Gedicht
Tsjêbbe Hettinga
Strange Shores
On black as tar steel cables all the derricksHave 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The water, have been replaced by the shrill shrieks of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.
© Translation: 1999, James Brockway and Tsjêbbe Hettinga
From: Strange Shores/ Frjemde kusten
Publisher: Frysk & Frij, , 1999
From: Strange Shores/ Frjemde kusten
Publisher: Frysk & Frij, , 1999
Frjemde kusten
Frjemde kusten
Oan swarte stielkabels hawwe de bokkenDe 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.
© 1995, Tsjêbbe Hettinga
From: Vreemde kusten/ Frjemde kusten
Publisher: Atlas,
From: Vreemde kusten/ Frjemde kusten
Publisher: Atlas,
Gedichten
Gedichten van Tsjêbbe Hettinga
Close
Frjemde kusten
Oan swarte stielkabels hawwe de bokkenDe 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.
From: Vreemde kusten/ Frjemde kusten
Strange Shores
On black as tar steel cables all the derricksHave 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.
© 1999, James Brockway and Tsjêbbe Hettinga
From: Strange Shores/ Frjemde kusten
Publisher: 1999, Frysk & Frij,
From: Strange Shores/ Frjemde kusten
Publisher: 1999, Frysk & Frij,
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