Jan Glas

Ik trof heur haalf bevroren aan.
De haile winter haar ze op de gaanzen wacht.
Ik nam heur ien hoes as was ze mien vraauw.

Binnenshoes dee ze plestik puten
om heur vieze voutjes.
‘Ach, dat huft toch toch hailemoal nait,' zee ik.
Ruzzelnd laip ze noar koelkaast.
Ik ging mien ber verschonen.

‘Waistoe aiglieks wel
dastoe aan de hemel ontsnapt bis?'
Joa, dat wis ze wel.

Boven ston ik nog even
veur t sloapkoamerroam.

t Wodder ien viever, zag ik,
was vis worden.
...

I found her half-frozen.
All winter she'd been waiting for the geese.
I took her in as if she was my wife.

Once inside she put plastic bags
round her dirty feet.
‘Oh, there's really no need to do that,' I said.
Rustling she went over to the fridge.
I went to change my bedclothes.

‘Do you realise
you've escaped from heaven?'
Yes, she realised that.

Upstairs I stood for a moment
at the bedroom window.

The water in the pond, I noticed,
had turned into fish.
...

Wie haren onze aigen veurroad woorden
en wizzen van elk woord
woar t veur was,

wie zetten ze stief tegen mekoar;
tussen de woorden
haren je niks te vertellen,

doar heerste onverbiddelk
de zundagsrust.

Soavends gingen de gerdienen van
veur de oorlog dicht.
...

We had our own supply of words
and knew what each and
every word was for,

we placed them close to each other;
between the words
you had nothing to say,

there unrelentingly
Sunday rest reigned.

In the evening the curtains from
before the war were drawn.
...

Wat ik ook schrief
ik blief n boer.
Boer mit ain knecht.
Blonde knecht ien
blaauw overaal.
Zun schient,

knecht en boer
rusten op t laand
en zomor streelt knecht
boer zien waang
en zegt:
‘wat n laive boer'.

En boer wordt rös om
kop, kikt over t laand
en schut ien t ìn.
‘Deur mor weer', zegt
boer ‘wie monnen nog
ale gedichten melken.'
...

No matter what I write
I will stay a farmer.
A farmer with one farmhand.
A fair-haired farmhand
in blue overalls.
The sun shines,

farm-hand and farmer
are resting on the land
and just like that the farmhand
strokes the farmer's cheek
and says:
‘What a dear sweet farmer.'

And the farmer blushes,
looks over the land
and gets to his feet.
‘Back to work then,'
the farmer says, ‘we've still
all the poems to milk.'
...

Meneer M. woont al meer as
dareg joar op de vaaierde
verdaipen van de Ranonkelflat
en het al hail wat mitmoakt
en viendt dat Chinezen nooit
op de begoane grond wonen maggen,
mor altied bovenien

op hoogste verdaipen,
wegens de vrimde kook- en broadluchten
dij de haile dag deur
t trappenhoes omhoog kwaalmen,

je waiten ook nooit
houveul der wonen
en Chinezen binnen sfeerloos.

Meneer M. het n grode verzoameln
Europees verduusternspapier
oet Twijde Wereldoorlog.

Elk laand haar ander papier.

Veurege week is der ien Azzen
van aacht hoog
n Chinees oet n roam doodvalen.

‘Hupsakee,' zegt meneer M.
...

Mr M. has already lived more than
thirty years on the fourth floor
of Buttercup Block
and been through a thing or two
and feels that Chinese ought never
get to live on the ground floor,
but live always up top

on the uppermost storey,
because of the strange cooking and frying smells
that all day long
reek up the staircase,

and you never know
how many are living there
and Chinese are quite bland.

Mr M. has a large collection
of European blackout paper
from the Second World War.

Each country had its own paper.

Last week in Assen
from eight floors up
a Chinese fell to his death out a window.

‘Ups-a-daisy,' says Mr M.
...

De hotelmanager het mie verloaten.
Ik mis hom zo slim dat t pien dut.
Ik mot opnij leren sloapen.

Ik heb zukke prachtege herinnerns.
Wie swommen elke mörn boantjes ien ‘De Parel'
veur hai noar t hotel ging.
Wie laiten onze tanden blaiken,
der brak n schitternde zummer aan.
Wie fietsen veul. Hai zwaaide noar veurbievoarende boten.
t Was ideoal.

Mien zus was blied veur mie dat ik toch nog
ain vonden haar.
Ik wilde alles van hom waiten.
Hai vertelde over zien jeugd, zien moe,
over zien waark as hotelmanager.
t Hotel haar bieveurbeeld 34 koamers.
Hai haar n poar schiere collegoas.

Toun begon ik hom vast te holden
en dat monnen je nooit doun,
dat staait ien ale bouken.
...

The hotel manager has left me.
I miss him so badly that it hurts.
I've got to learn to sleep all over again.

I've got such fantastic memories.
We swam lengths each morning in ‘The Pearl'
before he went to the hotel.
We had our teeth whitened,
an endlessly beautiful summer arrived.
We biked a lot. He waved to passing boats.
It was just perfect.

My sister was happy for me that at last
I'd found somebody.
I wanted to know everything about him.
He told me about his youth, his mother,
his work as a hotel manager.
The hotel for example had 34 rooms.
He had a couple of nice colleagues.

Then I started to hold on to him
and that you must never do,
it says so in all the books.
...

Ik dailde t ber mit n man dij goie pakken droug, schounen
om veur op knijen te goan.
Zien oorkes haar hai volstopt mit muziek.

Ien n veujoar gruide n stroekje verstandege opmaarkens
oet zien mond. t Stroekje wer n boom
en man verdween ien grond.

Nou droag ik zien pakken, ze zitten mie wat krap,
net zoas mien toentje onderhand
te klaain wordt veur de boom.

De waarkelkhaid aanvoard ik.

Der is mor waaineg informoatsie neudeg
om wereld te begriepen.
...

n Bevroren stoet kinnen je, las ik ooit aargens,
t beste ien t donker ontdooien.
Bieveurbeeld ien stoettrommel,
of langzoam ien koelkast.

Omdat tiedens t ontdooien, onder ienvloud van licht,
t meelbestanddail stoerder te verteren wordt,
mit noame vitamine D zol din minder goud
deur t lichoam opnomen worden.

Ik kende n bakker dij zukke mooie blaauwe ogen haar
dat t twij hemeltjes leken,
mit ien elk hemeltje n klaaine swaarde zun.
Hai haar geweldeg staarke aarms van t deeg kneden.
Ik mos altied kieken noar dij mooie bakker.

Mor hai kreeg kanker ien zien knij en ging dood.
Mien fantasieën over de bakker hielden abrupt op.
Dood begeer ik nait.

De mooie bakker von traauwens dat verhoal over t ontdooien
grode onzin. Ik wait t nait.
Ik wait nait wat ik geloven mot.
Ale geloof is overgoave.

Ik haar ofgelopen veujoar
nog n periode grode behuifte mie over te geven.
...

A frozen loaf of bread, I once read somewhere,
can best be defrosted in a dark place.
For instance in a breadbin,
or slowly in the refrigerator.

Because during the process of defrosting,
the flour ingredient will, under the influence of light,
become harder to digest. Especially vitamin D is said
to be absorbed less well by the body.

I once knew a baker who had such beautiful blue eyes
that they looked like two little heavens,
and in each a tiny black sun.
As a result of kneading dough he had awfully strong arms.
I couldn't help staring at that handsome baker.

But he got cancer in his knee and died.
My fantasies about the baker stopped abruptly.
Death I do not desire.

The handsome baker, by the way, thought this story about defrosting
was a load of rubbish. I don't know.
I don't know what to believe.
Believing is surrendering.

Last spring again
there was a period when
I felt a great need to surrender.
...

Veur Erik H.
Ik heb n vraauw.
Ze jagt. Zai is de joager.
Ze jakkert n peerd kepot deur n koppeg laand.
n Laand dat nait vergeten wil.

Gespannen as bogen
stonnen koal op de akkers de reeën.
As zai van hoes is verzin ik verhoalen.
Zai huft mie niks te vertellen.

Is t duuster en zai is nog nait thoes
din luuster ik noar de naacht en wacht.
Houveul mannen wachten
ien de naacht.

Tegen mörgen kròpt ze op mie en wil ze
heur bruierke. Zai ròkt noar bloud.

Ik streel heur rug.
Heur strelen is vergeten.
...

For Erik H.
I have a wife.
She hunts. She's the hunter
She rides a horse to death through a stubborn land.
A land that is loath to forget.

As taut as bows
the roe deer stand bare in the fields.
When she's away I make up my stories.
She need tell me nothing.

If it grows dark and she's not returned,
to the night I then listen and wait.
How many men are there
waiting in the night.

When morning's near she creeps up on me
wanting her brother. She smells of blood.

I stroke her back.
To stroke her's forgetting.
...

Veur Hans
Vanoet nait Hier en nait Doar dien kitsch-
ansichtkoarten oet Wenstlaand.

Achterop laip n dudelk handschrift
steevast vast ien hazzenmist.

Wel perbaaiert din ook ien dit leven
aargens n vinger achter te kriegen.

Poëzie
haar ien dien geval meschain helpen kind,
allain, doe hiels nait van gedichten zeestoe

en laits mie n krantefoto van
zomor n runnend hondje zain.

Dat ik die nooit meer zain zal,
doar laip t op oet.

Gemis
is te meten, dat onderzuik heb ik nou
zo goud as ofrond.
Der monnen allain nog andere getallen kommen.

Bieveurbeeld het getal hondje dat
n aanloop nimt om gras te worden.
...

For Hans
From neither here nor there your trashy
postcards from Nostalgialand.

On the reverse side clear handwriting got
invariably lost in a brain-fog.

That's what happens in this life when
you try to understand things.

Poetry
might in your case have been able to help,
only, you didn't like poetry you said

and just like that showed me a
newspaper photo of a running doggie.

That I would never see you again
was the final upshot of it.

Loss
is measurable, that investigation I have now
more or less completed.
Just different data are required.

For example the number doggie
taking a run-up to becoming grass.
...

‘Meneer ligt op dit moment even te rusten,'
n vraauw aan tillefoon.

Zaacht geroes op lien van n rechte zee.
‘Zel e joe straks even terugbellen?'

De stem aan ander kaant oet n roemte
woarien n man aargens liggen goan is.
‘Wel kin ik zeggen dat der beld het?'

Ik wil heur vroagen woar e ligt.
Op ber?
Of e op zien zied ligt.
Of op rug.
Op baank.
Hou e zien aarms het.

De schounen, noast nkander zet, wachten.
De bril op t toaveltje wacht.
De koamer, recht ien t ìnd. Wacht.
Aingoal t licht,
de dag, de woorden
alles wacht op de man
dij even liggen goan is.
Ik zeg mien noam.

De vraauw wacht.
De zee wacht.
...

‘I'm afraid he's resting at the moment,'
a woman on the telephone.

Gentle murmuring on the line of a straight sea.
‘Can I get him to call you back presently?'

The voice at the other end
from the space where a man has somewhere lain down.
‘Who can I say phoned?'

I want to ask her where he is lying.
On a bed?
If he's lying on his side.
Or on his back.
On the couch.
How he's holding his arms.

The shoes, placed next to each other, are waiting.
His glasses on the small table, are waiting.
The room, bolt upright. Waiting.
The light even.
The day, the words
everything's waiting for the man
who has just lain down.
I say my name.

The woman's waiting.
The sea's waiting.
...

Hitler en Stalin konden baaident nait swimmen,
dat zegt veul over vizzen,
mor niks over wel wél swimmen kin.

Ik begriep nou de zee ook beder,
dat ienhoaleg stuk vreten kin ook nait swimmen;
t is dat de zee n bodem het.

Hitler en Stalin, de ain was dol op arische kitsch
en de ander op proletarische kitsch.

Ien Mali viel der joarenlaang gain regen,
meren en rivieren vielen dreug
en ale vizzen verdronken.

Toun Stalin sturven was, durfde
de eerste doagen genain t liek aan te roaken.
t Ging toun allaank nait meer over swimmen.
...