Strange Shores

          On black as tar steel cables all the derricks
Have hoisted up the night above sea and harbour.
          The cries of the seagulls now a-slumber on
The water, have been replaced by the shrill shrieks of
          Girls, who dart out to tig lads in the harbour
Laden with sea-salt and foreign tongues, the mild wind,
          As dutifully as a bum-boat, sails down
Through the waterways of the port, along the quays,
          Where the Houdinis of the merchant shipping
Are quick to toss off the chains of the long, long swell,
          And, winding through dark lanes towards dead-end hearts,
Go off on the spree with the odours of leather,
          Lavender, garlic, gasoline, tobacco.
The busy wharfs and the tired tail-end of summer,
          The derricks and the bints fail to find eachother:
There’s a sailor, landlubber still, searching here. I.

          I rove for hours through this labyrinth of docks,
Drinking in the sailor’s pubs: under the cover
          Of the night and neon, rosy women are
Sailing in the bunks of the wreck, called The World
           (With pimps on the leaking pumps that scoop away
The tears.) The hollowed-out boat of the moon sails out
          So coolly between the southern continents,
Which have marked with crosses on the blue marine charts
          Of my memory treasures with the sleeping
Names of harbours, with the throats of screeching sea-birds,
          The grey-green eyes of a passed away mother.
Yes, I know. All ports are like other ports. And so
          Are the silver-stealing women. Come, my dear,
One of them calls. They all say that, everywhere.
          No, home is where I’d rather be, even for
Just one night and I search and wait for a taxi.

Frjemde kusten

Frjemde kusten

          Oan swarte stielkabels hawwe de bokken
De nacht boppe see en haven úttakele.
          De gjalpen fan seefûgels, op it wetter
Yn ’e slomme, binne oernommen troch fammen
          Dy’t op hichte havenjonges befleane.
De wyn, dy’t sâlt en frjemde tongslaggen ynhat,
          Sylt plichtmjittich as in parlefinker troch
De wetterstrjitten fan ’e stêd, de kaaien del
          Dêr’t de houdini’s fan de grutte feart fluch
De boeien fan de lange dining ôfdogge,
          De stegen troch nei dearin’de herten, om
Lichtsinnich oan ’e swier te gean mei roken fan
          Lavendel, lear, knyflok, tabak, benzine.
De drokke kaaien en de wurge neisimmer,
          De bokken en de mokkels fine elkoar
Net: sykjend in seeman, dy’t noch lânrôt is. Ik.

          Oerenlang doal ik troch it havenkertier,
Drink yn ’e dokkroegen: ûnder de dekmantel
          Fan nacht en neon befarre rossige
Froulju de koaien fan it wrakke skip De Wrâld
           (Mei poaiers oan ’e pompen dy’t de triennen
Eazje). De útholjende boat fan ’e moanne
          Besylt koel de súdlike kontininten,
Dy’t op ’e wetterkaarten fan myn oantinken
          Skatten krúst ha mei de nammen fan havens,
Mei de kielen fan kriezjende seefûgels, mei
          De grize eagen fan in oerstutsen mem.
Ja, alle havens lykje op inoar, wit ik,
          En, lyksa, de sulverrôvjende froulju.
Kom leave, ropt ien. Dat sizze se allegear,
          Oeral. Nee, thús wol ik wêze, al is ’t mar
Foar in nacht, en sykjend slaan ik de taxi’s acht.