Poem
Rutger Kopland
JOHNSON BROTHERS LTD
In those days when my father was still big,dangerous tools in the bulging pockets
of his jacket, in his suits the odours
of teased-out twine and lead,
behind his eyes the incomprehensible world
of a man, gas-fitter, first class,
said mother, in those days how different
my feelings were, when he would shut the doors
on her and me.
Now he is dead and I am suddenly as old as he,
it turns out to my surprise that he too had
decay built into him. In his diary I see
appointments with persons unknown, on his wall
calendars with gas-pipe labyrinths,
on the mantelpiece the portrait of a woman
in Paris, his woman, the incomprehensible
world of a man.
Looking into the little hand-basin of porcelain
dating from the ’thirties, with its silly pair of lions,
Johnson Brothers Ltd, high up in the dead-still
house the shuffle of mother’s slippers,
Jesus Christ, father, here come the tears
for now and for then – they flow together
into the lead of the swan-neck pipe,
no longer separable from the drops that come
from the little copper tap marked “cold”.
© Translation: 2001, James Brockway
From: Memories of the Unknown
Publisher: The Harvill Press, London, 2001
From: Memories of the Unknown
Publisher: The Harvill Press, London, 2001
JOHNSON BROTHERS LTD
JOHNSON BROTHERS LTD
Vroeger toen mijn vader nog groot was,in de uitpuilende zakken van zijn jas
gevaarlijk gereedschap, in zijn pakken
de geuren van geplozen touw en lood,
achter zijn ogen de onbegrijpelijke wereld
van een man, een gasfitter eerste klas
zei moeder, hoe anders heb ik mij moeten
voelen vroeger toen hij de deuren sloot
voor haar en mij.
Nu is hij dood, ben ik ineens zo oud als
hij, blijkt tot mijn verbazing dat ook in hem
verval was ingebouwd. In zijn agenda zie ik
afspraken met onbekenden, aan zijn muur
kalenders met labyrinten van gasleidingen,
op de schoorsteenmantel het portret van
een vrouw in Parijs, zijn vrouw, de onbegrijpelijke
wereld van een man.
Kijkend in het porseleinen fonteintje uit
de dertiger jaren met de twee lullige leeuwen:
Johnson Brothers Ltd, hoog in het dood-
stille huis het droevige sloffen van moeder,
jezus christus vader, komen de tranen
om nu en om toen, vloeien ze samen
in het lood van de zwanenhals,
niet meer te scheiden van de druppels
uit het koperen kraantje met cold.
© 1968, Rutger Kopland
From: Alles op de fiets
Publisher: G.A. van Oorschot, Amsterdam
From: Alles op de fiets
Publisher: G.A. van Oorschot, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Rutger Kopland
Close
JOHNSON BROTHERS LTD
In those days when my father was still big,dangerous tools in the bulging pockets
of his jacket, in his suits the odours
of teased-out twine and lead,
behind his eyes the incomprehensible world
of a man, gas-fitter, first class,
said mother, in those days how different
my feelings were, when he would shut the doors
on her and me.
Now he is dead and I am suddenly as old as he,
it turns out to my surprise that he too had
decay built into him. In his diary I see
appointments with persons unknown, on his wall
calendars with gas-pipe labyrinths,
on the mantelpiece the portrait of a woman
in Paris, his woman, the incomprehensible
world of a man.
Looking into the little hand-basin of porcelain
dating from the ’thirties, with its silly pair of lions,
Johnson Brothers Ltd, high up in the dead-still
house the shuffle of mother’s slippers,
Jesus Christ, father, here come the tears
for now and for then – they flow together
into the lead of the swan-neck pipe,
no longer separable from the drops that come
from the little copper tap marked “cold”.
© 2001, James Brockway
From: Memories of the Unknown
Publisher: 2001, The Harvill Press, London
From: Memories of the Unknown
Publisher: 2001, The Harvill Press, London
JOHNSON BROTHERS LTD
In those days when my father was still big,dangerous tools in the bulging pockets
of his jacket, in his suits the odours
of teased-out twine and lead,
behind his eyes the incomprehensible world
of a man, gas-fitter, first class,
said mother, in those days how different
my feelings were, when he would shut the doors
on her and me.
Now he is dead and I am suddenly as old as he,
it turns out to my surprise that he too had
decay built into him. In his diary I see
appointments with persons unknown, on his wall
calendars with gas-pipe labyrinths,
on the mantelpiece the portrait of a woman
in Paris, his woman, the incomprehensible
world of a man.
Looking into the little hand-basin of porcelain
dating from the ’thirties, with its silly pair of lions,
Johnson Brothers Ltd, high up in the dead-still
house the shuffle of mother’s slippers,
Jesus Christ, father, here come the tears
for now and for then – they flow together
into the lead of the swan-neck pipe,
no longer separable from the drops that come
from the little copper tap marked “cold”.
© 2001, James Brockway
From: Memories of the Unknown
Publisher: 2001, The Harvill Press, London
From: Memories of the Unknown
Publisher: 2001, The Harvill Press, London
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