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After earthy food, the poets present will read their latest and thus unpublished work.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

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

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.

Clara Hsu-San Francisco Poet

Clara Hsu is one of the San Francisco poets we met and even heard read her work, accompanying herself with Chinese singing bowls. A wonderful combination.


Cherry Blossoms

To dream
is to wake when the first
token of romance is set adrift.
The crystal droplets that clung onto new shoots
have given birth.
The sun, in mere days, ripens the offspring.
They bloom in droves,
pale lace wrinkling on the edges,
blushing as they warm.

To wake
is to walk into the dreamscape of flowers
masking earth and sky,
and petals are the rain.
Young girls clip a cluster of pink
on their long black hair,
half-cover their faces
with lacquered parasols.
Young men get drunk on love poems.

To wake again
is to let the maudlin memories
be crushed by tire tracks,
and watch cyclists careening down
the velvet floor,
swift as birds in flight.
*

Kersenbloesem

Dromen

is wakker worden als de eerste

blijk van romance op drift is gezet.

De kristallen druppeltjes die kleefden aan nieuwe scheuten

hebben gebaard.

De zon, in luttele dagen, rijpt het nageslacht.

Zij bloesemen veelbloemig,

bleke kant rimpelend aan de rand,

blozend als zij opwarmen.

Wakker worden

is wandelen in het droomlandschap van bloemen

die aarde en hemel maskeren,

en bloemblaadjes zijn de regen.

Jonge meisjes spelden een tros roze

op het lange zwarte haar,

half bedekkend hun gelaat

met gelakte parasols.

Jonge mannen worden dronken van liefdesgedichten.

Opnieuw wakker worden

is de huilerige herinneringen laten

vergruizelen door bandensporen,

en kijken hoe fietsers naar beneden slingeren

op fluwelen grond,

snel als vogels in vlucht.

For Susan Birkeland's friends

Waiting for the voices

which will bring her

words new life

Hibbing & Mercy

and stone-hard

coal

and some of my stone-hearted issues

steel-hard

love as noun

love as verb

love as stillness

the stars too far

to hear their

coal hard song

their cosmic hum

so I wait for

the voices

bringing life & melody

to her stardust words

                       

                                                            

for Susan Birkeland’s friends who lovingly, splendidly read her poetry at the recording studio Paradiso

Lucienne Stassaert's poetic answer

© sms:foto duisburg/rhein 2011

 Lucienne waiting and listening with full attention? and a bit tense, but happy.

The following poem is a declaration of love to her city and the river that flows through it. English translation will follow one of these days.

Een laken van water

bij de monding van de stad:

zo blijft de Schelde

Achter in mijn geheugen.

Nu en dan donkert het licht

in alle dingen

Op de rand van herinnering.

Zo effen, een wolk in een spiegel,

is het zicht op mijn verleden.

Regen wijst er de schade aan

en stilte, voorgoed ophanden,

groeit als klimop

Naar een uitzinnig zwijgen.

Ik kom er bij tussenpozen

aanstonds tot mezelf.

Next to poet Rose Vandewalle, Lucienne Stassaert preparing her performance.


Follows poem # 2 from the series 1-7 called Leben-Leven-Life

© sms:foto duisburg/rhein 2011

2

Het heeft vogels nodig

om te zingen

mensen om te verdwijnen

zon en maanlicht

om kleur te bekennen:

hoe geladen het is

met betekenissen

in spiegelschrift –

Tekens om met hand en tand

te ontcijferen

want op het lijf geschreven

van wie je voorging

op de weg naar het einde –

 *

Es braucht Vögel

um zu singen

Menschen zu verschwinden

Sonne und Mondlicht

um Farbe zu bekennen:

wie beladen es ist

mit Bezeichnungen

in Spiegelschrift

Zeichen mit Klaue und Haar

zu entziffern,

weil auf den Leib geschrieben

so wie du vorgingst

auf dem Weg zum Ende

*

It needs birds

to sing

people to disappear

sun and moonlight

to show one's color:

how charged it is

with meanings

in mirror-writing -

Signs to decipher

with tooth and nail

because inscribed all over the body

of who before you took

the road to the end

STASSAERT BETWEEN THE YEARS

STASSAERT BETWEEN THE YEARS is tonight's reading by Lucienne Stassaert from what her new volume of poetry will be. It is a comprehensive overview of her work, with a poem from each period of her writing. Those who never have heard her read, have missed something. With remarkable strength and honesty she directly speaks to her listeners. This is the last activity for Ruhr2010, European Capital of Culture. What remains are the books  that are produced within this framework.

The following poem gave the title to the book which will be presented January 27, GEDICHTENDAG in den Hopsack, Antwerp

In één adem

Vier de lente, de liefde niet.

Verzoen mijn lippen, groei mij aan

als de lente vergeefs wordt en bitterder.

Weer koesteren bomen landhonger,

drijven vogels de winter uit

de baaierd van april.

Ook dit zout, oud zeer, kennen we.

En zoals minnaars en vleermuizen blindvliegen,

geven dromen zich zelden bloot.

Met dit vermoeden leefden we;

het vuur aan de schubben, de schuimlippen.

Ooftbomen gloeien wit.

Wij sterven langzamer af -

droesemig, meestal achter glas.

Of zoals bloesem, in één nacht. 

*

In einem Atemzug

Fei’re den Frühling, die Liebe nicht

Entküss’ meine Lippen, verwachse mit mir

wenn das Frühjahr vergebens und bitter

Wieder … Bäume mit Hunger nach Land

treiben Vögel den Winter heraus

das Durcheinander des April’

Auch diese salzig’, alte Seelennarbe kennen wir

Und wie Liebende und Fledermäuse in Blindheit fliegen

Geben Träume sich selten nackt.

Mit diesen Ahnungen lebten wir,

das Feuer an den Schuppen, die Schaumlippen

Obstbäume verglühen zu Weiß.

Wir sterben langsamer ab –

Heruntergeflockt und abgesetzt, meist hinter Glas

Oder als Blüten während einer Nacht. 

*
In one breath

 

Celebrate spring, not love

appease my lips, grow on me

when spring turns in vain and more bitter.   

Once more trees cherish hunger for land,

drive birds out of winter

the hustle bustle of April.

Also this salt, this old pain, we know.

And like lovers and bats blindly fly,

dreams seldom bare themselves.    

With these inklings we lived;

fire at the fins, the frothy lips.

Fruit trees glow white.

We slowly decline -

dregs of wine, usually behind glass.

Or like the blossom, in one night.

Olivier Cousin on Klara

Although the Breton Language looses ten thousands of speakers every year, Breton poetry is alive and interesting. Olivier Cousin was representing them at our Small Festival of European Art of Poetry., last September. When he and Bart Stouten met it was as if two long lost brothers met and found each other. They obviously share a poetic sensitivity. So Bart had a wonderful program in The Garden of Eden on Klara with Olivier, read the dutch translations of Paul Gellings and interviewed Olivier about poetry in Breton and the regional poets. The music was wonderful and the program was sensitive and interesting.

Wat follows is poem with pars in Breton which will be published in Sounds of Harbor II

Au port du bout du monde

Au dernier bout de la terre

le port sourit au large

demi-cercle d’une blancheur ternie

evel bannieloù ouzh ar wern

Le port comprend toutes les vies

accepte toutes les devises

parle toutes les langues

Même s’il malmène toutes les grammaires

il conjugue tous les verbes

pas uniquement partir ou arriver

C’hoantoù mont kuit

o vont hag o tont

stag ouzh ma huñvreoù

evel bannieloù ouzh ar wern

Le port déploie le filet des rêves

au-delà des crachins et des brumes

oubliant tous les moutons sur la lande

 *

  In the harbor at land's end        

At the last parcel of land                                   

the harbor smiles at the open sea

half circle of a dulled white

evel bannieloù ouzh ar wern

The harbor comprehends all lives           

accepts all currencies                                   

speaks all languages

Even though it manhandles all grammars                       

it declines all verbs

not only to leave or to arrive

C’hoantoù mont kuit

o vont hag o tont

stag ouzh ma huñvreoù

evel bannieloù ouzh ar wern

The harbor unfolds the dream net

beyond drizzle and sea mist               

all sheep left behind on the moors

(Traduite en français, la strophe en breton pourrait se lire  :

Des envies de départ

vont et viennent

attachées à mes rêves

comme des drapeaux sur le mât)

Poets and friends

© sms:foto duisburg/rhein  

There are days that active friends keep one going. At four there was the presentation by Bert Bevers of his latest volume of poetry 'Andere taal'. 

Interesting medieval music and well read poetry was offered to the throngs of people who showed up to share this moment of joy. Here you see Bert signing a book for a friend and thinking/writing down a fitting dedication. His poetry always has an air of history, observations of works of art and daily life. There is gentle steadiness in his way offering tranquility and reflection. Quite a gift to the readers.

Vera Alexander Beerten had her presentation in the evening in Gallery The black Panther . Here you see her listening to Professor emeritus Joris Gerits who gave a deep analysis of her third volume of poetry. She read well and the chill that was in the winter air installed itself between the shoulder blades with all the brilliant poems about loss of close friends and her mother. In 'Slechts kwade wind' you're going to discover images and heaviness for the soul which probably will console people going through the same feelings yet don't know how to express them.

Life

Lucienne Stassaert, one of the Grand Ladies of poetry written in Dutch, reads her latest cycle Leven - Leben - Life. She is accompanied by Jean Demey on the clarinette who improvises with feeling and intelligence carrying her words.
Fred Schywek reads his German translation of the following poem: Leven (3)

Verkoold als het is

door een al te hoge hitte

ligt het als een gewezen

ster voor het rapen

in een steeg

vol geblakerde stilte –

Je kan er niet

in of uit

schaduwen tellen

is al wat je rest

tijdens het knakken

van een vroege herfst

zodra de wind

een buikspreker wordt

op zoek naar een uitweg –

* 

Verkohlt wie es ist

durch viel zu hohe Temperatur

liegt es als ein ausgeglühter

Stern kurz vor dem Aufheben

in einer Gasse

voll mit schwarzer geräucherter Stille -

Du kannst da

weder rein noch raus

Schatten zähl'n

ist all das was dir bleibt

zur Zeit des Knackens

des frühen Herbstes

alsdann der Wind

sich verwandelt in einen Bauchredner

auf Suche nach Ausweg -

German: Fred Schywek

*

Charred as it is

by too high a heat

it lays there as a has been    

star up for grabs

in an alley

full fire-blackened silence -

you can not enter it

nor leave

counting shadows

is ll that is left to you

in the cracking   

of an early autumn

as soon as the wind

turns ventriloquist

looking for a way out -

us: Annmarie Sauer

Blackbox One

 Meet Wilfried Bienek reading his poetry from Hafenklänge Havenklanken Sounds of Harbour during the Festival on September 18.


*

But now there is more news. His next boek of poetry Blackbox One is availlable since today. The picture on the right is the cover picture from the sixth book published by Fred Schywek, world internet books, in the framework of Ruhr Area 2010 EuropeanCapital of Culture

The poetry in this volume exemplifies  his idiosyncratic and ironic worldview.

Der zerbrochene Krug

Ein Krug zerbrach.
De Mann: Das Kind wars.
Das Kind: Der Mann wars.

Falsch: Der Krug wars.

Two musicians, one a poet

Here the incredible duo enjoyed by all: Lucienne Stassaert, the Grande Dame of Poetry reading from the cycle: Long enough.
It is a heart wrenching end of love situation, sharply formulated, merciless in its honesty.

One of Lucienne's poetry's strong points is the rhythm. She played even in the Queen Elizabeth competition. When proofreading a translation of her work, she will try out the cadence of the new coat for her feelings and thoughts.

Here she plays with her friend Jean Demey.

  pictures: © Bram Goots


Jean  does grand improvisations.
That is how we met. He has a feel for the moods and the color of the words. His playing with Lucienne's words was in different shades of blues. in the past  he performed with poets as Paul Snoek, Hugo Raes, Willem Roggeman, Cees Buddingh and Gust Gils,

*

Lang genoeg

I

Lang genoeg quatre-mains gespeeld

zonder één keer op te kijken,

na te gaan zoals Orfeus

of mijn lief al dan niet nog bestond.

Lang genoeg bij hoge noten

een bas gemist bij het samenspel

om de toonloze stilten te wegen

vóór en na de kleine dood.

Jodelen kon. En zich te pletter ademen

zoals minnaars op het hoogst van de min

in volle vlam uit het licht vallen

en in den blinde uit elkaar.

Tot op een zeker zwart-wit moment,

juist afgesteld en gekadreerd,

de waarheid als een inmaakbom

van verrot fruit aan scherven sprong:

Hij speelde al jaren niet meer mee.

*

Long enough

I

Played a duet long enough

without looking up once,

checking as Orpheus
whether or not my lover still existed.

Long enough with high notes
missed a bass in this ensemble
to weigh the toneless silences
before and after la petite mort.

Yodelling possible. Breathing oneself to pieces
as lovers at the height of ardour
in full flame fall out of the light
blindly fall apart.

Till a certain black/white moment,
correctly focused and framed,
the truth like a preserving bottle bomb
of rotten fruit exploding in shards:

He hadn’t played along for years.

Rose Vandewalle here in the studio when we recorded the poems included in the different anthologies we are working on. Her she is reading her poems from Love in Holland and Flanders. She reads in a fragile, faltering voice which renders all the emotion that went into the writing of the poem. During the evening at the Permeke library she read Always at the bottom of the steep stairs

So today I post another of her love poems.
Wanneer ik zijn kamer betreed
valt op hoe overstuur hij is
zijn ogen schichtige vissen in een vijver

hij kan me niet meer thuisbrengen
geeft na enig aarzelen toe dat dit
de heerlijkste dag is van zijn leven

nu ik hem kom bevrijden
en hij reikt me zijn pols
waarrond de band met identificatie

dat het oorlog is, verkondigt hij
en hij met eigen ogen heeft gezien
hoe mensen om zich heen

gebrandmerkt en afgevoerd werden
tranen van angst slaan om
in tranen van vreugde
*
Wenn ich seine Kammer betrete
fällts auf wie durcheinander er ist
seine Augen kopfscheue Fische in einem Teich

er kann mich nicht mehr nach Haus bringen
gibt nach einigem Schwanken zu daß dies
der herrlichste Tag seines Lebens

jetzt da ich komme ihn zu befreien
und er reicht mir seine Hand
worum das Band mit der Identifikation

daß es Krieg ist, verkündigt er
und er mit Augen gesehen hat
wie Menschen um ihn herum

gebrandmarkt und abgeführt werden
Tränen von Angst schlagen um
in Tränen aus Freude
*
When I enter his room
it's obvious how disturbed he is
his eyes shy fishes in a pond

he can not place me
admits after a few hesitations that this
is the most delightful day of his life

now I come to liberate him
and he offers me his wrist
around it his identification strip

that it is war, he declares
and that his own eyes have seen
how people around him

were branded and deported
tears of fear turn into
tears of joy

German Poetry

On the 16th two German poets Wilfried Bienek, (Essen) and Fred Schywek (Duisburg) are the main attraction for Gegenlesung, Deutsland ins Fadenkreuz: Counter lecture: Germany in the line of sight. This activity takes place in den Hopsack, in Antwerp, at eight thirty pm of course.
Here a poem inciting to resistance...
STADT,LAND,FLUSS

Autos zerfahren ziellos Reih und Glied.
Bäume zerschneiden planlos Lichterketten.
Wenn die Stadt prunkt rar und stattlich
Das Land glänzt porentief.

Aufpoliert ist der Fluss.
Von fleißigen Wasserträgern.
Aber da die überbrückten Kanäle:
Dampfen falsch ins Weite.
Als wollten sie sprechen
Sagen: Schöpft Verdacht
*
STAD, LAND, STROOM

Auto's rijden doelloos rij en gelid stuk.
Bomen snijden zonder plan door lichtslingers.
Als de stad pront fijn en statig
Het land glanst tot diep in de poriën.

Opgeboend is de stroom.
Door vlijtige waterdragers.
Maar daar de overbrugde kanalen:
Stomend fout de wijdte in.
Alsof ze spreken wilden
Zeggen: Maakt verdacht!

For more info about the Small Festival of European Poetry check www.Dichtkunst.eu
For those who don't know: den Hopsack is a small, brown, literary café, active in this field during many years. And not unimportant with the cheapest beer in town. Grote Pieter Pot Straat...

The Embarkation

The local Tv Channel had a call for boots men for Inland waterways, with a one year contract. I immediately thought of Roger Nupies rather naughty poem. You can hear him at the Small European Festival of the Art of Poetry, September 18, in the Permeke Library Antwerp, where he will MC the event en read his poetry too.

sms:foto duisburg/rhein 2010
© Portrait of the poet
De inscheping

O zeebonk, zoek mij
bij de blinde passagiers,
bij de bevaren kapiteins
en de jonge schippers.

O zeemaat, scheep mij in,
ik wil bootje met u varen,
uw rivier bakenen,
uw vlag hijsen.

O zeegast, ik hoor
uw bootsfluit al,
ik zie uw scheepslantaarn,
ik voel u aan boord komen.

O zeeman, bevracht mijn schip
sla mijn schroef achteruit,
gooi mijn roer om,
voel mijn vrijgezellenknoop.

O zeerob, uw dekknecht
zal ik zijn.
En nu, alle hens,
ahoy, kies het zeegat!
*

Die Einschiffung

Oh Seebär, such' mich
bei den blinden Passagieren,
bei den erfahrenen Kap'täns
und den jungen Schiffern.

Oh Meermaat, schiff mich ein
Boot fahren will ich mit dir,
an eueren Fluß die Baken setzen,
eu're Flagge hissen.

Oh du Seekerl, ich höre schon
deinen Bootsmanns Pfiff,
ich sehe eu're Schiffslaterne
ich fühle euch kommen an Bord.

O Seemann, befrachte mein Schiff
schlag mein Schraubenwerk heraus,
werf mein Ruder um,
fühle meinen Junggesellenknopf.

Oh Seerobbe, dein Deckknecht
soll ich sein
und nun, alla Mann,
ahoi, wähl' die Pforte hinein in die See!

German by Fred Schywek
*
Embarkation

Oh seadog look for me
among the stowaways,
among experienced captains
and the young skippers.

Oh sea mate, embark me
I want to sail with you
beacon your river,
and hoist your flag.

Oh sea bloke, already I hear
your boatman’s whistle
I see your ships lantern,
feel your coming on board.

Oh seaman, load my boat
lift up my rotor,
turn my rudder,
feel my bachelor’s knot.

Oh sea stud, your deck mate
I shall be
and now, all hands,
ahoy, sail through the sea gate.

English by Annmarie Sauer

Volle maan - Voller Mond - Full moon

Lucienne Stassaert is a special lady, the grande dame of Flemish poetry. In the small edition of Love in Holland and Flanders she contributed an honest and surprising poem. It is the poets cat speaking and the poet herself.
Lucienne will read some other love poetry with musician Jean Demey on September 18, 8 PM at the Permeke Library in Antwerp at the Small Festival of European Poetry. For the full program surf.to/program
This is a project in the framework of Ruhrgebiet2010, European Capital of Culture.



The cat of the poetess
 sms:foto duisburg/rhein


Volle maan
(het afscheid van Rosebud)

Er is vannacht veel drift op til
wanneer de blote maan begint
te trillen als een hete snaar.

Ik hoor het al, Manneke Poes,
fluistert ze teder in mijn oor.
Ze is warempel even krols.

De maartse min zit in haar vel
daarom beschrijft ze met geen pen
zoiets heel triest als de muziek

in een Andante Amoroso.
Als Mozart zwijgt, keert ze zich in -
Dat houdt ze nu al jaren vol.

Wie weet verspreekt ze zich nog meer
als ze alleen is, zwart op wit.
*
Voller Mond
(der Abschied von Rosebud)

Da ist heut’ Nacht viel Trieb am Horizont
Wenn dieser bleiche Mond beginnt
zu zittern wie heißer Saitenklang

Ich hör’ das alles schon, du Männchen Katz,
flüstert sie zärtlich in mein Ohr.
Sie, so wahrhaft und so rollig

Die Märzen Liebelei sitzt auf der Haut
darum beschreibt sie ohne Stift
sowas so Traurig’ wie die Musik

in einem Andante Amoroso.
Wie Mozart schweigt, zieht sie nach innen –
Und das nun schon seit Jahr und Tag.

Vielleicht verspricht sie sich noch mehr
wenn sie allein so schwarz auf Weiß.

Translation into German: Fred Schywek
*
Full Moon
Goodbye of Rosebud

Tonight a lot of passion is on the loose
when a naked moon starts
shivering as red hot string.

I can hear it yet, Tom Cat,
she whispers tenderly in my ear.
She truly is also just so in heat.

The love of March is under her skin
and thus with no pen does she describe
something so sad as music

in an Andante Amoroso.
When Mozart is silent, she turns inward -
She has been keeping this up for years.

Who knows her tongue may trip even more
when she is alone, black on white.

Translation into English: Annmarie Sauer

Death of an unpopular poet

A dear friend of mine's, great fisherman, hunter, living near Eugene, favorite poets are Jimmy Buffet and Roger Miller.
So for him and for the strugling poets of today and the music of the seventies this post.

The death of an unpopular poet. On the link you can hear the song.

Death Of An Unpopular Poet Lyrics

By: Jimmy Buffett
1973

I once knew a poet
Who lived before his time
He and his dog Spooner
Would listen while he'd rhyme
Words to make ya happy
Words to make you cry
Then one day the poet suddenly did die

But he left behind a closet
Filled with verse and rhyme
And through some strange transaction
One was printed in the Times
And everybody's searchin'
For the king of undergound
Well they found him down in Florida
With a tombstone for a crown

Everybody knows a line
From his book that cost four ninety-nine
I wonder if he knows he's doin'
Quite this fine

'Cause his books are all best sellers
And his poems were turned to song
Had his brother on a talk show
Though they never got along
And now he's called immortal
Yes he's even taught in school
They say he used his talents
A most proficient tool

But he left all of his royalties
To Spooner his ol' hound
Growin' old on steak and bacon
In a doghouse ten feet 'round
And everybody wonders
Did he really lose his mind
No he was just a poet who lived before his time
He was just a poet who lived before his time

Ich bin - I am

This poem by Job Degenaar poss an interesting problem for the translator. In the Dutch poem, the author uses a few German phrases, referring to the classic movie Der Blauwe Engel phrases every one in Holland would probbly understand and recognize. I am not so sure that my American friends would. Yet just translating the original into English would take away the exotic element in the poem. So here is the solution I choose.
Ich bin


Zwaar van bloesem buigt vanavond
de oude appelboom

en zij daar, satijnen engel
althans vanuit m'n auto

detonerend in de leegte
haalt haar wasgoed van de lijn

Ook op de radio komt ze door
'von Kopf bis Fuß auf Liebe eingestellt'

Even scheurt de grond -
Berlin dreißiger Jahre

und überall

Wege zum Gluck -

Het huis herzien, de boom geveld
de polder bijna ingevuld

de weg is recht, m'n leven krom
ik kijk nog altijd even om
*

Ich bin, I am

Blossom heavy bows tonight
the old apple tree

and she there, satin angle
at least from my car

incongruent in the emptiness
takes the laundry off the line

Also on the radio she comes through
von Kopf bis Fuß auf Liebe eingestellt, from head to toe attuned to love

Briefly earth tears –
Berlin Dreißiger Jahre, Berlin in the thirties

und überall, and everywhere
Wege zum Glück - roads to happiness

Revisited the house, the tree felled
the polder almost filled

the road is straight, my life off track
so far, I still glance back

Poem from the volume Ich Bin - I am, to be published in Autumn by wib

Chicken Suit

In the last post I mentioned the New York poet Robert Hershon publisher of
Hanging Loose Press implying I like his poetry. I like it enough to have translated some. A lighthearted yet thoughtful Chicken Suit from Calls from the Outside World.

A man in a chicken suit
stands at the subway exit
handing out flyers and loudly
procmaiming the virtues of
honey-fried wings or money-
back onion rings
It's hard to understand him
through the plastic beak and
what does a man in a chicken suit
really have to say to you anyway
This assumes it's always the same
man inside the chicken suit but
it might be a new guy every day
unless he is dedicated to this form
of career in a chicken suit
And I have been watching him
from the third floor window
for half an hour now
which may indicate the level
of my own ambition this morning
The eagle suit lies on a chair
waiting for a smart breeze
*

Kippenpak


De man in een kippenpak
staat aan de uitgang van de metro
deelt reclame uit en luid
verkondigt hij de deugden van
honinggebakken vleugeltjes of geld
terug uienringen
’t Is lastig hem te verstaan
door de plastic bek en
wat heeft een man in een kippenpak
je überhaupt echt te zeggen
Dit veronderstelt dat het altijd dezelfde
man is in het kippenpak maar
het kon een nieuwe kerel zijn elke dag
tenzij hij zijn zinnen heeft gezet op dit soort
carrière in een kippenpak
En ik heb hem in de gaten gehouden
vanuit het raam van de derde verdieping
al een half uur nu
wat iets zou kunnen zeggen over het niveau
van mijn eigen ambitie deze morgen
Het arendspak ligt op een stoel
en wacht op een vinnige bries