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   

Susan Birkeland

Today it is sure Susan Birkeland's poetry will be included in the 2nd European Festival of Poetry. Her sister Deborah, kindly granted us permission. A first poem and its translations.

 

City Of Love

Sing to me from budding trees

Carry on and carry less
O My City

O My Lover

A hometown that needs no defenses?
Love without envy?
An easy life?
A happy death?

Know these blue skies and clean water
for every thirsty foreign child
friends of friends I've never met
smiling fat girls and
uncles in freedom's lucky trance.

Mercy stands by the road
drawing circles in the dry red earth
with the corner of his soft boot.

My father is an optimist.
My mother, slow and old and practical.

What holds us together.

City of Love
The Return of Mercy

Some day.

Some say.

Some do say.

©Susan Birkeland

Fom Susan Birkeland's new chapbook of poetry and drawings titled "The Bruised Angel Almanac"

*

Stadt von Liebe

Sing zu mir aus Blüten sprießend Bäumen

Mach weiter und weniger kümmern

Oh du meine Stadt

Oh meine Liebe

Eine Heimat, die keine Verteidigung braucht?

Liebe ohne Neidgefühl?

Ein leichtes Leben?

Ein glücklicher Tod?

Kenne diesen blauen Himmel und klar Wasser

für jedes durstig’ fremdes Kind

Freunde von Freunden ich habe nie getroffen

lächelnde dicke Mädchen und

Onkel in der Freiheit glücklicher Trance.

Der Gnadenmann steht an der Straße

zeichnet Kreise in die trocken rote Erde

mit der Ecke seines leichten Stiefels.

Mein Vater ist ein Optimist.

Meine Mutter, langsam und alt und praktisch.

Was uns zusammenhält.

Stadt von Liebe

Die Rückkehr vom Gnadenmann

Eines Tages.

Sagen manche.

Einige sagen das.

Translation: Fred Schywek

*

Stad van Liefde

Zing tot me uit bottende bomen

Draaf door en draaf minder        

Oh Mijn Stad

Oh Mijn Geliefde

Een thuishaven die geen verdediging behoefd?    

Liefde zonder afgunst?

Een gemakkelijk leven?

Een gelukkige dood?

Ken deze blauwe luchten en schoon water

Voor elk dorstig vreemd kind

Vrienden van vrienden die ik ooit ontmoette

Glimlachende dikke meisjes en

Ooms in de gelukkige trance van vrijheid.

De man van mededogen staat langs de weg

tekent cirkels in de droge rode aarde

met de hoek van zijn zachte laars.

Mijn vader is een optimist.

Mijn moeder, traag en oud en praktisch.

Wat ons samen houdt.

Stad van Liefde

De terugkeer van de man van mededogen

Ooit.

Zo zegt iemand.

Iemand zegt ooit.

Translation: Annmarie Sauer

 

2nd European Festival of Poetry, 2011

Note the 17th of September in your diaries: That is the day you can come to the Permeke library in Antwerp to enjoy the poets, performers, musicians and singers. The program is coming together nicely. The performances are finding their level, how to show and let hear what we want to communicate. Poets from five countries will be present. Some poets you might have met and heard last year and that would be an occasion to get reacquainted with them and some are first timers and not of the least.  We'll be honoring a few Grandes Dames of poetry who turn 70 and 75 this year. 7 of the poets come from outside of Belgium: 3 from The Netherlands, 2 from Germany, 1 from France and one from the US. Although work of more than one American poet will be read  and performed.
So note the date: September 17, 8 PM.

As an appetizer a short poem by Sherman Alexie from one of the main features of the festival:The sounds of harbour, the upcoming third volume in this series: Harbors of the West.

Migration, 1902

The salmon swim

so thick in this river

that Grandmother walks

across the water

on the bridge

of their spines.

*

Migratie, 1902

De zalm zwemt zo

dicht op elkaar in deze rivier

dat Grootmoeder over

het water loopt

op de brug

van hun rug.

 

With permission of Hanging Loose Press

Carne vale

Golden shoes

and lace

on a bony knee

of aged Sundays

and pearl

around necks of

sagging flesh

waiting

in excitement

for the procession

of shared solitude

Behind the ardent rows

the beauties

pass

no need yet

for this wait

that brings out but

saints

Their time is to night

the fiesta of the flesh

forgotten the

Carne vale

of their mothers in the street

A carnival in Valencia... Brides walking to the sea

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)

Harbor to harbor in the bookworm

A presentation in German and English in Strasbourg, France in the Bookworm, the English-American Bookshop is an intimate affair. The small bookshop however makes the poets get close to their listeners, who thus also lend their deepest attention. It was a warm revisiting of place and people.

It was the French presentation of Sounds of Harbour, by six poets and Felsenleiter, written by Fred Schywek. The bi-lingual experiment worked also between the German poems and its English translation. The listeners were, among others, deeply impressed by 'Wenn mann nichts hat'
When Fred read from Felsenleiter, there was absolute silence and concentration... Also acknowledgement of the quality of his writing.

es wird licht

ein lichter Wald

eine Rohre mit Abstand

von Wand zu Wand

von Baum zu Baum

in dieser Nacht

ist alles möglich

Oh,

es wird licht hier.
*

it’s becoming light

a light forest

a tube with distance

from wall to wall

from tree to tree

in this night

all is possible

Oh.

it’s becoming light here.

***

Furthermore, the anthology 'Love in Holland and Flanders' was presented and poems were offered from 'Werkwoorden, Werkworte, Workbook' 
With one of the poems, the owner of the shop burst into tears, asked the text and had mailed it to the other end of the world by the end of the poetry evening:

Early morn

when summer

breaks

into autumn

The first

I saw

   was Thee

The first I

   felt

   smelt

the first

I became

   was we

*

All this was the last event in the year of Ruhrgebiet 2010, European Capital of Culture , organized by Fred Schywek. Yet expect more poetic action next year.

Yesterday's blog ended with a poem from Hafenklänge, Havenklanken, Sounds of Harbour. The books arrived finally after a two weeks plus anticipation. Here they are, with their own poster and greeting card. One bookshop has them for sale: The Groene Waterman and soon even the Standaard bookshop will carry the anthologies and individual volumes of poetry.
The authors from this book are : Fred Schywek, like a friend noticed a cross between Schiller and Arthur Rimbaud, and Wilfried Bienek, both from Germany, Ruhrgebiet2010 Cultural Capital of Europe area, staring in the Gegenlesung evening: Deutschland im Fadenkreuz, in den Hopsack. The other poets write in Dutch: Job Degenaar, who surprised us with his songs and the tearjerker: Junge komm bald wieder during the festival, Roger Nupie (see yesterday's post), and our city poet laureate Peter Holvoet-Hansssen with his idiosyncratic, surprising performances. And yours truly, writing sometimes in English and other times in Dutch. The creative yet loyal German translations are by Fred Schywek. Respecting the original, he turns them into real German poems one can read at a poetry evening in the Rhineland. For the English I am responsible in this volume.
We're a bunch of people intrigued by harbors, water, inland waterways, the sea. And at least one of us is intrigued by the sea-bears and seabeds... at least in  his poetry. Special in the book is that the six poets wrote Gezeit, Tij, Tide each in 2 quatrains. (I heard later a similar form under the name of Renga exists in Japan) This poem features in the book under the name of Charles Kléber - kind of Charley Glued Together... On the road from New York to Amsterdam American (street)musician Ken Post joined in the merrymaking of sounds of harbor and putting a bit of guitar blues under an antiwar blues poem, which you' be able to read in a later blog..
 Les Sons du Port sont arrivé - Fresh words are in the air...!
It is fitting the books arrived just when I was going to deal with that part of the festival evening.

The Master of Ceremony reads

Roger Nupie, how to describe his qualities? He is the president of the Nina Simone fan club and knew her well. He likes his diva's.  As an MC he is is funny, and efficient, keeps a good rhythm. As a poet he is can be bitter, sweet and naughty. The the anthology Sounds of Harbor he has a rather funny and and slightly skewed. He reads The embarkation is with a lot  of aplomb.

©: Bram Goots

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

De liefde
verliest
haar getijden


Dat wegeebben blijft

ons bij versteend 
op de oever

Nooit

halen we

morgen.

*
ZUM LEUCHTTURM

Die Liebe

verliert

ihre Gezeiten.

Das Wegebben bleibt

uns erhalten, versteinert

auf dem Ufer.

Nie

holen wir

das Morgen.


German: Fred Schywek

*

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Love

looses

its tides.

This ebbing away stays

with us petrified

on the shore.

Never

will we make it

to tomorrow.

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

Die ewige See * The eternal sea

This is a poem by Fred Schywek, poet from the Lower Rhine. This is a preview of Hafenklänge, Havenklanken, Sounds of Harbour, Sons du Port, by world internet books production. 

*

Six poets write about harbours, wind, the sea and longing... To be published September 2010. Presentation in Antwerp during The 1st European Festival of Poetry.

Die ewige See

Die Seele

allein auf

weiten Horizonten

so weit geht

meine Liebe

Marsmenschen landen

traurig und scharf

mit rostroten Segeln

und schwarzen Mast

über dunklen unbekannten

Wassern vom Ozean

zwischen mir und tot

liegt eine dünne Feder

und zwei Hohe Augen

Monster erklären

die Geschichten

verschluckt im Krug

die ewige Frau

oh du sailor

dell the truth

Spiegel dich

Fliegender Kapitän

vom Deck

Scheiß auf Wind

Fluch es weg

Laß uns segeln

bis zum Ende der Tage

ohne je zu sterben

Fred Schywek

*

The eternal sea

The soul

alone on

wide horizons

so far goes

my love

Martians land

sad and sharp

with rust red sails

and black mast

over dark unknown

waters of the Ocean

between me and dead

lies a thin feather

and two High Eyes

monsters explain

the stories

swallowed in the goblet

the eternal woman

oh you skipper

dell the truth

Mirror yourself

Flying Captain

of the Deck

Shit on the wind

curse it away

let’s sail

till the end of days

without ever dying

Fred Schywek

Harbors

A lot of people are intrigued by water, streams, seas and cities on a stream, cities with a harbor. The writing about it is very diverse. Our current house guest is one of the poets participating in the 1st European Festival of the Art of Poetry Wilfried Bienek. Here follows one of his harbor poems in German and Brittish English.

Nie ohne Hafen

Ohne Hafen wüssten Schiffe nicht wohin.

Zugang von Wasser zu Land, von Meer zum Zuhaus.
Grauer Städte Mauern. Zuhaus hinter Kais. Die feste Burg.
Die Hafenstadt aus Menschen an lebenslangen Ankern.

Stinkend steht der Fisch im Wasser, riecht nie sich selbst.
Möwen fischen aus trübem Dunst wie Gespenster nach ihren Schiffen. Nach jeder Sintflut Ebbe mit neuer Besatzung.

Ratten bleiben, doch Menschen sinken von Bord in den Boden.
Der Seemann hisst seine Bräute neben dem Schiff. Dann facht er an den Sturm in Herzen, die noch nicht schlagen, für bald.

Nimm mich mit Kapitän auf Container. Macht nicht der Hafen
alle satt? Stumme Maschinen. Menschen unter Dampf. Schiffe
mit Himmelbetten und Tötungsgerät frei Villa Kunterbunt.

Jenseits oder Längsseits. Wer nicht untergehen will, geht
unter Menschen und wer will dito. Versicherte Robinsons warten
auf Freitag der niemals verlässt, was er ist: eine Insel.

Ohne Hafen wüssten Schiffe nicht wohin.

Never without harbour

Without harbours boats wouldn’t know where to go.

Access from water to land, from sea to the home.
Gray city walls. Home behind quays. The steadfast fortress.
The harbour city of people on lifelong anchors.

Stinging the fish stands in the water, never smells itself.
Seagulls fish out of turbid vapours, ghosts after their ships. After each
flood low tide with a new crew.

Rats stay, but people sink off board to the bottom.
The seaman hoists his brides next to the ship. Then he fans the storm in
the hearts, not yet beating, for soon.

Take me along captain on container. Doesn’t the harbour
fill all? Silent machines. People under steam. Ships
with canopies and killing equipment port free Villa Villekulla.

The other side or long side. Who doesn’t want to go down, goes
among people and who wants dito. Insured Robinsons wait
for Friday who never leaves what he is: an island.

Without harbours boats wouldn’t know where to go.

Wilfried Bienek is a Poet against War. Right on!