FROM OVERSEAS AND FARTHER

                    A letter, a flight, a getting together again
Under the corrugated roof of our cottage, hidden
                    In the cool noon of an olive grove on an island
Amid the waves of an Aegean archipelago:
                    Eleven days of you, warm and ripe as the fruit you
Brought with you; and while your eyes dispel a man’s darkest light,
                    The trace of urban haste around your mouth comes to rest
Like the hot chalky dust of the path that led you here, which
                    Keeps bumping into itself as the blue tractor from
The village by the sea winds its way back down to the shore.

                    After a red drink on the shady green altar of
An olive tree, the full sun beating down on an empty
                    Well, looking and being looked at by a woman and
A donkey, a bevy of turkeys babbling in broken
                    Japanese beside a two fifty cc Suzuki,
Discussing the island’s two faces or laughing at how
                    The two women and a man manage on an ancient
Motorbike, we whiz down the winding road to the quiet
                    Bay with its shoulder-high waves, the wind more of a sigh
From a far-off storm, forever yesterday’s storm, the sea.

                    And your dark gleaming face, wave after wave exposing
The white coral of your teeth to the coast, which silently
                    Stares back from beneath its green hunter’s cap; there you stand,
Up to your ankles in the sea, where the shoreline sucks in
                    Its girth, a souvenir caught between two time-frozen
Waves in a beautifully scalloped bowl of blue oval glass,
                    With your tight white swimsuit rolled down to the darker O
Of your hips, your breasts unbelievably bare and your arms
                    Already surrendering themselves to the water’s
Latest onslaught, you, a Caribbean Aphrodite.

                    Accosted as well as lured by the names of the ships
In the summer harbor that Hercules Seghers captured
                    With a few strokes of his pen all those eternally
Sailed away centuries ago – Zakynthos, Calini,
                    Castor / Pollux, Stardust, Aspropirgos – you stand there
In the September sun, the wind caressing your long white
                    Summer dress, hoping to carry you off, your flaunted
Figure a trophy in high heels, with your hands on your hips,
                    Poised atop a sea wall built to survive the harshest
Of winter storms, defying the fishermen and their nets.

                    Early in the evening, when twilight drifts like a shepherd
And his flock through ancient groves of supplication, when our
                    Simple cottage, with its corrugated roof, becomes
Even hotter than the stones of the well beside the dead
                    And silent chairs, when the bandits of the libido
Begin to implore the prison of the night, you pick up
                    A black hose and, naked to the waist, engage us and
The water (Black glass that makes your body even blacker)
                    In a water fight, so that while the icy spurts rinse
The sea salt from our shocked skins, we shriek in childish delight.

                    And then stoop-shouldered darkness, smelling of wood and sea,
Seals off the olive groves (assisted by the dogs growling
                    At their chains), unleashes the rats and fetches the moon
From the hold of a sunken ship, all the while listening
                    At the edge of a murmuring well to the muffled
Chitchat of the two women as they help each other dress
                    And the revealing bursts of smothered giggles that keep
Coming from our cottage, so that the thought of wood and sea
                    Adds an unexpected fragrance to the freshly coifed
Hair and exotic flowers that color this mute darkness.

                    Under the arbor, home to salamanders and ripe
Clusters of grapes that conjure up the Song of Songs before
                    Our weary eyes, in the ghostly shine of candlelight
That dances along an old wall scrawled with the Homeric
                    Handwriting of Kyrios Seismos, you stroll up and
Down in a white dancing gown donned for the occasion,
                    Yet your lips betray your longing for your own island,
Your Caribbean roots, and while your hands excitedly
                    Tell the story, your eyes burn like the nightly fire that
Lured long-ago ships from a wondrously strange continent.

                    Later on, you sail, buoyed by the swollen excitement
Of a dimly lit party for the local stags and bucks,
                    Butchers of goats and sheep, farmers from the villages
And nearby wanton hills, while dancing in the Spanish arms
                    Of a stranded sea captain (once in the clutches of
A Chilean viper’s nest and now, with a peacock’s pride,
                    Astonishing the poor villagers with two adders
On a string); into the night you sail, light as a feather,
                    Over oceans – oh bright stars – to suffer love’s shipwreck,
Like a letter in a bottle washed up on Curaçao:

                    Oh Mother, it’s as still as the grave, all around me
Water made of glass and mute fish with mouths, o, wide open
                    Beneath the sleeping coast of Koraalspecht, as still as
The crickets and the night they impregnated with their chirps
                    Before it gave birth to a low-slung dawn here in Fort
Nassau, enveloping me in early light, while the high
                    Wind seeks shelter with you in Santa Rosa, as still
As the sheaf of letters in your lap; and in the garden
                    A mango dances a transparent golden tango
With the trade wind, a proud northeasterly from overseas

                    And farther. All alone, like the bashful iguana
Sunning itself in the sharp heat of the afternoon
                    On a tall cactus (daily dreaming the rapid day
In two), alone with my heart among the sintebibu.
                    But I sing and swing through the night, the voice and belly
Of a seaport, breathe in the air of fish and sea, mournful
                    Blues and the legend of a white hand, a sailor’s hand
On my expectant black shoulder, leaning into the wind
                    But as strong as the watapana, from the throbbing wait
Of a maidenly existence beneath a tamarind.

                    And so the pounding of the waves on the two islands
(Will the cork keep the spirit in the bottle?) courses through
                    My veins, slyly robs me of my thoughts and takes me back
To the sea, though I no longer know the source of the shrieks –  
                    The children on the beach, the sea birds above the fish
Or the dolphins in the bay – until in the sand of
                    My dreams my eleven little darlings dance and sing:
‘Ken’ ken’ nos ke tuma ke tuma ke tuma, ken’, ken’ . . . ’
                    In a circle in the twilight beneath a tall tree
By a well in a cloud above a ship in a bottle.

FAN OER SEE EN FIERDER

FAN OER SEE EN FIERDER

                    In brief, in flecht, in kommen ûnder de golfplaten
Fan ús hutte yn in hôf fan oliven ferburgen,
                    Yn ’e middei op in eilân yn ’e weagen fan
In mediterrane archipel: alve dagen do
                    Waarm en ryp as de fruchten dêr’tst mei komst. Eagen dêr’tst
In man it swartst ljocht mei ferreagest hasto en eat fan
                    It Hollânsk fleanen om ’e mûle dat him deljout
As it hite kalkstof fan it paad dat dy brocht hat en
                    Yn himsels weromgiet mei de blauwe trekker út
It seedoarp wei, trekker, ûnderweis nei de see werom.

                    Nei it reade drinken op it alter fan it grien
Oliveskaad, by de liddige put yn de folle
                    Sinne, mei sicht op wat ús besjocht, ezel en frou,
In team stienkoalejapanskpratende kalkoenen neist
                    In twahûndertfyftich cc Suzuki, reedzjend
Oer de twa faasjes fan it eilân, of, laitsjend, it plak
                    Fan twa freondinnen en in man op ’e âldmotor
It sûzjend slingerpaad del nei de rûzjende baai mei
                    Syn oardelmeters weagen sûnder wyn, net in sucht,
Fan in fiere stoarm, fan in juster foar altyd, de see.

                    En mei dyn dûnker glimmend gesicht, dat no weach nei
Weach it wyt koraal fan ’e tosken bleatkryt nei stille
                    Eagen ûnder de griene jagershoed fan ’e kust
Stietsto oant de ankels yn de see syn ynlutsen búk,
                    Tusken twa as in souvenier stjurre weagen,
Yn in skitterjende skulpen skaal fan ovaal blau glês,
                    It strak slim wyt swimpak oant op de dûnkere o
Fan ’e heupen delstrûpt, de boarsten ferskriklike bleat
                    En de earmen al kapitulearjend foar de drift
Fan it wetter, do Karaïbyske Afrodite.

                    Tagelyk tasprutsen en lokke troch de nammen
Fan ’e skippen yn ’e simmerhaven dy’t Hercules
                    Seghers in pear foargoed útfearne ieuwen ferlyn
Mei fine streken fan ’e pinne fêstlei – Zakynthos,
                    Kilini, Kastor / Pollux, Stardust, Aspropirgos –
Stietsto yn ’e sinne fan septimber en seewyn dy’t
                    Fernimber mei dyn lange wite simmerjurk, as
Jachtbút fan dyn oerjûne foarmen, útnaaie wol, op
                    Hege hakken, hân yn ’e side, op ’e muorre
Tsjin de winterstoarmen fisker’s netten út te daagjen.

                    Jûns, hoenear’t skimer as niis skiep en skieppehoeder
Troch de oerâlde olivehôven fan ’e ynkear
                    Wâlet, hoenear’t de golfplaten hutte waarmer wurdt
As de stiennen put neist de deastille stuollen, hoenear’t
                    De boeven fan it libido nacht syn finzenis
Al bespegelje, krijsto, neaken oant op ’e skamte,
                    In swarte slange beet en rekkest yn gefjocht mei
Wetter (swart glês dat dyn swart liif noch swarter makket), en
                    Mei ús, wylst it ús, kâld, de seesâlt fan de kjelle
Hûd spielt en genot yn spuitsjen raze en reine lit.

                    It dûknekkich tsjuster, dat rûkt nei hout en see, slút
(Holpen troch de hûnen dy’t op harren keatlings gromje)
                    De hôven ôf, lit los de rotten en út it rom
Fan in djipsonken skip de moanne, op ’e râne fan
                    De pûlemûljende put nei it ûnfersteanber
Praten harkjend fan twa inoar klaaiende freondinnen,
                    Geregeld smoarend yn in allessizzend laitsjen
Ut de hutte wei, en rûkt troch it tinken oan see en
                    Hout hinne ûnferhoeds de geur fan nije bosken
Hier en frjemde blommen dy’t kleuret dit stomdom tsjuster.

                    Under de pergola fan ’e salamander en
Ripe druvetrossen, dy’t in âld-testamintysk byld
                    Foar eagen tsjoenje, yn it skynsel fan spoekdûnsjend
Waxineljocht tsjin ’e âldmuorre bekwattele mei
                    De homearyske hantekening fan Kyrios
Seismos, dwaalsto, mei dyn krektoandiene wite dûnsjurk,
                    Dyn longerjende folle lippen fan dit eilân
Wei nei dyn Karaïbysk, mei dyn hannen dy’t drokkeroan
                    Syn skiednis, dyn oarsprong, beskriuwe, en eagen fan fjoer
Dat ea by nacht in skip oanloek fan poerfrjemd kontinint.

                    En letter, yn de pûsterige opwining fan
It earmoedich ferljochte feest fan oksen, rammen,
                    Bokken fan boeren, skieppe- en geiteslachters út
It doarp syn ûntuchtige heuvels, sylsto al dûnsjend
                    Yn de Spaanske earmens fan in strâne seekaptein
(Dy’t ea oan Sily’s njirrebrod ûntkaam, okkerdeis noch
                    Sa grutsk as in pau mei twa njirren oan in toutsje
It doarp ferbjustere) flinterlicht de nacht yn, seeën
                    Oer om – o stjerren – leafdes skipbrek te lijen, as
Brief yn ’e flesse oan te spielen op dyn Curaçao:

                    O Mai, sa stjerrende stil is ’t, as mei wetter fan
Glês om my hinne en stomme fisken mei, o, de bek
                    Op it wiidst iepen ûnder de sliepende kust fan
Koraalspecht, stil as de kriki en de nacht dy’t swier is
                    Fan him en djipwei wrottend deiljocht, dat my opnimt,
Iere betiid, by Fort Nassau, dêr’t de wyn fan boppen
                    Komt om dyn ûnderkommen te sykjen yn Santa
Rosa, stil as dizze letters yn dyn skerte, yn ’e tún
                    Fan mango’s goudgiele trânsparante tango mei
De proastige noardeastpassaat fan oer see en fierder.

                    Lykme allinne, as de skrutene leguaan
Op ’e sintebibu yn ’e sinne fan de middei
                     (Dy’t alle dagen de rappe dei yn twaën dreamt),
Tusken de foarse kaktussen, myn hert. Mar ik sjong, swing
                    Troch de nacht, stim en yngewant fan in havenstêd
Mei de azem fan fisk en see, manlju’s blauwe weemoed,
                    De leginde fan in blanke hân, in seemanshân
Op myn swart him hifkjend skouder, dat bûgje kin mar taai
                    Is as de watapana, fan it bûnzjend wachtsjen
Fan myn wêzen as in faam ûnder de tamarinde.

                    En rûzjend yn ’e branning fan beide eilannen
(Soe it koark de geast noch yn ’e flesse hâlde?) myn bloed
                    Dat my ûngemurken it tinken benimt, my bringt
Nei see, doch net mear wit fan wa’t it kriten (fan de bern
                    Op it strân, seefûgels om ’e fisk of dolfinen
Yn ’e baai) noch is – oant yn it sân fan myn dreamen al
                    Myn alve krobben al widzjend al te sjongen stean:
‘Ken’ ken’ nos ke tuma ke tuma ke tuma, ken’, ken’’,
                    Yn in krinkje yn in skimer ûnder in beam by
In put yn in wolken boppe in skip yn in flesse.