The old man by Jan van Nijlen

The old man I note when writing each day: My hands are those of an old man. I take it, this lot  is of every man, But wistfulness and longing stay. (Original title: 'De oude man' - from: 'Verzamelde Gedichten 1903-1964', 1964 - Uitgeverij Van Oorschot, Amsterdam)

Jan van Nijlen [1884-1965]

Recreation by Bert Voeten

Recreation Twice a year we drove to the churchyard; on the 4th grave, 3rd row left of the entrance I could put flowers in a green, zinc vase while my father knelt on a prie-dieu which he had first covered with his handkerchief. The walk between the graves often took more then an hour my father paid visits to old acquaintances and talked with the man in charge about the further embellishment of the grave, the one fancied more a weeping willow the other more a rose tree in the pub opposite the churchyard (there where wooden spittoons full of wet sand, chewed-up quids and cigar stubs) we had a drink afterwards -cold brown beer from jars- and that too lasted mostly an hour because death makes one thirsty. (Original title: 'Rekreatie' - From the collection 'Een bord bekijken', 1966 - Amsterdam)

Bert Voeten [1918-1992]

Old meeting room by Martin Reints

Old meeting room On the tables pushed together a tray with cups a glass bowl with packets of milk powder a glass bowl with packets of sugar and a box with tea bags thermos jugs, cupboards from a distant past a flip-chart fallen into disuse as a painter's easel in the south of France where the air quivers with the heat making cypresses look like filmed cypresses empty, undulating landscape with stone walls and abandoned country houses museums with old attendants on folding chairs and successful managers who pass by while looking at paintings cars in car parks school buses with schoolchildren. (Original title: 'Oud vergaderzaaltje' -from the collection 'Lopende zaken'(Current affairs), 2010 - Uitgeverij De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam)

Martin Reints [1950]

At home alone by C. Buddingh'

At home alone Stientje has gone to Eindhoven for two days. I'm at home alone, well: besides Sam and Peerke: also excellent company, but it's just like everything is dulled. The chairs and tables, though long familiar, like surly strangers surround me. I've even no appetite for Montherlant or Auden. I just pour myself another glass of whisky. Such an empty bedroom in your own house: it's as if you're prowling through a mausoleum. I pick up a bottle with still some 'Je reviens' in it and shake a little drop on my wrist. Now I can still smell her a bit. O, dear God, return her home save and sound.  (Original title: 'Alleen in huis' -from the collection 'De tweede zestig', 1979 - Uitgeverij De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam)

C. Buddingh' [1918-1985]

Asparagus by Manuel Kneepkens

Asparagus On her most precious crystal plate mother carried them in on Sundays Asparagus delicate, mouth-watering food from the kitchen of the Seraphim & Cherubim Rolled in slices of ham, sometimes twined with parsley but always with a crown of eggs cut in halves - poached & sprinkled with velvet butter sauce ''Thy Kingdom come....'' we prayed devoutly ''Especially in our embonpoints....'' And slurping we imagined ourselves to be on Easter morning in the garden of Resurrection deep kissing as Mary Magdalene once did the, oh, so pallid rib cage of our risen Lord (Original title: 'Asperges' - from: 'Au pays du tendre Moisan noir', 1993 - Uitgeverij Herik - Landgraaf)

Manuel Kneepkens [1942]

Noordereiland by Jan Eijkelboom

Noordereiland Once, in that corner where former wind had gathered dead leaves an unexpected squall produced a swirl which took off as a brown top into the air. And from its tip a fountain then arose, a flock formerly hidden, of loudly twittering sparrows. They seemed to be quarreling more than singing. Yet in all that noise I heard the larks of the winter. (Original title: 'Noordereiland' -from the collection 'Het lied van de krekel', 1996 - Uitgeverij De Arbeiderspers, Amsterdam)

Jan Eijkelboom [1926-2008]

The people by L.TH. Lehmann

The People The people irrespective of sex, country, colour or class, don't want to sing, but imitate farting with the mouth. The people don't want amusement, they have excrement. The people don't want a sexual revolution, but make someone out to be a whore. The people don't want to see their children happy, they prefer to break their bones (why wouldn't they?). The people don't want justice, they want to cause injustice. The people don't want freedom, they want to keep slaves. The people don't want peace, they want to torture strangers. The people don't want happiness, but violence. (Original title: 'Het Volk' - from: 'Gedichten 1939-1998', 2000 - Uitgeverij De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam)

L. Th. Lehmann [1920-2012]

With Falstaff by A. Roland Holst

With Falstaff I was with Falstaff in the pub around closing time. The landlord got drowsy and outside it struck midnight. Nasty the night wind blew there. I paid the bill, we turned up our collars and thought about the grave and how life stuck in a rut comes to a dead end: a bitter laugh. Does tomorrow bring another day? (Original title: 'Met Falstaff' - from: 'Verzameld werk. Poezie II', 1981 - Uitgeverij Van Oorschot, Amsterdam)

A. Roland Holst [1888-1976]

Holland Remembered by H. Marsman

Holland Remembered Thinking of Holland I see wide rivers running slowly through endless lowlands, unthinkable rows of transparent poplars like high plumes standing at the horizon; and in the tremendous space submerged the farms spread over the country, groups of trees, villages, truncated towers, churches and elms in a wide context. the sky hangs low there and the sun’s being smothered slowly in grey many-coloured vapours, and in all the regions the voice of the water with its everlasting disaster will be feared and be heard. (Original title: 'Herinnering aan Holland' - from: 'Verzameld Werk', 1938 - Uitgeverij Querido, Amsterdam)

H. Marsman [1899-1940]