War Dances

War Dances is Sherman Alexie's latest volume of short stories, sprinkled with some poems.  His wily approach  always surprises. His short stories make one think, muse and ponder, enjoy the changes of tone and all that jazz. He is master of metaphor and of reality and his writing is moving, heart breaking and contrary. Identity, society, writing are recurrent themes in all his writing  I know. I love his poetry even more with its weird forms and the formal games he plays. His fifth volume, as always published by Robert Hershon of Hanging Loose Press ( a rather decent poet himself) is titled  Face and is a translators nightmare. One day, when I see an ocean of time in front of me I will try new approaches to translating.

at the edge of mass media

ZONE 53-D
(am Rande des Massenmediums)

Menschen starben, weil Menschen
sich ihrer Verantwortung nicht bewußt
waren und sie nicht ernst nahmen

am tunnel buh

zeitgleich steuern

________ Schaller

gleichzeitig fallen
im Tunnel
die Menschen
um



 *
(Germany at the side line of mass media)

People died, because people
not conscious of their responsibility
didn't take it seriously

at the tunnel boo

Synchronicity steering.
____________ Schaller
at the same time falling
in the tunnel
people
are falling to the ground


*
(aan de zijlijn van de massamedia)

Mensen stierven, omdat mensen
zich van hun verantwoordelijkheid niet bewust
waren en haar niet ernstig opnamen

aan de tunnel van boe

Tijdgelijk sturen.
_______ Schaller
Te gelijker tijd vallen
in de tunnel
de mensen
op elkaar
*




*
foto: sms foto duisburg germany,
copyright 2010
Fred Schywek
Duisburg am Rhein
zur Loveparade
Duisburg 2010

Tell me what is poetry

Somewhere deep inside myself I know what I mean when I use the word 'poetry'. I know how it feels when I write it, read it, translate it, perform it, alone or with others. I find it generally easy to work with poets, correcting translations and exchanging thoughts about poetry and social responsibility of art. Once in awhile one reaches a stalemate, a difference of opinion that would make working together rather difficult. So I ask you what is poetry? One person suggested sound and sense. That is a nice alliteration but it doesn't say much about poetry. Music is that too... Poetry is made of words made of characters, says another poet. True, yet here are a few elements that I look for in poetry: power, form or the breaking of form and grammar, a critical approach to the poems canonized in the past, humor, honesty. I don't mean confessional poetry, however I don't mind personal poetry when it has just enough alienation, which is an element one can't do without in art.
So, if you can tell me what poetry is, I'd appreciate it.

One day I wrote:

daddy good bye
goodbye goodbye, bye
bye
bye, good bye,
good good
bye, bye bye
and so on
a whole page full, you get the drift: good bye daddy...
good bye bye.
bye
It brought relief, made me feel better, but is it poettry

Der Englische Friedhof, Kamp Lintfort/Rheinberg, Germany

Avoiding the masses in the Ruhr area's 2010 activity still-leben/stillife A 40 as the European Capital of culture we visited the English cemetery. Clean, peaceful, respectful. Different religions, different continents rest next to one another. The shock came when suddenly it became clear that the airmen from the Royal Air Force were buried together when they died on the same day. Seeing twenty graves of young men and one or two women made realize the massiveness of the dying in WW II.

If they call you to go to war just don't do it. The following poem is by Fred Schywek, the English translation by Maxime De Winter

pics:sms:foto duisburg/rhein, germany, © 2010



Weingesang am Feuer

Blues for an American Boy

Ich weine um dich
kleiner Negerjunge
Papa aus der Reserve
geht in die Wüste
ins Giftgas
in brennende Ölfelder

er muß töten
kleine Kinder wie du
sind freundliches Feuer

ich weine um die Kinder
die versklavt in arabischen Harems sitzen
den Türkenjunge in Side
der mir meine blue suedes pützen
wollte mit zerfetztem Gesicht

setzben wir uns
ans Feuer
und töten das Monster

ich weine um dich
kleiner Mensch
*
Boy Inside
(Lament at the fire)

I cry for you
little black boy
daddy from the reserve
is going to the desert
is going to the poison gas
is entering the burning fields of oil

he must kill
little children like you
are friendly fire

I cry for the children
(who are) enslaved in Arab harems
for the boy inside
with his tortured face
who wanted to shine my blue suede shoes

(let’s) sit down
in front of the fire
and kill the monster

I cry for you
U little man
*

NAIS

The  final day of the Nais summer camp entailed quite a cultural program. The song of Peter Lafarge were sung by Frank and the kids and some drumming and a Navajo song by Black Eagle. During a former ceremony during the week this poem of MariJo Moore was recited spontaneously by the kids.

pictures: sms:foto Duisburg/Rhein
copyright 2010

SOLIDARITY IN THE NIGHT

This was the night
all the people sang together.

This was the night
all the people dreamed together.

This was the night
all the people danced together.

This was the night
all the people prayed together.

This was the night
all the people began to heal.
*

Solidariteit in de nacht

Dit was de nacht
dat alle mensen samen zongen.

Dit was de nacht
dat alle mensen samen droomden.

Dit was de nacht
dat alle mensen samen dansten.

Dit was de nacht
dat alle mensen samen baden.

Dit was de nacht
dat alle mensen begonnen te genezen.

Emiel Willekens

An homage to poet Miel Willekens member of PEN and Free Mason. A poem by Rose Vandewalle from het volume of Poery Verwaaid,De Oostakkerse Cahiers. Uitgeverij Ampersand & Tilde, Antwerpen, 2006. Also in German and English.


*
altijd aan de voet van de steile trap
zal ik aarzelen
of ik hem tegemoet zal treden
of eerder op hem zal wachten

altijd zal het me bijblijven
hoe bij de moules marinières
met moeite verorberd
hij het snikken niet heeft verleerd

ook al vergist hij zich hierbij van schouder
en hoe hij met zijn liefde te koop loopt
er geen huis groot genoeg voor kan vinden
altijd zullen zijn tranen mij voorstaan

en hoe in de avondlijke straat
eindelijk van auto’s geklaard
ik hem thuis zal brengen
de motor afzetten

tussen tramsporen afscheid van hem nemen
alweer weifelend tussen u en gij
hem niettemin omarmen geroerd
met iets van bijna tederheid

altijd zal hij me uitwuiven wankel en
wapperend in zijn te wijd geworden kleren
het gevoel dat ik hem achterlaat
op een verlaten en winderig eiland

uit: Verwaaid,
*
zu jeder Zeit am Fuße der steilen Treppe
soll ich zögern
ob ich ihm entgegenkomme
oder doch auf ihn warte

jederzeit soll es in mir sein
wie er das Seemuschelgericht
gerade noch essen konnte
er das Seufzen nicht vergessen

so vertut er sich beim Weinen mit der Schulter
und wie er seine Liebe anpreist
kein Haus groß genug dafür
zu jeder Zeit sollen seinen Tränen mir vor Augen bleiben

und wie in der abendlichen Straße
die jetzt von Autos frei
soll ich ihn nach Hause bringen
den Motor ausmachen

zwischen den Straßenbahnschienen von ihm Abschied nehmen
immer wieder zweifelnd zwischen dem Sie und dem Du
trotzdem ihn umarmen gerührt
mit etwas von nahender Zärtlichkeit

für immer soll seine Hand zum Abschied winken
er flatternd in seiner zu weit gewordenen Kleidung
es ist das Gefühl daß ich ihn zurücklasse
auf einem Eiland verlassen und windig

German: Fred Schywek
*
always at the bottom of the steep stairs
I’ll hesitate
whether to walk towards him
or rather wait for him

always it will be with me
how he with difficulty
gobbled the moules marinières
had not unlearned the sobbing

even if he mistakes the shoulder
and how he flaunts his love
cannot find a house big enough for it
always his tears will be before my eyes

and how in the evening street
finally cleared of cars
I will bring him home
turn off the motor

between the tram rails taking leave of him
once more hesitating between you and Thou
embrace him notwithstanding moved
with something of almost tenderness

always he will wave me out wobbly and
wavering in his clothes grown too wide
the feeling I leave him behind
on a deserted windy island

Marcel Van Maele's Garden

I thank Rose Vandewalle for these pictures of the opening of the exhibition of Marcel's Garden. Friends and fellow poets where part of the attentive audience.