Rural autumn by Hans Warren

 

Hans Warren
20 oktober 1921 - 19 december 2001
[photo Internet]

Rural autumn

Who hasn't, like us, in the darkest Europe
of this century, when it seemed there wasn't
a way out anymore, been young,
and loved somebody, will never grasp

how we clung onto a little happiness,
a sonnet, a trace of luxury,
some grapes in a crystal bowl, that cracked
when bombers passed over.

We knew for sure, we had witnessed
death daily in many forms.
Whether we would ever have a future
looked, given our situation, more and more uncertain.

That is why autumn was possibly the most heart-rending:
everything was dying and we hadn't even lived yet.

Original title: 'Landelijke herfst' -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

Just listen carefully by C. Buddingh'

Just listen carefully

Painting by Toon Winkler (1923-1989)

I often listen to my breathing.
Something is always wheezing or grinding or rattling:
muffled signals from my bronchi
that there all is still functioning reasonably.

One can hear too much, but also too little.
Too much: the doctor comes with a syringe.
Nothing at all: one is on one's death bed.
No, the best is somewhere in between.

Those long familiar, rustling sounds:
like a mouse gnawing on a rind of cheese,
like a ripple through coal dust.

Especially at night: the whole neighbourhood sleeps,
one reads and listens, smiles, reads and listens,
and alive enough one looks ahead with a grin.

Original title: ''Goed luisteren maar''  From the collection Gedichten 1974/1985, Uitgeverij de Bezige Bij, Amsterdam, 1986

This island by Jan Eijkelboom

 This island

Today my feet are feeling good
in their socks and they in turn
in their roomy but not yet
sloppy shoes.

Then why not take the beaten track,
up the mountains, over the fields
away from this town
where alleys go down to landings

no longer used by boats.

Yet there, one can look out
over the ever-changing
but staying the same water,

experience that between closeness
and thirst for space can be
a marked out though unrestrained domain:
this, to do in one day's march

island.

Original title: Dit eiland From: Heden voelen mijn voeten zich goed - Uitgeverij De Arbeiderspers - Amsterdam - Antwerpen - 2002.

Black-backed Gull by Theo de Jong

Black-backed Gull

Theo de Jong - 1943
photo Internet

Of untouchable things

gulls are the most beautiful.

He travels in a straight line

just above the waves,

slowly crossing our wake.

No purpose, no vestige, no

future or origin to be seen.

A wanderer, anonymous. Just

over a hill of air,

then he pulls the line of

flight straight again, heartbeat

wing-beat one movement

that unstirred breaks free

from what ties him.


Original title: Mantelmeeuw From: De Tweede Ronde Lente 1984 - Uitgeverij Bert Bakker - Amsterdam

The mother the wife by M. Nijhoff

The mother the wife

M. Nijhoff - 1894-1953
photo Internet

I went to Bommel to see the bridge.

I saw the new bridge. Two opposites

seeming to avoid each other in the past,

become neighbours again. About ten minutes

that I lay there in the grass, drinking my tea,

my head full of the landscape far and wide -

leave me there in the middle of infinity

hearing a voice that resounded in my ears.

It was a woman. The ship she sailed

came slowly downstream through the bridge.

She was alone on deck, she stood at the helm,

and what she sang I heard were psalms.

Oh, I thought, oh, that my mother were sailing there.

Praise God, she sang, His hand will guide you.

Original title: De moeder de vrouw From: Nieuwe gedichten - Em. Querido's Uitgeverij - Amsterdam 1934

My father by Wim Hofman

Wim Hofman - 1941
photo singeluitgeverijen

My father

turned ninety the day before yesterday,

and now he is in bed.

Thus his ninety-first autumn begins.

The sun shines in through the window

on the wallpaper and the embroidery

he once made:

a still life with blue plums and green grapes

in cross stitch, set in an oaken frame.

The nights, he says,

the nights are the worst.

He pants. He is tired.

He would rather say nothing more,

but I suspect that not everything has been said.

A bush of gray hair

sticks out almost attractively above the blankets.

Just sleep, father,

dream of something beautiful

the best thing you ever saw in your long always to short life

the raspberry-lemonade-pink evening sun above the sea

near Vlissingen, the lightning above the sea

while fishing at night, the moon

that jumped out of heaven like a silver fish,

the moment you had a bite

and something impatiently tugged at your fishing line,

as if to say

Hello Hofman,

are you still there?

Original title: Mijn vader From: Tirade 386 / 2000 Nr. 4 - Uitgeverij G.A. van Oorschot, Amsterdam