A visual poem by Geart Tigchelaar, inspired by covid-19 and the lockdown.
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Statistician
March 2020
Carla van der Zwaag was the RIXT poet of the month March 2020. You can read her original Frisian poems of that month here. The translation of one of them – ‘Lonely’ – is published below.
Lonely I swim in circles Between asphyxiating algae And stone houses My heart beats out of sorts Turning green from the moss In misted up window glass People shuffle through my view I get my food and drink on time Follow them with a silken look Drenched with the faith; Everything will be alright I wait for the cat’s paw To which I finally can give My life and share it with © Carla van der Zwaag Translation: Trevor M. Scarse
February 2020
Yttje Cnossen was the RIXT poet of the month February 2020. You can read her original Frisian poems of that month here. The translation of one of them – ‘Corona’ – is published below.
Corona from the land of the rising dragon comes sneakily like a thief in the night the invisible in the name of the crown lays its hand on many a doorknob like a monster with a thousand heads it shoots its fiery arrows across the land picks up like the wind across the sea throws its drowning victims on the beach flees with the rebels through the cities sends wild warriors across the lands drops its cluster bombs from a virus in pets and people in fathers and mothers whomever gives way he apprehends paints their grey cheeks red makes the blood in their veins boil remains a mystery keeps him to himself via Spain and Germany it snatches a Belgian a man shivers a woman goes down young people are a leaf for its mouth everybody is rowing while tethered to the ground where is the knight to slay this monster with a serum as their double-bladed sword that will release the people of their fear and fever that will bite the fire breathing dragon in its tail © Yttje Cnossen Translation: Trevor M. Scarse
Cornelis van der Wal in Hvedekorn
A few months ago we let you know that six poems by RIXT-poet Cornelis van der Wal would be translated into Danish and published in the renowned Danish literary magazine Hvedekorn. The issue with the translations has been released now. You can find one of the translations here below.
The translations are from Geart Tigchelaar and Carsten René Nielsen.
Listen to the original poem ‘Wêr haw ik west’, read by the poet.
Elmar Kuiper – January
Elmar Kuiper was the RIXT poet of the month January. In November 2019 he wrote the poem cycle ‘Mother Ganges’ in Kolkata (Calcutta), where he performed at the Chair Poetry Evenings. On the last day of the poetry festival he and some fellow-poets made a long pleasure cruise on the Ganges river. Kuiper: ‘I stared into the water and had to think of my mum, who was terminally ill this summer. In the poem I make a link between the polluted, holy river and my mother whose illness was incurable. She always used to say: ‘when it’s my time it’ll be my time.’ The cycle will be included in Kuiper’s new poetry collection: Wite Mûle, Swarte Molke (‘White Mouth, Black Milk’), which will be published by Hispel in the spring.
For Kuiper’s other poems of the month, in Frisian, see here
MOTHER GANGES
I
In the source bathes a word, from the river bank
a cow bell rings. Mother Ganges carries her pain
in her vest. A bird with pointed wings
hangs still in the air. Another bird circles
rings around grey apartment buildings. Yes, God
I flung overboard. Yes, the mind pounds away,
its mouth filled with dirt, shouts filthy
things, shouts with a mouth full of poison.
II
The sun above Arundhathi’s eyebrows
is Prussian blue, as our boat pushes off
a priest sings. Lovely, isn’t it, being here
in a country where English sounds so funny.
But you’re distracting me, with your rank body,
floating sweetgrass and the refuse of the city.
Are you my mother, who says humanity will be
wiped out? Do you dare to call yourself mother?
I listen and lean over the railing and look
into your mustard yellow visage, Ganges.
III
You are my mother on the floating help and I
stay with you, hold your hand. Your veins, so
strangely thick. Yet another scan and you don’t
believe the results. But the spot in your head is
not an island where we can just sail to and
go on holiday and sunbathe. It is death,
mum, death who plays hide and seek with his
black face in your frontal lobe, making you so
quiet and mild. You whisper hoarsely: Then it’s
my time, my son. Are you giving up? You are
and will stay my mother, who washes my sins, incredulous
though I am. A raptor cries out in the air particulates.
IV
When evil cleanses itself from evil, I will be
clean and pure, mum, and I shall stream
quietly, until death will shiv me violently with his
sickle. When there’s no end or beginning, I’ll lie
on your bank and drown in the source. Oh well, let me
leave it there. Someone says: ‘Hello sir, picture please’
and I make strange faces, can’t think of
any excuse and say abashedly: ‘Okay!’
V
We sail a long way upstream. Kolkata lies like
a white haze in front of our eyes. Katyayani wants
a picture with the friendly giant. Humanity still
lives in the dark; I can almost hear you say it.
I stretch my back and put on a routine smile. Good
will triumph even though I don’t believe in evil.
Ashutosh laughs and Anindina says my eyes
are as clear as the Himalaya.
VI
Tagore, I want to wash the clay off of me, strike
a light tone, throw a coin into your being.
You don’t have to check the lights, mate. The tongue
of your lantern burns. What could I curse you with?
After all, life is just a dew drip on a lotus leaf.
But what about death, Tagore, it’s so hard and hungry.
VII
God, I’ve read Krishnamurthi over and over again, but what good
does it to me, 7500 km from home, I stare over the railing
into the water and see my father under the cow’s udder,
squeezing and pulling on the teats. I catch a glimpse of you:
your tongue sticks out and you stitch and iron
the seams. I hear Brian, compatriot, war veteran
and great poet say you have to put the parts in
different bags. He writes verses like cat’s-tails, like
smoked eel. Now I fly back and wrap up this poem,
mum, as Keisang serves me, pours water into
a plastic cup, the steel bird quivers
above the ocean, only for a moment.
© Elmar Kuiper Translation: Trevor M. Scarse
Sipke de Schiffart – December
Sipke de Schiffart was RIXT-poet of the month December 2019. You can read his original Frisian poems of that month here. The translation of one of them – ‘generation gap’ – is published below.
generation gap
my dad was an old-fashioned farmer,
every morning he went to work
at half past three
and expected the same of me
but I was half a century younger
and went to bed late,
after having watched TV,
Veronica and the VPRO,
so, I would get up later in the morning
now I think: getting up between five and six,
that’s still quite early
for a boy of around twenty years old
in the mornings I struggled
to wake up, every morning
my father got angry with me,
because I didn’t hurry up
one morning (now I think: middle of the night)
in December of 1980 he came
to my bed at half past three
to announce that Mick Jagger
had been shot in New York
the message had its intended effect:
I was immediately wide awake,
satisfied my dad went back to the barn
to feed the cattle
but when I heard on the clock radio
that it was John Lennon who was shot,
and not Mick Jagger,
I rolled over
and went back to sleep
© Sipke de Schiffart
Translation: Trevor M. Scarse
December 2019
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