, muscles, heads,

hearts. Remains of a final time.

 

Echo of their cries.

 

 

II

 

The jackdaws in the eaves know me by name

call me every morning.

 

All jackdaws have strong feet.

All jackdaws two blue-white eyes.

Gleaming feathers on their heads

Jet-black wings.

 

I miss the lame one in the row, his blind eye fixed on me.



Wednesday, 14 August 2024

Monique Wilmer-Leegwater: 'Schouw'

 

Inspection

 

It stops here. Here. On this shore, at the rim

of waves for hours already

busy shedding their bodies

no more returning, no mass returning

into the depths.

 

The water breaks, hauls, mauls, smashes

wildly and impatiently

deep-sea blue, deep-sea rue, deep sea

of imperfection.

 

Come no closer, offer no first aid.

 

Timidly the creature lies waiting among

the humans. Later they will take monsters

heart, melon, inner ear, lungs, liver.

Something with rotten teeth, gastric juice,

disorientation perhaps.

 

The blanched bones in showcases, back in sea

or deep earth. Registered:

gender, how old, how heavy, cause of death.


To see the original poem, go to here.

 


Tuesday, 13 August 2024

Vera Steenput: 'Eetkwaal' (PS 16)

 

EETKWAAL

 

Er huizen drie beesten in de stal

van mijn lichaam

 

Camelus bactrianus

toegeeflijk en gedwee

slaat hij gebeurtenissen op

sleept zijn lasten tussen bulten mee

 

Bos primigenius

graast zich door de dag

heeft vier magen nodig

om feiten te verteren

 

Cricetus cricetus

verzamelaar die bij nacht

voedsel en ballast wegknaagt

in maag en wangzakken

 

De veearts onderzoekt

mijn lijfstal sinds een tijd

 

Nu is er ook een diagnose

 

 

EATING COMPLAINT

 

Three beasts are housed in the stable

of my body

 

Camelus bactrianus

indulgent and docile

it stores occurrences

hauls its loads between humps

 

Bos primigenius

grazes all day long

requires four stomachs

to digest facts

 

Cricetus cricetus

a gatherer who by night

gnaws away food and ballast

in stomach and cheek pouches

 

The vet has been examining

my body stable for some time

 

Now there is also a diagnosis

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 16

 

Sunday, 11 August 2024

 


LOGBOEK

 

II

 

Een jonge vrouw gaf haar baby

de borst in de bus.

De chauffeur joeg haar meteen

uit zijn zedig vervoer.

En de passagiers beaamden.

Zeven straten verder

reed de bus tegen een gevel

en toen in de genadige Schelde.

Drie doden, twaalf gewonden.

Jippie! De lente, de lente

is begonnen.

 

 

LOG BOOK

 

II

 

A young woman breastfed

her baby while in the bus.

The driver chased them straightway

from his chaste vehicle.

And the passengers all approved.

Seven streets further on

the bus drove into a house-wall

and then into the merciful Schelde.

Three dead, twelve wounded.

Yippie! Spring, spring

has arrived!

 

Saturday, 10 August 2024

Hugo Claus: 'Zonder vorm van proces (III)'


 

ZONDER VORM VAN PROCES

 

III

 

In de herfst en in de natte winters

zijn er dagen dat er niets gebeurt

binnenshuis. Niets dan het breken van het verleden,

als het breken van een verleden dag in glas,

als het smelten van vijverstukken ijs,

zodat het eraan moet, het verleden, het moet eraan.

Maar het verleden en het vandaag geven niet op,

zij draaien in een paardenmolen, geven elkaar de hand

en worden weer weken en maanden en eindelijk getijden.

Er zijn dagen

dat de uurwerken van alle torens van het land

een half uur achter staan

en niet één van de wintermensen heeft het gemerkt,

en de verlorene, door niemand opgespaarde halve uren

rijden door dorp en stad, ongezien, achter de trams en

de boerenpaarden en kleven samen tot een nieuwe dag,

zoals sneeuw een ijsman vormt,

tot een ijsdag voor de eenzamen,

voor wie alle avonden heilig zijn

als deze.

 

 

WITHOUT FORM OF PROCESS

 

III

 

In the autumn and the wet winters

there are days when nothing happens

indoors. Only the breaking of the past,

like the breaking of a past day in glass,

like the melting of pieces of pond-ice,

so that it’s in for it, the past, it’s in for it.

But the past and the present do not give up,

they turn in a merry-go-round, take each other’s hand

and once more become weeks and months and finally seasons.

There are days

when all the clocks of all the towers in the country

are half an hour slow

and not one of the winter people has noticed it,

and the lost half hours, saved up by no one,

ride through town and village, unseen, behind the trams and

the carthorses and join together into a new day,

like snow forms an ice-man

into an ice-day for the lonely,

for whom all evenings are holy

like this one.

 

 

Hugo Claus: 'Waarover spreken'

 


WHAT TO SPEAK ABOUT

 

What to speak about tonight? And preach

in a land we recognise, tolerate,

seldom forget.

That country with its droll beginnings,

its clammy climate, its sapless stories

about the old days,

its inhabitants, greedy till their final fall

among the cauliflowers.

They keep on multiplying

in a paradise of their own imagining,

hankering for happiness, shivering, mouths full of porridge.

Just as in nature

which depilates our puny hills,

scorches our pastures, poisons our air,

the guileless cows graze on.

 

Speak about the writings of this land,

printed matter full of question marks

on the patient paper

that time and again is shocked by its history

and so resorts to concealing shorthand.

Speak about the curtains

that people draw around themselves.

But still we hear them, the stinking

primates that stalk each other in rooms.

Just as in nature

the hibiscus gives off no scent,

that the innocent cows do, becoming bogged

in the piss-logged earth.

 

Speak in that land of glittering grass

in which man,

intemperate worm, dreaming carcass,

dwells among the corpses which dead as they are

remain obedient to our memory.

Just as our nature expects a single,

simple miracle that one day will finally

explain what we were,

not only this remote spectacle

thrown together by time.

 

Speak about that time which, they said,

would mark as a brand and palimpsest?

We lived in an aged of using

and being usable.

What defence against such?

What festive arse-feathers?

What cellar song? Perhaps.

Say it. Perhaps.

A few swift scratches in slate

and that’s the outline of your love.

Fingerprints in the clay are her hips.

Phonemes of joy sometimes sounded

if she, when she, called you like a cat.

 

Speaking about her presence

wakens the blue hour of twilight.

Just as in nature

the merciless, glassy, blue azure

of our planet seen from Apollo..

And though from simply speaking

your festive cap begins to feel heavy

and the lifeline in your palm

starts festering

still, notwithstanding, nevertheless

honour the flowering

of the shadows that inhabit us,

the shadows begging for consolation.

And still stroke her shoulder blade.

Like the back of a hunchback

Still hankering for a ferocious happiness.

 

To see the original poem, go to here.

Friday, 9 August 2024

Hendrik Marsman: 'Herinnering aan Holland'

 


Herinnering aan Holland

 

Denkend aan Holland

zie ik breede rivieren

traag door oneindig

laagland gaan,

rijen ondenkbaar

ijle populieren

als hooge pluimen

aan den einder staan;

en in de geweldige

ruimte verzonken

de boerderijen

verspreid door het land,

boomgroepen, dorpen,

geknotte torens,

kerken en olmen

in een grootsch verband.

de lucht hangt er laag

en de zon wordt er langzaam

in grijze veelkleurige

dampen gesmoord,

en in alle gewesten

wordt de stem van het water

met zijn eeuwige rampen

gevreesd en gehoord.

 

 

Memory of Holland

 

Thinking of Holland

I see wide rivers slowly

flowing through endless

low-lying land,

inconceivably

gossamer poplars

on the horizon

in wispish ranks;

and in the expanses of

space, sunken farmsteads

randomly strewn over

flat countryside,

tree-clusters, hamlets,

truncated steeples,

churches and elm trees

in a net flung wide.

The sky there hangs low

and the sun slowly stifles

in vapours where multiple

greys become blurred,

and in every far corner

the voice of the water

with its countless disasters

is feared and is heard.