Posted poetry

Ina Schroders-Zeeders was the RIXT poet of the month in March. You can read her original Dutch poems from that month here (with Frisian translations). The English translation of her poem – ‘hail mary’s’ – is published below.

hail mary's

during the night, across the graveyard
strides Gabriel
one of his wings is drooping
his wheelbarrow filled with teddy bears

the next morning a trail of white feathers
like that of a butchered dove
leads up to the rusty fence
with misty light beyond

the newspapers talk of downpours
more and more teddy bears are coming down
caused by the changing
of the climate


© Ina Schroders-Zeeders
translation: Trevor Scarse

Lara Kool was the RIXT poet of the month in February. You can read the original Frisian poem from that month here. The translation of her poem – ‘Children of the Moon’ – is published here.

Children of the Moon

His sunny son
a healing source of light
but in your darkness
every sun
is merely a flame on a match
burning up
one after another
you banished his rays
through your dark desperation
Born light
yet no chance ever, never again?
to be a sun
so that even he had to search
for enlightenment
in this imposed night
but he too could only reflect
what used to be so natural
the Self



© Lara Kool
translation: Trevor Scarse

Martsje de Jong was the RIXT poet of the month in January. You can read the original Frisian poem from that month here. The translation of her poem – ‘for you’ – is published here.

for you

sometimes I’d like to ask you how you
experienced your
American dream, sent in
letters and photos
which make me think
you might have said this
thought that and laughed about it
as a divinely gorgeous guy
walks past
just as out of reach as you
as I’m cutting cheese and sausages
for my birthday which you
will not attend
I’d like to know what you thought about
the undertaker combing your hair
patching up your disfigured face
with make-up




© Martsje de Jong
translation: Trevor Scarse

Pier Boorsma was the RIXT poet of the month in December. You can read his original Frisian poems from that month here. The translation of one of his poems – ‘Josse’ – is published here.

Josse

his father sold 
– if it suited him –
paraffin
and when that did not happen
he had to go to college
without food
the girls in his class sniggered
at his mismatched socks
he fancied one of them
but did not dare to ask her
who did he think he was
as son of the paraffin vendor
later on, he would write a novel
about the stuffiness of his village
as a writer
he finally mattered



© Pier Boorsma
translation: Trevor Scarse

Jan Kooistra was the RIXT poet of the month in November. You can read his original Frisian poems from that month here. The translation of one of his poems – ‘Balloo Heath’ – is published here.

Balloo Heath

on the Balloo Heath no one’s building bunkers 
with no chance of rockets raining down
no walls are being built, no fences set up

on the Balloo Heath there are no protests 
there is no black and no white, no hustling 
or bustling, no violence and no aggravation

on the Balloo Heath there is pain nor thirst 
no poverty or illness, no resentment
and no motherless child without a tomorrow

on the Balloo Heath the dead are fast asleep
in their timeworn graves because they know
yellowhammers and godwits will return from afar

on the Balloo Heath the trees always cry 
in late November, is that why the days
are so silent here on the Balloo Heath?


© Jan Kooistra
translation: Trevor Scarse

Sipke de Schiffart was the RIXT poet of the month in October. You can read his original Frisian poems from that month here. The translation of one of them – ‘boy,’ – is published here.

boy,

you will never read this, I’m afraid,
never will you know that my thoughts are with you,
that I won’t ever forget you

you represent so many others,
though you weren’t allowed the time
to write a diary

on a video I saw how you were grabbed
by an adult male, in your shorts,
with your skinny legs, how old – six, seven?

did they burn your parents alive,
shoot your grandparents, rape your sister
and chop off your little brother’s head?

as he walked your attacker held you tightly 
with his arm under your armpit,
an arm thicker than your legs

whose arm was it?

it belongs to every antisemite in the world!

I console myself with the thought
that not much is lost in a life
where something can occur
like what has happened to you


© Sipke de Schiffart
translation: Trevor Scarse

Henk Nijp was the RIXT poet of the month in September. You can read his original Frisian poems from that month here. The translation of one of them – ‘on the edge’ – is published here.

on the edge

once more we dance the slowfox of silent grief,
words that we’ve never said out loud
mirror the space between our steps,
old patterns like grains in a floor,
by now we’ve learned the ins and outs,
know the score by heart

days slip through the mesh of time
vanish in the sinkhole of memories,
all that remains just the relics
of a life on the edge of existence
- maybe we pushed ourselves too hard,
were we marooned by fate

do we find comfort in ourselves, or the other,
along the straight and narrow or via the roundabout of lies,
is it purely cowardice or just impotence,
for a watchdog will only taste air and never its prey
living as he does between chain and basket,
his howls greeting the moon every night 

when eventually the lights are turned on
and the string and rhythm sections stop,
we shiver in the early-morning mist,
our arms drop, steps become strides,
I no longer lead; you’re twirling not as graciously

in the distance a cockerel crows three times


© Henk Nijp
translation: Trevor Scarse