Poetry from the Low Countries: March 2018

Tuesday, 6 March 2018

Dublin by Frank van Dijl

Dublin

Frank van Dijl [1951]
photo Internet

Everyone in Dublin has the same popish
puppy-face that you still see in remote

parishes in the south of the Low Countries,

which have only just been connected to

the telegraph and telephone net.

The Irish: palefaces with water-colour freckles

and lifeless eyes that at any

moment can drown in tears. Indeed,

drowning sorrow in drink is what they do best:

when you give them a pint they will wag

their tails and growl in gratitude.

Sometimes, it is said, they lick your hand.

After closing time, far too early of course,

they piss, one paw up, against the pub.

II.

In almost everything they imitate the English,

but after all, how long haven't these been their

bosses? So it's bacon and eggs in the morning,

tea with milk, sandwiches for lunch, tea

with milk, a bit later afternoon tea, with milk,

and in the evening steak and kidney pie with

far too big, far too green peas. Just like the

English they drive on the left, although it makes

no difference on their narrow roads where you drive.

And they speak English: the bilingual

street signs are only there for show,

just like The Irish Times has a little corner

left for an article in Gaelic.

A stray dog is dead happy with the smallest bone.

III.

It is a long way to Tipperary:

the dog, dead tired, drags his paw.

Oh, sure, Ireland is stunning, with mountains

and valleys, and the Irish whiskey is

good to drink: I know all about it.

But James Joyce wrote his best books somewhere else,

though of course, in the museum dedicated to him

in Dublin, they don't tell you that,

and Kennedy became America's president.

Ireland is not a country, it is an island,

and it isn't even that. No one feels called to greatness,

meekly they walk the streets, thanking God

that at least there are potatoes again.

Then what the hell was I doing in Dublin?

Epilogue

I, who went swinging in London, Paris or

Berlin, entered – madness -

the kite of Aer Lingus and read sweating

how I should act in case of emergency.

I sought oblivion in alcohol. The drink

against fear of death, which I didn't seek here,

consoled my body, and my limbs acted

as if it was normal to be Icarus.

No city beneath me, Dublin is a hole

between mountains of cardboard, a decor for

cheap tragedies without a heldentenor.

I, Icarus, fell. It didn't help to call out.

Who would save me: I fell with them. But just as
the sea is good enough for the sailor, I was content.

Original title: Dublin From: De Tweede Ronde, tijdschrift voor literatuur, herfst 1981 - Uitgeverij Bert Bakker, Amsterdam

Monday, 5 March 2018

ars poetica by C. Buddingh'

ars poetica

C. Buddingh' [1918-1985]

I remember as if it were only yesterday

(I was maybe 22): I sat

brooding over a poem, and near the window

my mother was peeling the potatoes

the verse was not working: my back was

dripping with sweat and I thought with annoyance:

how in the name of god can one

write poetry in the same room

someone is peeling potatoes ?

That evening, when everyone was sleeping, I finished

the verse: it was an exceptionally bad verse

and I understood only very much later: the best

poetry is written while peeling potatoes

Original title: 'ars poetica' -from the collection 'Is dit genoeg: een stuk of wat gedichten - honderd jaar Noord- en Zuidnederlandse poëzie (1880-1980) in dertig thema's - dl.II - samengesteld door C. Buddingh' en Eddy van Vliet - 1982 - Uitgeverij Elsevier Manteau, Amsterdam/Antwerpen

Friday, 2 March 2018

Something about music in March by Jaap Harten

Something about music in March

Jaap Harten
[1930-2017]

From my window

I see tomcat Ape sneaking over

the gutter of the neighbour's shed.

Grey skin against grey

roof tiles, a drizzly sky

above it and in the background

the RC graveyard with a lilac

prelate. Today an important person will be

committed to the earth there.

Starchy or dejected (who can say?)

the bereaved trudge, friends,

housekeepers, etc. behind the coffin.

It is 12th March, cutting bleakly in shrubs

and wreath ribbons: tears might also

be brought about by the lashing wind.

Always looking at tombstones

leads to too much organ music at home.

Why not play a LP with the

sonatina of Ravel for once?

Consolation is not for sale. Years

pass by and I'm off now to buy

luncheon meat; life goes on

they say. Even so, while shopping, I worry

about the right music at my cremation:

Satie too modish, Bach too outmoded.

I'd choose Greta Keller with Dis-mois je t'aime

a scratchy little record from the meagre

thirties, but the favourite

song of Dior. It would match my

French ties, boots and glasses.

I never really felt I belonged in

Holland, rather to German drag

or Indonesian boy. Honestly, I

am at an utter loss in this country.

Original title: 'Iets over muziek in maart' -from the collection 'Poëzie is en daad van bevestiging' - Noord- en Zuidnederlandse poëzie van 1945 tot heden - gebundeld en ingeleid door C. Buddingh' en Eddy van Vliet - 1984 - Uitgeverij Manteau Amsterdam