The young Franz (I)

That night, as it rained upon, he thought that what might come is no sense a work of art, since there were no powers of the imagination that could be gentle enough to seduce the awareness of his newfound belly, it wasn't necessarily a belly or protrusion even but the fact of having adopted the position, not of someone bellyached, but of somebody imaginarily fat and ugly, althoug he could in no possible sense consider himself either because his spiritual narcissicism would make it then impossible that he could ever sleep again with himself without the disgust manufactured by the impossibilities of physics to keep a body within the right proportions - If he would have a belly himself, he wouldn't be so worried about the belly as much as he would be, about the sweat that would run in between the wrinkles of the flesh and the hairs that would grow around his neck and all through the surface of his back as if it were corn overgrowing the grass in the pasture of a beautiful plateau. He was as slim as ever and perhaps because his ever increasing abandonment of the world, slimmer and dimmer, there was no longer a spark of light to gaze into at the height of noon with that glow of glimmer; everything had become so much less obvious, there were other places in his body and other smells that stood in lieu of what had been once a natural gift for curiosity and surprise in the eyes. It wasn't that the eyes were no longer beautiful and it is the case that the eyes of the person that is loved, are always eyes of the beautiful even if the aesthetic faculties of imagination and sensibility, would fail to reach the same conclusions. Those faculties from their part, very philosophical in nature are therefore, necessarily blind, and that's why he's always reconciled with their opinions; there's nothing further removed from his wishes than to allow the sense of things to pervert the ultimate perfection of the concept. Everything seems to have a concept for him, the most basic assumptions about reality are not to be taken for the granted, this is however not the consequence of inner evil, but a side effect of an illness so completely external to him and to his world that it becomes so manifest in the outside world that one might then it is a matter of inwardness, thus he begins to search deep inside him for the root of his pale sorrow.

It never occured to him that the world should be inspected even if only as a precaution - some questions need to be asked, enquiries are ought to be run throughout and the questionnaires must be completed in full. It wasn't having a belly or not having a belly what tortured him and what led him after all, being an adventurous young man, to a mysterious choice such as classical music, but rather the fact that being free as he was, he was completely deprived from the most basic choices in life, it could have been an idyllic life for Adam before the Fall, which wasn't a fall as much as it was a problem of uncertainty, it was perhaps Adam the first atheist, otherwise had he cared much, he could have brokered a deal with his creditor; Adam would have then loved the day we had just been told about when it began to rain: So free from any worldly responsibility, the young man arose everyday to fulfill the commandment of love toward parents and brothers, he could spend the whole day in sweet surrender to the most delirious intellectual pursuits, perhaps learning a tongue now forgotten, like Heinrich Schliemann, who is said to have studied and mastered Russian among other languages in a matter of weeks while being left on his own in a Greek villa without any chairs to sit whereon, thus the man, thirsty of acquiring wealth of worldly knowledge studied the grammar books of the most diverse languages running pacing back and forth through the house. How could anyone not find solace in this kind of life? It is a monasticism without religion and without faith of any kind, because, different from Schliemann, this young man didn't believe in Homer, nor in his own omein. What kind of monasticism was it then, that it was music, his ultimately choice?

He had thought of himself primarily as an artist although there were no specific talents that those close to him could recognize from the outside, he had some abilities for writing, he had them since he was a very young child but they were never specifically treasured as a talent, neither were they developed or pointed out anywhere; his problem was not that he didn't believe in Homer or the fact that he didn't believe but rather the spurious fact of how ordinary his life was, or at the least, how ordinary it had become, after he had chosen himself for such a destiny of greatness out of which he had fallen not because of incapability but because of the unrest fixed in the palms of his hands and the crystalline fog of his eyes were advancing much faster than the world and this caused him to become extremely anxious about being understood by people, what had to be understood, is not that he was extraordinary, which he was not, or perhaps only as a story-teller, what was extraordinary is that he, the son of a nobody, of town's folk without the slighest indication of being cursed or blessed by the Lord - they were just left on their own, without any major afflictions but also without much symptom of what people call happiness; this son of a nobody, could, in theory, become whoever he had desired. It was perhaps this transformation, this effacement of whatever the world had prescribed for him, this inability to march with the seasons, what had become entirely an art with him - the difficulties began to arise when this spiritual strength, noble as it was, failed to produce any material results; it is not only that he had never written a poem worthy of admiration but also that he had not been able to assert the allegedly self-earned position and near the age of thirty, he had no other income that some coins that his father pitily regaled him so that he wouldn't go into raving madness in the abscence of tobacco. He thought then, that night, that no art could come out of him, no art that wouldn't be manifest in the form of this transformation into another person, into another fatherland, into another language of sorts.

It wasn't that he couldn't write, but so quite unlike many of the chidish fable writers, his imagination was so very poor.

Der höhere Frieden - Heinrich von Kleist

1792

Der höhere Frieden

Wenn sich auf des Krieges Donnerwagen,

Menschen waffnen, auf der Zwietracht Ruf,

Menschen, die im Busen Herzen tragen,

Herzen, die der Gott der Liebe schuf:

Denk ich, können sie doch mir nichts rauben,

Nicht den Frieden, der sich selbst bewährt,

Nicht die Unschuld, nicht an Gott den Glauben,

Der dem Hasse, wie dem Schrecken, wehrt.

Nicht des Ahorns dunkelm Schatten wehren,

Dass es mich, im Weizenfeld, erquickt,

Und das Lied der Nachtigall nicht stören,

Die den stillen Busen mir entzückt.

Peace

In the thunderbox of wars,

At the call of discord, to arms men hold fast,

Men that carry in their chest hearts,

The hearts created by God in love last.

Methinks, dispossessed I cannot by thief,

Not from peace, on its own right preserved,

Not from innocence, not from the god of belief

That hate and terror, he hath not served.

Not from the dark shadow of the maple,

That freshens me on the cornfield,

Or to disturb the song of nightingale

Delight of the heart that in silence it yields.

Was ist die Welt? - Hugo von Hofmannsthal

To my friend Tundama

Was ist die Welt? Ein ewiges Gedicht,

Daraus der Geist der Gottheit stahlt und glüht,

Daraus der Wein der Weisheit schäumt und sprüht,

Daraus der Laut der Liebe zu uns spricht

Und jedes Menschen wechselndes Gemüt,

Ein Strahl ists, der aus dieser Sonne bricht,

Ein Vers, der sich an tausend andre flicht,

Der unbemerkt verhallt, verlischt, verblüht.

Und doch auch eine Welt für sich allein,

Voll süss-geheimner, nievernommner Töne,

Begabt mit eigner, unentweihter Schöne,

Und keines Andern Nachhall, Widerschein.

Und wenn du gar zu lesen drin verstündest,

Ein Buch, das du im Leben ergründest.

What is the world? A poem of the eternal

Out of which the spirit of the godly glows with the stars,

Out of which the wine of the wisdom foams and sparks,

Out of which the sound of love speaks to all!

And of every man, the ever changing mind,

It is the radiant light, out of which the sun shines,

It is a verse, that among thousand others, reigns and rhymes,

Unnoticeable, away it dies, whiters to unwind,

A whole world in himself,

Full of sweet unveiled and never ending tones,

Gifted with its own seamless crown,

Else, no reverberations or reverberant sounds.

And if you understood enough, to read it from the inside

Be it a book, that life it fathoms from outside.

Die gestundete Zeit - Ingeborg Bachmann

Es kommen härtere Tage.

Die auf Widerruf gestundete Zeit

wird sichtbar am Horizont.

Bald musst du den Schuh schnüren

und die Hunde zurückjagen in die Marschhöfe.

Denn die Eingeweide der Fische

sind kalt geworden im Wind.

Ärmlich brennt das Licht der Lupinen.

Dein Blick spurt im Nebel:

die auf Widerruf gestundete Zeit

wird sichtbar am Horizont.

Drüber versinkt die die Geliebte im Sand,

er steigt um ihr wehendes Haar,

er fällt ihr ins Wort,

er befiehlt ihr zu schweigen,

er findet sie sterblich

und willigt dem Abschied

nach jeder Umarmung.

Sieh dich nicht um.

Schnür deine Schuh.

Jag die Hunde züruck.

Wirf die Fische ins Meer.

Lösch die Lupinen!

Es kommen härtere Tage.

Harder days are coming.

The time due at the turn of the hour

becomes visible in the horizon.

Soon you will have to lace your shoe

and march the dogs back into the marshyards.

For the innards of the fish

have turned cold in the wind.

The lupines burn with miser flame.

Your gaze leaves marks in the haze:

The time due at the turn of the hour

becomes visible in the horizon.

Yonder sinks your beloved into sand,

it ascends through the wafts in the hair

it pierces her words through,

commanded her to silence,

encounters her mortally

all too willing to part

after every embrace.

Do not look behind.

Lace up your shoe.

March in the dogs.

Throw the fish in the sea.

Away with the lupines!

Harder days are coming!

Begegnungen - Hugo von Hofmannsthal

Wo ist das Entzücken des Ruderers auf dem dunklen See? In ihm oder in dem Beschauer - dem Wanderer der die Gewitterwolke sieht und den Gischt aufbrausen hört oder in dem Falken der nichtachtend dahinstürmt? In dem Fischer der seine Netze hereinnimmt und sein Herdfeuer sieht zwischen den Netzstangen? In dem Knaben der eins ins Schilf gelegte Tonne zunagelt und durch Gitter hineinspäht?

Where is the delight of the rower in the dark lake? Is it in him or in the observer - in the wanderer who sees the cloud of the thunder storm and hears the spray flaring up, on in the falcon that in dishonor squalls? In the fisherman pulling back his net and seeing the fire in his hearth between the rods of the net? In the boy hidden in the reeds, nailing a barrel shut and peering in through the grating?

Es könnte viel bedeuten - Ingeborg Bachmann

Es könnte viel bedeuten - wir vergehen

wir kommen ungefragt und müssen weichen.

Doch dass wir sprechen und uns nicht verstehen

und keinen Augenblick des andren Hand erreichen.

zerschlägt so viel: Wir werden nicht bestehen.

Schon den Versuch vedrohen fremde Zeichen,

und das Verlangen, tief uns anzusehen,

durchtrennt den Kreuz, und einsam auszustreichen-

It could mean much - that we should not last

we are coming uninvited and then must be passed.

Though we are speaking, but understanding, we can´t

and never a moment, in another hand, we can hold steadfast

So much as battered - upright we shalln´t stand.

Already effort and might, twisted with oh´s and and´s,

and the craving, tearing through the Cross with a hand

To look deep into our hearts, in solitarily withstand.

De Schilder bezoekt het strand (Hans v. de Waarsenburg, "Waar het blauw eindigt")

De Schilder bezoekt het strand

De zijn de bewegingen:

Lopen(d)

Zitten(d)

Staren(d)

Een strandloper, een steltloper

vlucht voor the vloed

Nauwkeuring sprokkelen de ogen

soms heft hij het hoofd

Spreekt tot de einders

een overzijde onder handbereik

Zijn tong aarzelt

waar het blauw eindigt

The Painter visits the seashore

These are the motions:

Walk(ing)

Sit(ting)

Gaze(ing)

A sanderling, a stilt-walker

In a flight, over the flood of the tide

The eyes gather, so carefully

Sometimes, a head tilts up

He speaks, to the skyline

At hindsight, the further side

The tongue vacillates

then, where the blue ends.

Windjammer II (Hans v. de Waarsenburg, "Waar het blauw eindigt")

Windjammer

De zeilen

waren het hart

van het schip

De wapperende

gedachten

van het volk

Schaamtelos

op te tijd

gespannen

Zo ver

het oog reikte

En wind zich boog

in eenzame monoloog

Wind Jammer

The sails

were the heart

of the boat

The thoughts

of the nation

flyaway

Unabashedly

stretching

in time

Reaching far

the eye

The wind is arched to bow along

In a solitary monologue

Windjammer I (Hans v. de Waarsenburg, "Waar het blauw eindigt")

Windjammer

Door wind bewogen, altijd

het kreunende hout

dat smeekte

om tewaterlating

Bomen

gebogen in diepte

levend

van wier en plankton

De buik vol verhalen:

!Tot het land

van de bizon

voeren wij!

Wind Jammer

Set in motion by the wind, always

moaning timber

begging

for a launch out

Trees

bent in deeps

alive

from seaweed, from plankton

A belly, full of tales:

!We are sailing

toward the land

of the ox!

Visser (Hans v. de Waarsenburg, "Waar het blauw eindigt")

Visser

Draden

onder water gespannen

Netwerk

zonder mazen

Geen vis balanceert

op het nylon

Het oppervlak

verdeelt de vangst

Geen visser

die het plankton omarmt

De buit

is de prijs

voor het wachten

Pan

wacht

achter de horizon

Fisherman

Wired

In strings under water

Network

...threadless

Not one fish even

held in suspension over nylon

The surface

divides up the haul of fish

No fisherman

that embraces plankton

The loot

is the price

of a long watch

Pan

awaits

past the horizon

Transparant (Hans v. de Waarsenburg, "Waar het blauw eindigt")

Transparant

Met vloeipapier

plak je

de horizon

dicht

Om tijd

te verliezen

of de schaamte

van het licht

Dat stille

transparente

Vergezeld

in wit

Transparence

With blotting paper

you are glueing

the horizon

tightly so

To waste away time

or the shame

of the light

That quiescent

transparance

Stamped

in white

Doek (Hans v. de Waarsenburg, "Waar het blauw eindigt")

Doek

Zetje

het beeld uit

lijn voor lijn

Krimpt het in

Lengt de eb

het beeld an

tot verte

Rekt de naam

het doek

tot dorst

Tikt de vis

tegen

de achterkant

Canvas

If by chance

you thrust the image

little by little

It shrinks

Watered down, ebbing the flow

the image

in the distance

The names are exacting

Upon the canvas

Until exhaustion

The fish, in tickles

against the limbs,

of the back

Horizon (Hans v. de Waarsenburg, "Waar het blauw eindigt")

Horizon

De horizon

naar boven

getild

De spiegel

van de zee

bedekt

Het wrakhout

vastgeraakt

Koppig jaagt

de tijd

Horizon

The horizon

lifted

from abovewards

The mirror

of the sea

under veil

The wreckage

Haunted

The time in a hunt

Of stubborn pursuits

Uitspansel (Hans v. de Waarsenburg, "Waar het blauw eindigt")

Uitspansel

Zo ver het

oog reikt

De mastel

dobbers

Tikkend

tegen

uitspansel

Boegbeeld

dat spreekt

Tot het water

Zwijgt

Heavens

Reaching far

the eye

The mast

afloat

Pulsations

against

heavens

The figurehead, on the prow

It speaks

Until the water

Withers, silently

Beweging (Hans v. de Waarsenburg, "Waar het blauw eindigt")

Beweging

Rust

voor

de zeilen

Tot de

windstilte

hapert

Beweging

langzaam

onstaat

Het mes

Wordt gewet

Om de wolken

Te slechten

Motion

Repose

for

the sails

Until the

windstill

falters

Motion

begins

tardily

The knife

sharpened

So that the clouds

will raze

Het Boothuis te Laugharne (Hans v. de Waarsenburg, "Waar het blauw eindigt")

Het Boothuis te Laugharne

We drinken thee en schrijven ansichtkaarten

Licht van vergetelheid hangt over de lerse Zee

Verderop het watertrappen van de oceaan

Stanza's in een postuum toeristisch bestaan

Negenendertig, negenendertig. Nog enkele maanden te gaan

Hoe kun je dubbelzinniger sterven of verjaren

Als eb de dorst opsparen, tot vloed het boothuis

Omspoelde, wind terug waaide met trage gebaren

Jij ging zitten, ik bleef staan. Hoe lang nog

Dit samen gaan naar plaatsen, buitentijds

Die nimmer rustende droom van vertrekkende schepen

Een emigrant ten onder in vlekkerig graan

Vanaf de vlonder keken we naar hetzelfde zicht

Laag water op die middag, het slik verkleurend

Jij op zijn stoel, de tijd (een kaart?) verscheurend:

Do not go gentle into that good night

Kruimels, cake en porselein, het melkwoud

In de thee. Ik waag het niet die licht te keren

Er zit een binnenzak in de tijd en slechte ruis

Van een keter. Wat zwart is weerkaatst, het wordt later.

The Boathouse in Laugharne

We drink tea, write postcards

Light of oblivion, suspended over the Irish sea

The traces of water in the ocean, hereafter

Stanzas in the late life of a tourist

Thirty-nine, thirty-nine. Only a few months to go

Ambiguously, you might die, or get older

Quenching the thirst, receding like the tie, until the flow

Bathes the boathouse, and the wind waves back, tardily

You sat down, I stood up. How much longer?

This coming and going, together, without time

The never ending dream, of boats set to sail

An emigrant, perishes in the stained grain

From the bridge(1), glancing at the selfsame sight

The nethertides of noon, and decolouring silt

You, upon the chair, cutting shreds with the time

Do not go gentle into that good night

Crumbs, cake and porcelain, the milkwood

In the tea. I dare not, to turn on the light

There is a breach in the time, and screeching noise

Of hangover. Reflected, is darkness, it is now late.

(1) From, as an adverb of time.

Weggaan v. Rutger Kopland

(my birthday poem)

Weggaan

Weggaan is iets anders

dan het huis uitsluipen

zacht de deur dichttrekken

achter je bestaan en niet

terugkeren. Je blijft

iemand op wie wordt gewacht.

Weggaan kun je beschrijven als

een soort van blijven. Niemand

wacht want je bent er nog.

Niemand neemt afscheid want je -

gaat niet weg.

Going Away

Going away is something different

Than stealing out of the house

Shutting gently the door

Behind your existence and not

coming back. You remain

Somebody awaited.

Going away might you describe as

a sort of staying. Nobody

is waiting for you, you're still there!

Nobody bids farewell -

You're not going away.

De Zee v. Judith Herzberg

De Zee

De zee kun je horen

met je handen voor je oren,

in een kokkel,

in een mosterdpotje,

Of aan zee.

The Sea

You can hear the sea

With your hands over your ears

Inside a shell,

In the mustard jar,

Or at the sea

Ook de liefde v. Remco Campert

Ook de liefde

-"Though lovers be lost love shall not"-

Dylan Thomas

Ja, zij die liefde maken

tot een brandend slagschip of een mooie roos

gaan verloren

in het water reddeloos

of in de aarden kuil van de seizoenen.

Maar de liefde gaat verloren

met de makers, de minnaars.

O ons lieve lichaam

en de woorden die wij aan elkaar spendeerden

en alle goede bedoelingen en ook de kwade

en de tranen,

de drift en de begeerte,

het vlammen vet het schip,

het geuren van de roos

het is niet en nooit genoeg.

And also love

-"Though lovers be lost love shall not"-

Dylan Thomas

Yes, those who make out of love

An ardent flagship or a beautiful rose

They are lost

Helpless in the waters

Or in the earthen pithole of the seasons.

But love has gone lost

With the makers, with the lovers.

O our beloved body

And the words we spared upon each other

And the good intentions, also the bad

The tears

The fits of anger and the lust,

The burning of the ship

The fragance of the rose

It is not and never enough.

Stadsgeluiden v. Judith Herzberg

Stadsgeluiden

Stadsgeluiden in de warme nacht

hebben, als op een schilderij, een achtergrond.

Een vliegtuig ronkt tegen een fond van auto's

een bromfiets schiet luidruchtig links omlaag.

Ik hoor het graag, het doet mij denken aan

22 juni 1964, dat is vanavond.

City sounds

Sounds of the city on the warm night

Have, as in a painting, a background.

An airplane is humming, against the backdrop of the cars

A motorbike shoots uproars downwards and left.

I like to hear it, it makes me think of

the 22nd of June 1964, which is tonight.