Monday, December 12, 2011

The bridge like structure in background is part of the Cockeril:

The ship repairers

The men working for Cockeril
were special
and strong of will
and working that they did
and strike
and all that was broke they could repair
and partying they did
lorries full of beer and fare
delivered  by the grandpapa
who was from there
food as much as you can think
come on take another drink

but then  - oh man
arrived Japan
the price got too high for hardened steel
life hard and dour
forlorn - forsaken - forgotten
it lays there
faded glory by the stream
loss and
resurrection of a dream

from Hafenklänge-Havenklanken-Sounds of Harbour
by world internet books   

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941 and my mother

The mother
bright-eyed with wild
and fuzzy mane
slender with the hunger and the lust for
of one that survived the war

She is alive
with a golden claim
upon her hand
a promise of hope and riches in
an across the ocean land

A  vision turned
not a dream
when she became a
woman with a child

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Translation of Humphf-John Sinclair

"humphf"                       door John Sinclair

voor big red

ze zeggen monk
kon de muziek niet spelen. ze zeggen,
monk, hij gelimiteerd
door zijn eigen visie

& kan gewoon niet juist spelen. monk,
hij te raar. zijn muziek
klink niet juist, en hij staat op
& danst

terwijl hij speelt,
als een jakhals predikant
op een revival bijeenkomst
in een oude tent in north carolina.

ze zeggen monk klinkt te veel
als een hoerenkot pianist
uit een pre-haarlem getto
volgestouwd met afvalligen uit donkere bossen

& vrouwen & gokkers,
straat-niveau intellectuelen. ze zeggen
monk, wat is dat voor rotzooi
die je probeert te spelen, je kan het

gewoon zo niet doen,
jij te gek baby,
dat gedoe ben jij niet. & monk,
in zijn oneindige kennis

& wijsheid, flasht een grijns
van achter de piano,
schudt zijn gat op de kruk,
en legt een paar akkoorden neer

van hoogste genialiteit,
geeft het over aan de tenor speler
& staat op om naast de piano te dansen,
wat meer van de oude north carolina boogaloo 

translation: A.S.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Jazzpoetry by John Sinclair

Before the performance, John Sinclair, takes time out to sit and be quiet. He turns inwards and then without  papers or books he speaks, delivers his texts in true San Francisco poetry style. Here defending the Blues.

 "humphf"                by  John Sinclair           

for big red                   
they say monk    
couldn't play the music. they say,    
monk, he limited    
by his own vision                         

& just can't play right. monk,    
he too weird. his music    
don't sound right, and he gets up    
& dances                         

while he's playing,    
like a jackal preacher    
at a revival meeting    
in an old tent in north carolina.                         

they say monk sound too much    
like a whorehouse piano player    
from some pre-harlem ghetto    
stuffed with back-woods renegades                         

& sporting women & gamblers,    
street-level intellectuals. they say    
monk, what is that shit    
you trying to play, you just can't                         

do it that way,    
you too way out baby,    
that stuff ain't you. & monk,    
in his infinite knowledge                          

& wisdom, shoots a grin    
from behind the piano,    
wiggles his ass on the stool,    
lays down another few bars                         

of utter genius,    
turns it over to the tenor player    
& rises to dance beside the piano,     
some more of that old north carolina boogaloo           
Even great poets have to enjoy their nicotine  out in the street on a rainy night...     

Wednesday, November 30, 2011


Weltnachtauto - wereldnacht auto
This is a project with 9 poets, each writing two stanzas, some knowing what the others have written, while some poets never knew what the others wrote. Then chance played its part and also a wee bit of composition. Of course there is also a Dutch translation and a German one. It will be part of the 'Harbors of the West' which should be ready by March 21st for Unesco's World Poetry Day. The world premiere was last night read by three different English voices. Thanks Magda. Thanks Lynn.

On singing wheels along the harbors, the night sky
installs itself, pens the world; the dashboard guides
along dying skyline, busy quays
where in the fyke of light the fish is brought in
Roiling day.
The sea turns color before my eyes.
Cold cries of the gulls more than suffice
to wring out every bit of remorse
and dash them against the rocks.
Moon shadow on rock and sand
moonshine in water
dark night of tremors and of life
and we moon connected wisps of cosmic mist
Tuesday October 25
Waning crescent turns quickly to dark new moon
as skies brushed red reflect tear gas billows
the world's gone crazy my daughter cries into the phone
See him fly far above all flat lands, fallen angel
in pitch-black nights! 24 hours above sands and above seas –
Alas! Once again no golden border boy to be uncovered,
Just spinning globe, night semen, broken water: yes yes, all that again!
The wings sing softly: This is a song.
The light goes on, the light goes out
and outside the wind becomes visible and whistles.

Rain in my heart
and your consolation brolly.
often heard words
soft to the touch like smooth fur.
yeah yeah global ca
that’s the difference between
speaking and living
of you this time with violin waltz
I’m sorry I’m so wishy-washy
he says
water rolling down dough and rock-faced belly.
Red is the color of devotion,
how the moon pulls the ocean
how the poor feed the rich
this Love
an involuntary condition.
a small child floating around the earth
that is all tha
is so strong at the point of knowing of dying
always always pretty violins with da and ho
October 31 
the ocean is postcard calm, clouds feathering through layers of blue
smokey, robin’s egg, dark silk, venus flirts with the oncoming night
the moon fattens as one by one fires start to blossom along the shore
wind pulls at the car door, yet calmly I drive under the stars
and don’t hear the siren call of blackwaters; something transports me
blinded, numbed, over de darkened roads of past
to when love for the first time rescued me and I your harbor sought
‘Repair the stars...’ The cockpit yawns.
The moon glistens on the sea, cloud city –
The singing sand, time steals on.
Here one makes snow swishing high.
waltz under a red bridge named golden
the sun is always setting.
Sails sailing,
say, have you left your heart...
across the fluid body?
Again descended earthwards, age 33, he lets himself be driven,
Bentley limousine, through godforsaken cities, Armani suit, Dolce &
Gabana sunshades. Cristal champagne uncorked. The lady on the backseat,
Marlene Dietrich legs, Mae West bosom, almost.
I give the memory some milk
hoping it wants to come back one day.
There is a dead bird in the distance
near your grown wild waterhole of language.
Moon pale night of the soul
and the self upon waves, over roofs
howling crying in rising whisper
mixes mercy with warm worldwide love

* * *
Participating poets: Susan Birkeland, Fred Schywek, Roger Nupie, Clara Hsu, Bart Stouten, Peter Holvoet-Hanssen, Job Degenaar, Annmarie Sauer, Devorah Major.
© world internet books

Monday, November 28, 2011

Ceatl's Hexalogue or Code of Good Practice

Well,  those who read  this blog know it  is also about translating poetry to the highest possible standards.
Literary translators are often underpaid or their name is omitted from the credits. in CEATL's words: Drawing on the experience of its 32 member associations, CEATL notes a general disregard for literary translators’ rights, in addition to shamefully low remuneration. Although all European countries have signed the Berne Convention, in which translations are explicitly acknowledged as original literary works, in many countries translators are not considered authors. This disregard is also reflected in the fact that the translator’s name is generally omitted from the credits, at readings and other events, and is often ignored by the media (press, radio, TV, online). Sometimes the translator’s name is omitted even when their work is used.

Now CEATL ( the European Council of Literary Translators’ Associations) has worked out the Six Commandments of ‘fair-play’ in literary translation, adopted by its General Assembly on 14 May, 2011. So here they are to whom it may concern:
1. Licensing of rights
The licensing of rights for the use of the translation shall be limited in time to a maximum of five years. It shall be subject to the restrictions and duration of the licensed rights of the original work. Each licensed right shall be mentioned in the contract.

2. Fees
The fee for the commissioned work shall be equitable, enabling the translator to make a decent living and to produce a translation of good literary quality.

3. Payment terms
On signature of the contract, the translator shall receive an advance payment of at least one third of the fee. The remainder shall be paid on delivery of the translation at the latest.

4. Obligation to publish
The publisher shall publish the translation within the period stipulated in the contract, and no later than two years after the delivery of the manuscript.

5. Share in profit
The translator shall receive a fair share of the profits from the exploitation of his/her work, in whatsoever form it may take, starting from the first copy.

6. Translator’s name
As author of the translation, the translator shall be named wherever the original author is named.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Salon12b - Freestyle

Another salon 12b is taking place November 29. Door open at 7PM and the performances start at 8PM with the world premiere of Global Night Car. You can read it on the link. It will be read in three languages, in different voices, since nine different poets contributed to this experiment. In the break expect a good Goulash soup and something will be there for vegetarians as well. Desert will be by Rose: Condé rice with apricots...
After earthy food, the poets present will read their latest and thus unpublished work. Lucienne Stassaert will be kind enough to read the poems of three Breton poets one, Olivier Cousin, has received a major price. We always knew 'the project's poets' are fabulous.

L’enfant sur la jetée

Petit port de pêche paisible
au bout des garennes
Deux caseyeurs bleus
franchissent la passe
pour venir se soulager sur le quai
de leurs casiers d’illusions
et de désillusions

Il n’y aura qu’un seul témoin
De dos sur la jetée
un enfant scrute les flots
et les flots fixent l’enfant
S’il était assis sur le môle
on en saurait plus
Personne ne peut dire
s’il a jailli des vagues
ou s’il va y plonger
En suspens la vie l’attend
avec ses joies et ses déboires
comme la mer constellée
d’îlots et de récifs

Les deux caseyeurs bleus
passent les dernières balises
l’enfant n’a pas bougé
Il y a tant de cartes à s’inventer
Child on the jetty

A small peaceful fisherman port
at the edge of the moors
Two blue lobsterpot boats
cross the channel
to come and unload on the quay       
their pots of illusions
and disillusions

There will be only one witness
His back to the jetty
a child scrutinizes the drift
the drift staring at the child           
If he’d been sitting on the pier              
we would have known more                                               
Nobody can say
whether he shot up from the waves
or whether he is going to jump in
In suspense life awaits him
with its joys and troubles                  
like the sea spattered                    
with isles and reefs

The two blue lobsterpot boats
pass the last beacons                       
the child hasn’t moved
There are so many maps to invent

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Geen Castor treinen door Europa

 Salon12b staat geheel acter de moedige mensen die de Castortrein van uit Frankrijk naar Gorleben  proberen tegen te houden door de sporen te bezetten. Onder 'Nooit' vind je de kaart van waar de trein  langs komt en onder 'Maar niet ingrijpen' de pagina van de Duitse anti-kernenergie beweging

Nooit zal ik leliewit op water drijven
ontplooid & vederlicht

Daarvoor kijk ik teveel
naar aarde
sta & ben
op & in

Niet handelen
is mogelijk
als het wetend voelen
dat het aan de ander is

denken kan,
het nu
gedragen op adem
van het al

in de 1000 jaar
of 1000 nachten
op beter wachten
dat wil ik niet

Het mee richting geven
aan wat parallel
ons te wachten staat
niet stampvoetend, maar
ontplooid & vederlicht
is waar het omgaat

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Fog in San Francisco and Antwerp

Rose wrote this morning: finally there is mist this morning, fog... So here is a present for Rose a picture of the Golden Gate bridge in the fog, while walking under it...

Fog after the landing
fog in the back to normal
fog in the soul
lost days
in the fog
Mist na de landing
mist in het terug naar normaal
mist in de ziel
verloren dagen
in de mist

Friday, November 4, 2011

Paul Gellings presents Verbrande schepen

 Paul Gelling reading from his novel Verbrande schepen published by Uitgeverij Passage on Thor, the culture boat in Zwolle. An intriguing errancy, a search for a love lost, and absolution maybe, to be sure of that , I will have to read the book first...
 Here is Paul Gellings with Fred Schywek who translated Paul's poetry book Stem van de herfst - Stimmes des Herbstes.

Probable publication date: Poetry day in January 2012.
Zwolle, enlightens through lighthouses and literature.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Casa Louisa one poem as an apetizer

Fred Schywek's poem Klang will be read by him tomorrow at Casa Louisa: Rond de Kiosk


mit Ohrn das Horn
Kapellen spieln
fünfmal so lang
das Echo
zur Verteidigung
mit Ankunftszeit
vom Klang
Pro Gramm
im Hohen Nord’


with ears the horn
bands play
five times longer
the echo
in defence
with arrival time
of sound
Pro Gram
in the High North

met oren de hoorn
kapellen spelen
vijf keer zo lang
de echo ter verdediging
met aankomsttijd
van klank
pro gram
in het hoge noord’

Friday, September 9, 2011

storm door devorah major

begrijpt de oceaan
het land dat zij gladstrijkt en verzacht

hecht zij waarde
aan de mineralen die zij onttrekt

aan schelpen die ze hamerde
beenderen die ze kauwde

hout dat ze zoog
ijzer dat ze zoutte

ziet de oceaan haar kleur
omgevormd vloeibaar kristal

als geschilderd door de zon
en bestoven door het slik

tot zij wordt
grijs en bruin

blauw en zilver
sprankelend groen schuim

terwijl zij groeit en krimpt
zonder meer te letten op

het lijden van mensen
dan het aanbieden van de gave van haar lied

dat neuriet in opmerkelijke tevredenheid
of huilt in diepe durende droefheid

voelt de oceaan de vorm
van elke berg die ze bevat

hoe sommigen van haar slanke torsos
met de zachtste wentelende stromingen

of door het slaan van menig storm
paden klieft en kanten rond

grotten uitlepelt en hoekjes maakt
waar het leven toevlucht vindt of vernietiging

plant de oceaan haar lessen
stilte zonder rust

licht in de duisternis
hoe zij het leven voedt

en hoe zij het eindigt
zonder meelij of berouw

devorah major

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Landmijnen-Hoe groot

Roger Nupie

Hoe groot is de mens
die met woorden als
bom, obus, raket, raketbom goochelt,
en ze vult met kleinere bommen.

Hoe groot is de mens
als deze munitie in bomen,
op daken of onder armoedig
Afrikaans zand belandt.

Hoe groot is de mens
als in de naweeën van oorlogen
onopgeruimde antipersoonsmijnen
nog dagelijks leed veroorzaken.

Hoe groot is de mens
als hij deze bommen
in felle kleuren schildert,
- wat vooral kinderen aantrekt.

Hoe groot is de mens
die hierdoor kinderen
een arm of been

Hoe groot is de rat
die explosieven
van landmijnen opspeurt
via haar reukzin.

Hoe groot is de mens
die, met metaaldetector,
slechts dertig vierkante meter
per dag aankan.

Hoe groot is de rat
die op een halfuur tijd
honderd vierkante meter

Hoe groot.
Hoe groot.