Poem
Mustafa Stitou
TYPICAL
Days after the circus sunon sidewalk cafés makes good
on marriage as a prospect,
the four-eyed Japanese giggles
two-faced into a camera
full of street organ, uniforms
all smiles for a f-f-firing-squad-
stuttering refugee, Maghrebi,
surreptitious, hissing smack,
coke, ecstasy, swallowing when he sees
her, on Father's thick umbilical cord,
hijacked mouth that’s headscarf-framed,
frozen with the rest by the film
school second year while in the bar
a woman, sociable and functional,
45 years young, seeks ditto man,
but he's in Amsterdam's narrowest thoroughfare
unable to take his eyes off a wayward dildo
between the breasts of a faded Venezuelan who,
sexy and sad, sneers at the sight
of two energetic indifferent boys
French kissing, trembling granny swears
because there's never any letters,
but this evening she'll see the queen,
she never forgets Remembrance Day,
and the philosophy student will smirk
at the speech after beating the odds
yet again by not drowning in the canal
where tour boats treat tourists to
mellifluous emetics and pigeons shit
shit shit shit all over
the station or ungratefully
peck seeds from the square,
know they're admired, don't care,
like the junkie in the tram
caught with his hand in a pocket
by committed commuters whose outraged
innocence beats the intern chafing
at the driver's one-liner about the house
on your left where J. puts his feet up
in the summer, deliberately
asks for guilders and doesn't get a thing
or notes or a cigarette from the Italian,
who just fingered a red-hot schoolgirl
in the toilet and another child off
on adventures in the department store
hears his name at last and that
his mother (in the Society Shop, madame
does not doff her shades, the frames, you see)
is waiting (where'd they say again?) while he’s
all smiles for glumly nodding officers,
sunbed-bronzed, beating their way
to a frisk in the park, where the poet,
where the poet, after research
in death notices, carves his name
in a bench, reconsiders, carves his name
in every tree in the row –
© Translation: 2005, David Colmer
Typisch
Typisch
Dagen na het circus maaktterrasjeszon in een goed
huwelijk investeren aangenaam
giechelt de bebrilde japanner
verholen vals in een camera
vol van draaiorgel, gaan uniformen
vriendelijk met een vluchteling om
die firing squad stamelt, sist
heimelijk een noordafrikaan coke,
coke, extasy, slikt als hij háár ziet
gestolen mond, onder hoofddoek
aan vaders vette navelstreng, bevriest
de tweedejaars filmacademie
hen allemaal, terwijl in het café
een gezellige én functionele vrouw,
vijfenveertig jaar, dito man zoekt
maar hij, hij staart in de Engelkerksteeg
getroffen een eigenzinnige dildo aan
tussen de borsten van een verwelkte
venezolaanse die afwisselend
geil en triest het zicht negeert waarin
twee jongens lusteloos opgewekt
tongzoenen, oma trillend vloekt
want zij krijgt nooit post,
maar vanavond bij dodenherdenking
zal ze de koningin weer zien en
de filosofiestudent zal grijnzen
om de toespraak na wéér niet
gestorven te zijn in de gracht
waar rondvaartboten misselijk
zoetgevooisde toeristen
beluisteren en duiven schijten
het station onder of pikken
ondankbaar zaadjes van het plein
weten zich onverschillig bewonderd
als de junk tijdens het rollen
van het volk betrapt in de tram
die zich ergert met de onschuld
van een co-assistent aan de one-liner
van de bestuurder over het huis
aan uw linkerhand waar Joop riant
wóónt in de zomer, opzettelijk
om guilders vraagt en
niets krijgt of knaken of
een sigaret van een italiaan,
net in een wc een heet schoolmeisje
gevingerd en een ander kind op avontuur
in het warenhuis hoort nu eindelijk
zijn naam, dat zijn moeder (madame
houdt in de society shop
haar zonnebril op, vanwege het montuur)
op hem wacht (waar ook weer?) en lacht
tegen nors groetende agenten
in zonnebanktint, op weg om het park
te fouilleren waar de dichter
waar de dichter
na research in rouwadvertenties
in een bankje zijn naam krast
zich bedenkt, zijn naam krast
in elke boom in de bomenrij –
© 1994, Mustafa Stitou
From: Mijn vormen
Publisher: Arena, Amsterdam
From: Mijn vormen
Publisher: Arena, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Mustafa Stitou
Close
TYPICAL
Days after the circus sunon sidewalk cafés makes good
on marriage as a prospect,
the four-eyed Japanese giggles
two-faced into a camera
full of street organ, uniforms
all smiles for a f-f-firing-squad-
stuttering refugee, Maghrebi,
surreptitious, hissing smack,
coke, ecstasy, swallowing when he sees
her, on Father's thick umbilical cord,
hijacked mouth that’s headscarf-framed,
frozen with the rest by the film
school second year while in the bar
a woman, sociable and functional,
45 years young, seeks ditto man,
but he's in Amsterdam's narrowest thoroughfare
unable to take his eyes off a wayward dildo
between the breasts of a faded Venezuelan who,
sexy and sad, sneers at the sight
of two energetic indifferent boys
French kissing, trembling granny swears
because there's never any letters,
but this evening she'll see the queen,
she never forgets Remembrance Day,
and the philosophy student will smirk
at the speech after beating the odds
yet again by not drowning in the canal
where tour boats treat tourists to
mellifluous emetics and pigeons shit
shit shit shit all over
the station or ungratefully
peck seeds from the square,
know they're admired, don't care,
like the junkie in the tram
caught with his hand in a pocket
by committed commuters whose outraged
innocence beats the intern chafing
at the driver's one-liner about the house
on your left where J. puts his feet up
in the summer, deliberately
asks for guilders and doesn't get a thing
or notes or a cigarette from the Italian,
who just fingered a red-hot schoolgirl
in the toilet and another child off
on adventures in the department store
hears his name at last and that
his mother (in the Society Shop, madame
does not doff her shades, the frames, you see)
is waiting (where'd they say again?) while he’s
all smiles for glumly nodding officers,
sunbed-bronzed, beating their way
to a frisk in the park, where the poet,
where the poet, after research
in death notices, carves his name
in a bench, reconsiders, carves his name
in every tree in the row –
© 2005, David Colmer
From: Mijn vormen
From: Mijn vormen
TYPICAL
Days after the circus sunon sidewalk cafés makes good
on marriage as a prospect,
the four-eyed Japanese giggles
two-faced into a camera
full of street organ, uniforms
all smiles for a f-f-firing-squad-
stuttering refugee, Maghrebi,
surreptitious, hissing smack,
coke, ecstasy, swallowing when he sees
her, on Father's thick umbilical cord,
hijacked mouth that’s headscarf-framed,
frozen with the rest by the film
school second year while in the bar
a woman, sociable and functional,
45 years young, seeks ditto man,
but he's in Amsterdam's narrowest thoroughfare
unable to take his eyes off a wayward dildo
between the breasts of a faded Venezuelan who,
sexy and sad, sneers at the sight
of two energetic indifferent boys
French kissing, trembling granny swears
because there's never any letters,
but this evening she'll see the queen,
she never forgets Remembrance Day,
and the philosophy student will smirk
at the speech after beating the odds
yet again by not drowning in the canal
where tour boats treat tourists to
mellifluous emetics and pigeons shit
shit shit shit all over
the station or ungratefully
peck seeds from the square,
know they're admired, don't care,
like the junkie in the tram
caught with his hand in a pocket
by committed commuters whose outraged
innocence beats the intern chafing
at the driver's one-liner about the house
on your left where J. puts his feet up
in the summer, deliberately
asks for guilders and doesn't get a thing
or notes or a cigarette from the Italian,
who just fingered a red-hot schoolgirl
in the toilet and another child off
on adventures in the department store
hears his name at last and that
his mother (in the Society Shop, madame
does not doff her shades, the frames, you see)
is waiting (where'd they say again?) while he’s
all smiles for glumly nodding officers,
sunbed-bronzed, beating their way
to a frisk in the park, where the poet,
where the poet, after research
in death notices, carves his name
in a bench, reconsiders, carves his name
in every tree in the row –
© 2005, David Colmer
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