Jan Glas Poems

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.
...