Demer Press bracht
een Engelstalig boek op de markt, ĎVoices From Everywhereí, met bijdragen
van dichters uit verschillende landen.
Hagenaars werden vijf gedichten gekozen uit zijn bundel ĎBloedkransí
(Uitgeverij In de Knipscheer, 2011) die, in een vertaling van John Irons, al
diverse malen eerder verschenen. Het gaat om: 1) A handful of earth, 2) Reunion,
3) Ancestor, 4) Yogyakarta en 5) Surrender.
De andere dichters
zijn, in alfabetische volgorde:
(Algerije), Floris Brown (Zuid-Afrika), Miller Caldwell (Schotland), Gary Clark
(Engeland), Julie Cornett (Engeland), Iona Cozmuta (RoemeniŽ), Frank Decerf
(Vlaanderen), Joe Hakim (Engeland), Joris Iven (Vlaanderen), Hannie Rouweler
(Nederland), Karel Sergen (WalloniŽ), Robert Swann (Engeland), Mark Walmsley
(Engeland), Mike Watts (Engeland), Martin Willitts (Verenigde Staten) en Dave
was in handen van Hannie Rouweler en Mark Walmsley.
A HANDFUL OF EARTH
handful of earth, bestowed with love
by the creator as a revelation.
Your name, but I did not believe
myself and as yet spoke no Javanese
hunted on, into the emptiness of other lands,
reflecting what a person keeps from
The master, your grandfather, had foretold it:
shortly after I am gone he will return.
And so you waited, with Buddhistic patience
allowing me to circle round you ever closer,
a bird of prey, losing in beat of wing,
gaining in keenness of gaze.
After seven years of denial, after seven
times seven blows to the midriff,
the breaking of resistance,
you suddenly appear once more in the palm garden.
After so many words on bloodless paper
your smile is like that of the reliefs
in lava rock everywhere around us, full lips
that are to close round more than my language.
After the kept silence, the cutting, the sheafing,
the flailing of the rice from its stalks,
now the blessing of the elders, the gift,
a vow unknown to those without belief.
glass I see you then,
as a copy in hardened synthetic resin
of the skull fragments compressed to stone:
Gone for good are the hair-covered skin,
the flat breasts with their long nipples
and the short hoarse sounds of the tongue
in which you warned, made love, died,
but not the strings of notional DNA
still spiralling in the woman with whom hand
in hand I stand before the dark showcase
and reconstruct your heavy features.
Your luxuriant world with predecessors
of elephant, buffalo and crocodile
became imperceptibly slowly buried
beneath layer upon layer of sediment.
After hundreds of thousands of years of waiting
lift up your once so strong hands
of what is now caked grit,
reach out towards me
and want my mouth to breathe
life into her. I incorporate you
when our descendents survive,
according to a theory far from
The line from the volcanoís summit
past the sultanís palace to the seaís abyss
spans the sacred space of the
in which until the end you are embedded.
It preserves the balance between
the heavenly bodies and the daily life of prayer
and service, of birth, dying and grief.
May nothing disrupt this imposed
or neighbours will view us with darkened gaze,
fire will rise up from Merapi, blood
descend from the world of ancestors.
So I am taught, ignorant as I still am,
and I am all ears and see charred fields
where the rice now rustles in a gentle breeze, hear
envy in a friendly voice, and bow
my head because I have so little own control.
The gamelan strikes up, copper against copper
brings a former pledge to its conclusion.
Shrill voices search, grow stronger.
In our stiff garments we stride to the centre
of the ring and throw betel leaves at each other,
against which no disaster can prevail.
As carefully as possible I step on the egg
and you wash my feet with what is freed
in the bowl with flower-petal water.
Under the approving eye of all
I empty a sack with rice, nuts and seeds
in your still briefly covered lap.
How deeply buried in my mother tongue,
how far withdrawn from the wreath of blood,
insatiably spreading in new life
merciful death now seems.
the wall and not the child
Take a deep breath, donít get riled
You were once an infant too
Carers thought the world of you
You grew up into your teens
Anger surfaced, violent scenes
Break the circle donít be tethered
Or you find the family severed
Rid the land of Child Abuse
Banish every false excuse
See them grow up in delight
Childhood valued. Get it right.
THE ANGELíS LUST
there will be wind,
rocked over her belly.
the moon rose, billowed,
her full corona through the window.
wings on her shoulders blazed,
she had a sniff of the angelís lust.
licked and leaked.
said he, I have created the hard sand,
itís getting wet for the sea that comes,
itís keeping dwells in the loose sand.
sea is cold, but not in its wider depths,
Where the warm brotherly blood
Of capsized fishermen flows through the hanging nets
Which catch on to inner mountains
And wild, waving vegetation,.
The beating, searching blood of fishermen flows
Through the depths of the sea,
Attracting various types of fish.
In the sea there are different hierarchies,
But there is a love, warm-blooded and wordless,
Sometimes taking monstrous forms.
It reaches no closer than the watershed,
And can suddenly disappear in an eddy,
Invisible at the surface,
Originating deeper down where currents collide.
Where the sun has raised
In the first morning
Where I start learning
The first year of my candleís dreaming
To rescue my enthusiasmís hunger
And searching a rich affection
I found you; my daffodil
Eradicating all my hoursí vile
Decorated; your red cheeks by a Russian handsome
Giving me a smile too
Where I didnít stop going through
O! Daffodil, you substituted my tune
Painting it joyfully like the moon
I touched your petals
Losing their control
Flying to me as a foul
Taking me to a thorny stroll
Where your words towards my disease could have a role
I liked your colors my daffodil
Wearing them in a fashionable style
Taking all audienceís eyes for a while
I cherished your methodsí pourboire
Having never that hateful color of noir
I followed your shadow
Passing by me and my soul seeking for words from the
You told me, your name
And all others just the same
So I felt some minutes special
Yet my attention exceeding to the superficial
You clapped, ďgo aheadĒ
And my photo always shown as you said!
WAR IN DARFUR
to are you running my dear child
to are you running my dear child
your feet are kicking dusts?
your little heart against your temples
does your frozen mind say?
feet just carry me
feet just carry me
that I can find my way
nailed on any safe haven
GOD! Iím c-h-i-l-d!
my back drinks are parked,
exist to make sure tables arenít marked.
soak up the spills, the tears, the laughs,
can be flipped from bars for friends to catch.
witness to fights and gropes and snogs,
in a bin or left in the bogs.
missile for an enemy, a note for a friend,
the local boozer my time is at an end.
I hope youíll miss me when Iím gone Ė
a bit of British history you put your pint on.
I see myself reflected in the china
and it is disturbed
I see my hands in the soil
among the composted leaves
rooting out what is unnecessary
my words are on the clothesline
for everyone to see
I iron my thoughts with an iron
hot from the stove
of my heart
if these things trouble you,
and they should, if you do not like
what you hear,
imagine how I feel
hearing voices within
forcing me to calmly discuss
the troubles of the world
both soothing and scolding
to the touch
THE GOOD SEX MAN
The Joy of Sex
For The Good Sex Man,
Is to give good sex
As much as he can.
He communicates well
And recalls what youíve said,
Giving carnal contentment
From your toes to your head.
A Good Sex Man
Explores all the nerves
Of your secret zones,
And all the rhythms
That vibrate your bones
The Good Sex Man
Exchanges all pleasures,
And then adds on extras
In surprising measures.
So many ways
To caress, To massage,
Thatís the experience
Of a Good Sex Bloke.
And just when you think
He's met all your needs,
He'll start over again,
Offering different speeds.
A Good Sex Man may rest
When your done,
Thatís when he's happy,
When youíve had enough fun.
He'll then build you up
To taking some more,
You're fulfilled to the core.
Exhibition: Closing Time
Belgian painter Jan Vanriet
Girl with your
arms spread dancing in
the morning light along shadows
of trees, how beautiful you are
vulnerable when you glide
in the afternoon down the streets.
Your dark wavy hair floating in the wind.
Nobody sees you, all see your silhouette.
Your leg upwards like a flexible ballerina,
you hurry past the windows of your life.
Nothing changes when dusk falls into the water,
takes shelter behind high trees,
black, your figure. And I, from the distance,
would call: beware of the wicked, wicked wolf.
The night swallows everything, the danger that girls
of your age often don't see. Watch out, pay attention.
cold, grey and uninviting
I sneak down the stairs,
five in the morning
dying of thirst,
dare not awake them,
they sleep soundly on,
people in my life,
I now rely upon,
I lay awake,
the sound of the clock,
tick, ticking my life away,
a tin plate,
odd car droning by
I wonder why
should be like this
my time of life
everything to live for
a full-time working wife
no consolation as I sit alone
five in the morning
credit on my phone,
am now jobless
the guilt eats away
the reason I'm here,
I live for
all in doubt
a matter of time
she kicks me out
do you describe that
a twenty five year old
more bored than us?
he sits at his computer
he calls out mine
fills me with shame,
why at five in the morning
sat on my own,
fifty five year old, once proud man
on the scrap heap.
IS NOT A LOVE POEM
still beating heart
then volley it
am not a broken
like a foetus
never wanted words
me to choose
of you have
did get better
summer here, as alwaysÖ
at night, not far,
a few birds twitter,
still partying for no reason
for the joy of being.
the lonely patio
strange, crazy tree
shivering dry, brown leaves
blooming its white dream:
velvety, simple flowers.
in each otherís warmth
heavily and fast
if, with every breath,
for the last sip of restful sleepy air.
a dark fog of silence
repetition for the later-to-come
that un-named quivering marvel,
behind the clouds
slowly from the other side
stems and branches,
hills and the Bay
everything else so fragile,
canít even pencil.
need to translate my poems anymore.
mother tongue also
slowly falling asleep.