Poem
Pieter Boskma
Arousing self-portrait
I was thinking about the sea as I got on the tram.But the only breakers breaking were those
that murmured in the leads in most people’s ears.
And we’re in the city so let’s not speak of smells.
And yet it was a splendid day: the sun arose
over the Herengracht that started radiating light
on the prettiest women cycling rosy-cheeked through the
hangover-free morning – and no ambush anywhere.
I went on calmly, revived because I thought
I owed to my dead sweetheart to be of good cheer.
One clings to something that one once believed in
even if one questions it at least as much.
Hope and fear, pig-headed couple that stays
loyal to each other, but I continued calmly
past lines of verse onto more silent lines, between hope
for the next and fear it wouldn’t come – how many years?
Museumplein, my stop and everything again made sense.
I crossed the meadow to my new publisher;
my poem was almost ready and a blackbird
sang cheekily from the roof of the US consulate.
This was the day that I looked upward – yes, this was the day.
© Translation: 2016, Donald Gardner
Ontwakend zelfportret
Ontwakend zelfportret
Terwijl ik de tram in stapte dacht ik aan de zee.
Maar al wat er ruiste, wat er aan golven brakstak aan een draadje in de meeste oren om mij heen.
En laten we ter stede maar niet spreken van de geuren.
Toch was het een prachtdag: de zon verscheen
boven de Herengracht, die licht begon te geven,
de mooiste meisjes fietsten blozend door de
katerloze ochtend, en nergens een hinderlaag.
Ik spoorde rustig voort, ik leefde op omdat ik dacht
dat ik het verplicht was aan mijn omgekomen liefde.
Men zit vast aan iets waarin men ging geloven
al betwijfelt men dat minstens even sterk.
Hoop en vrees, een koppig koppel dat elkaar
nooit loslaat, maar ik spoorde rustig voort
langs regel na stillere regel, hopend op de volgende,
vrezende dat die niet kwam – al hoeveel jaar.
Museumplein, ik moest eruit en alles klopte weer.
Ik stak schuin over het gras naar mijn nieuwe
uitgeefhuis, het vers was bijna af, een merel
zong brutaal op het Amerikaanse consulaat.
Dit was de dag, ik keek omhoog, ja, dit was de dag.
From: Zelf
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Pieter Boskma
Close
Arousing self-portrait
I was thinking about the sea as I got on the tram.But the only breakers breaking were those
that murmured in the leads in most people’s ears.
And we’re in the city so let’s not speak of smells.
And yet it was a splendid day: the sun arose
over the Herengracht that started radiating light
on the prettiest women cycling rosy-cheeked through the
hangover-free morning – and no ambush anywhere.
I went on calmly, revived because I thought
I owed to my dead sweetheart to be of good cheer.
One clings to something that one once believed in
even if one questions it at least as much.
Hope and fear, pig-headed couple that stays
loyal to each other, but I continued calmly
past lines of verse onto more silent lines, between hope
for the next and fear it wouldn’t come – how many years?
Museumplein, my stop and everything again made sense.
I crossed the meadow to my new publisher;
my poem was almost ready and a blackbird
sang cheekily from the roof of the US consulate.
This was the day that I looked upward – yes, this was the day.
© 2016, Donald Gardner
From: Zelf
From: Zelf
Arousing self-portrait
I was thinking about the sea as I got on the tram.But the only breakers breaking were those
that murmured in the leads in most people’s ears.
And we’re in the city so let’s not speak of smells.
And yet it was a splendid day: the sun arose
over the Herengracht that started radiating light
on the prettiest women cycling rosy-cheeked through the
hangover-free morning – and no ambush anywhere.
I went on calmly, revived because I thought
I owed to my dead sweetheart to be of good cheer.
One clings to something that one once believed in
even if one questions it at least as much.
Hope and fear, pig-headed couple that stays
loyal to each other, but I continued calmly
past lines of verse onto more silent lines, between hope
for the next and fear it wouldn’t come – how many years?
Museumplein, my stop and everything again made sense.
I crossed the meadow to my new publisher;
my poem was almost ready and a blackbird
sang cheekily from the roof of the US consulate.
This was the day that I looked upward – yes, this was the day.
© 2016, Donald Gardner
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