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Demer Press bracht
een Engelstalig boek op de markt, ‘Voices From Everywhere’, met bijdragen
van dichters uit verschillende landen.
Van Albert
Hagenaars werden vijf gedichten gekozen uit zijn bundel ‘Bloedkrans’
(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:
Chahra Beloufa
(Algerije), Floris Brown (Zuid-Afrika), Miller Caldwell (Schotland), Gary Clark
(Engeland), Julie Cornett (Engeland), Iona Cozmuta (Roemenië), Frank Decerf
(Vlaanderen), Joe Hakim (Engeland), Joris Iven (Vlaanderen), Hannie Rouweler
(Nederland), Karel Sergen (Wallonië), Robert Swann (Engeland), Mark Walmsley
(Engeland), Mike Watts (Engeland), Martin Willitts (Verenigde Staten) en Dave
Windass (Engeland).
De samenstelling
was in handen van Hannie Rouweler en Mark Walmsley.
I:
A HANDFUL OF EARTH
A
handful of earth, bestowed with love
by the creator as a revelation.
Your name, but I did not believe
in
myself and as yet spoke no Javanese
and
hunted on, into the emptiness of other lands,
reflecting what a person keeps from
himself.
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.
II:
REUNION
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.
III:
ANCESTOR
Behind
glass I see you then,
as a copy in hardened synthetic resin
of the skull fragments compressed to stone:
Meganthropus Paleojavanicus.
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
you
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
proven yet.
IV:
YOGYAKARTA
The line from the volcano’s summit
past the sultan’s palace to the sea’s abyss
spans the sacred space of the
culture
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
harmony
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.
V:
SURRENDER
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.
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*
Hit
the wall and not the child
Take a deep breath, don’t 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 don’t 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.
Miller
Caldwell
THE ANGEL’S LUST
then
he spoke:
there will be wind,
silky wind.
wind
rocked over her belly.
the moon rose, billowed,
her full corona through the window.
venus blushed.
the
wings on her shoulders blazed,
she had a sniff of the angel’s lust.
tongues
licked and leaked.
therefore,
said he, I have created the hard sand,
it’s getting wet for the sea that comes,
it’s keeping dwells in the loose sand.
Karel
Sergen
KNOWLEDGE
The
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.
Joris
Iven
MY DAFFODIL
Where the sun has raised
In the first morning
Where I start learning
The first year of my candle’s dreaming
To rescue my enthusiasm’s hunger
And searching a rich affection
I found you; my daffodil
Eradicating all my hours’ vile
Decorated; your red cheeks by a Russian handsome
smile
Giving me a smile too
Where I didn’t 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 audience’s eyes for a while
I cherished your methods’ pourboire
Having never that hateful color of noir
I followed your shadow
Passing by me and my soul seeking for words from the
window
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, “go ahead”
And my photo always shown as you said!
Chahra
Beloufa
WAR IN DARFUR
Where
to are you running my dear child
Where
to are you running my dear child
As
your feet are kicking dusts?
Thud
your little heart against your temples
What
does your frozen mind say?
Little
feet just carry me
Little
feet just carry me
So
that I can find my way
Through
this war-dust-storm
Eyes
nailed on any safe haven
Father!
GOD! I’m c-h-i-l-d!
Floris
Brown
BEER
MAT’S LAMENT
On
my back drinks are parked,
I
exist to make sure tables aren’t marked.
I
soak up the spills, the tears, the laughs,
I
can be flipped from bars for friends to catch.
A
witness to fights and gropes and snogs,
chucked
in a bin or left in the bogs.
A
missile for an enemy, a note for a friend,
like
the local boozer my time is at an end.
So
I hope you’ll miss me when I’m gone –
I’m
a bit of British history you put your pint on.
Joe
Hakim
TROUBLES
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
in words,
both soothing and scolding
to the touch
Martin Willitts
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 you’ve 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,
And stroke,
That’s 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,
That’s when he's happy,
When you’ve had enough fun.
He'll then build you up
To taking some more,
Exhausted,
Contented,
You're fulfilled to the core.
Robert
Swan
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QUADRIPARTITE,
GIRL
Exhibition: Closing Time
Belgian painter Jan Vanriet
Girl with your
rolling skates,
arms spread dancing in
the morning light along shadows
of trees, how beautiful you are
cheerful and
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.
Hannie
Rouweler.
UNEMPLOYMENT
It's
cold, grey and uninviting
As
I sneak down the stairs,
At
five in the morning
And
dying of thirst,
I
dare not awake them,
As
they sleep soundly on,
The
people in my life,
That
I now rely upon,
As
I lay awake,
To
the sound of the clock,
Tick,
tick, ticking my life away,
Like
dripping water
On
a tin plate,
Creaking
floorboards
The
odd car droning by
The
silence deafening
And
I wonder why
I
should be like this
At
my time of life
With
everything to live for
And
a full-time working wife
It's
no consolation as I sit alone
At
five in the morning
No
credit on my phone,
I
am now jobless
And
the guilt eats away
At
my soul
My
upbringing
And
the reason I'm here,
Everything
I live for
Now
all in doubt
It's
a matter of time
Before
she kicks me out
How
do you describe that
At jobcentreplus?
To
a twenty five year old
Who's
more bored than us?
As
he sits at his computer
Shouting
out names
When
he calls out mine
It
fills me with shame,
That's
why at five in the morning
I'm
sat on my own,
A
fifty five year old, once proud man
Now
on the scrap heap.
Gary
Clark
THIS
IS NOT A LOVE POEM
No
She
didn’t
Punch
A
hole through
My
breast bone
Rip
out
My
still beating heart
And
then volley it
Out
of sight
Somewhere
Because
Despite
the whispers
It
didn’t happen
Like
that
And
no
I
am not a broken
Soul
Curled
like a foetus
On
a mattress
Stained
With
moments
That
burn
Behind
My
eyes
Like
an awful
Memory
Because
Despite
the blows
I’m
not that
Feeble
Of
course
It
was hard
But
I’m still
Breathing
Look
I
never wanted
Compassion
I
never wanted words
Of
wisdom
Some
contented voice
Telling
me
That
there are
Oceans
With
millions
For
me to choose
From
I
wanted
Nothing
Except
To
be left
To
drink
…Alone!
Only
time sorts
Rubbish
Like
this out
You
know that
After
all
Some
of you have
Probably
Been
there
Yourself
And
whilst your
Story
may
Have
been slightly
Different
from
Mine
Things
did get better
Didn’t
they?
Mike
Watts
ONE
NIGHT
It’s
summer here, as always…
Late
at night, not far,
Only
a few birds twitter,
Maybe
still partying for no reason
Simply
for the joy of being.
Above
the lonely patio
This
strange, crazy tree
Stopped
shivering dry, brown leaves
Finally
blooming its white dream:
Little,
velvety, simple flowers.
Two
squirrels
Nestled
in each other’s warmth
Breathing
heavily and fast
As
if, with every breath,
Reaching
for the last sip of restful sleepy air.
Walking out,
The night
Like
a dark fog of silence
Gulps
me
A
repetition for the later-to-come
Final
moment.
Nothing
moves.
Only
that un-named quivering marvel,
A
purple-gray shadow
Lit
behind the clouds
Embracing
slowly from the other side
Black
stems and branches,
Nests,
rooftops, buildings
The
hills and the Bay
And
everything else so fragile,
Obscurity
can’t even pencil.
No
need to translate my poems anymore.
My
mother tongue also
Is
slowly falling asleep.
Ioana Cozmuta
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