The Poet of the Month April is Sigrid Kingma
Aggie van der Meer was the RIXT poet of the month February 2021. You can read her original Frisian poems of that month here. The translation of one of them – ‘The geat Xi Jinping’ – is published here.
The Great Xi Jinping they greet they bow then demand to speak first he, Xi, perplexed his power, awarded to him his strong hand and purpose will not be taken away by no one was there any other way open to them, to him was there another choice? he won’t bow down lest he becomes afraid his wrath will guard him now that he knows of their mistake he’ll save them the first word, he will say remains my due as is the last in their silent defence already threatening they know that his fear will force him to imprint his law, his will and thoughts on their lips in their heads no day when they can forget no night it won’t hound them no way out to be found not for them, nor for him the last word, he says, has been said let the world know. © Aggie van der Meer Trans. Trevor M. Scarse
For the project Picture Poems, four new poems were published in February. Two poems, of Syds Wiersma and Anne Feddema, are the English translations ‘Pentecoste with Escher‘ and ‘Disruptive Creation of a Poetic Cinema’
Picture Poems makes (Frisian) poetry accessible to a wider audience. Based on the belief that moving images can increase more interest in poetry, various (young) filmmakers are asked to film these poems. This way, said poetry is given a new life — with respect to the original. It is an iniative of Tresoar, LF2018 and Metafoor Media.
Previously, Frisian poems of RIXT-poets were adapted by Picture Poems. These are the video’s ‘Der net mear is as dat‘ of Aggie van der Meer, ‘De Reizger’ of Cornelis van der Wal and also ‘Buenos Aires’ of our chosen patroness of the poet pack, Rixt.
Sense of Place Nije Biltpôlen/Noarderleech No morning person I slip on rough frozen sludge. Frosted polder dikes. A white death of bulrush washed ashore. Rushes sharp brown like wrecking tools. I follow the gully, got no other choice, even as a kid I walked on banks of winding ditches, stand-ins when short of alternative channels. A strip of island over there, here lies extramural land seized beneath a sky that plays its trump card of innocence slick blue, lets the hours climb glassily, thaw into a marsh of finisterre. Timidly the stream crawls on. Back in Nijesyl I stumble over humps and bumps, snap up chirping sparrows, presumably to release them like flatfish from coastal works later on. Now no-nonsense my stride across the concrete. The fields are already leaking water from pipes on the Aldrij. The sun belly sleighing across a thin sheet of ice. Moorhens pass over quickly: hungry for forgotten blessed daily bread. © Syds Wiersma Trans. Trevor M. Scarse