Syds Wiersma (Grou, 1963). Being a film archivist in his daily life, for him poetry is a way to process creatively the images which pass before his eyes every day. ‘Writing poetry is a form of incarnation: a deeper understanding of objects, thoughts, feelings, relationships.’ After Wiersma’s first poetry collection Alles wat ik net betinke woe (1992), and a time-out of almost 25 years, he published three volumes of poetry in the last years: Raffelwjok (2016), the bilingual collection Twintig liefdes een Saudade/Tweintich leafdes in Saudade (2017), and Lân sûnder Ljurk (2019; ‘Land without Lark’). He is also a regular translator of poetry. Most recently a series of Basque poems, published in the Frisian literary journal Ensafh (nr. 6, 2017) and (together with André Looijenga) V Premiku (‘On the move’), a series of six poems by the Slovene poet Kristina Kočan, who had a writer’s stay in Friesland in 2018. In 2020 his poem ‘De Put’ (The Well) was the winning poem of a contest connected to the festivities organized around ’75 years of freedom’. Recently his poem ‘It Famke’ (The Girl’) won a Rely Jorritsma Award.
‘I trust that a broad collective of poets like RIXT, with a focus on poetry about current issues within and beyond the borders of Fryslân, will rejuvenate the precarious situation of Frisian literature today. In any case, our collective tries to bring poetry back to the attention of a broad public, after all a noble pursuit.’
Pentecost with Escher Time is a talk show a record breaker a missile maker a quarterly calculator that nails us to the illusion of organization draws and quarters us, drains us of blood so that we can feature as cheap meat at the neighbourhood barbecue on the hellish grill of leisure time. Time is a cruel ending for those who choose to cling to it. I’d rather climb Escher’s ladders be misled by lines and perspective stumble into strange spaces. Three, four parallel words bring us pretty close to the twist-off valve on the everyday notion of space and time futile unscrewing it after the wind’s blasts have soughed through the city’s squares tapping drunken linguistic dimensions from the unstoppable tide of meaning. Better than being taken for a ride by dull disreputable no-further-than-your-nose drivel No lost years of youth hiding behind the time windows. They’d love that, nostalgia having us lie powerless. Time flutters around us drizzling, pouring, snowing like the light in Rome by night. © Syds Wiersma From: Lân sûnder ljurk (Hispel, 2019) Translation: Michele Hutchison