Jan Jacob Slauerhoff Poems

Holland's no place for me to live,
Raw passion there they can't forgive.
Whatever would the neighbours think
Who peer and pant through every chink?
Give me the steppes, the open skies,
Where fellow-men don't spoil one's day:
No heron will flee my lusty cries,
No vixen start and scoot away.

Holland's no place for me to die,
Rotting in soggy ground to lie
Where one has never really lived.
Rather roam, longing, low and high,
The company of nomads keep.
‘He's failed,' my smug compatriots sneer.
It's true, I wish I'd cut more deep;
That's cost this free man very dear.

Holland's no place for me to live,
Your life to chasing goals you give,
Thinking of others constantly.
I must hurt only furtively,
Never thump someone's ugly face
When I can't stand their damned grimace.
Attacking people without a cause
Shows disrespect for moral laws.

In poky houses I'll not live
Which Ugliness spawned on this shore
In towns and villages galore.
All walk stiff-collared, in black droves
- Not stylishly, but just to give
The feeling they know what behoves.
Each citizen the other greets,
Parading through the Sunday streets.

Holland's no place for me to bide,
I'd ossify, seize up inside.
There life's too stolid, too sedate,
Men weigh their words, dispassionate.
They'd never stick their own necks out,
The helpless, though, they single out.
No shrunken yokel's head's found this far north,
No glorious crime of passion ever blazes forth.
...

Door vijanden omringd,
Door vrienden in den nood
Geschuwd als aas dat stinkt,
Houd ik mij lachend groot,
Al is mijn ziel verminkt,
Mijn lijf voor driekwart dood.

In 't leven was geen dag
Ooit zonder tegenspoed.
Ik leed kwaad en deed goed;
Dat is een hard gelag.
Nu, in verloren slag,
Strijd ik met starren moed.

Bedekt met sneeuw en ijs,
Getooid door menig lijk
Van wie de dwaze reis
Deed naar mijn innerlijk,
Eens vroeg licht als Parijs
Nu 't poolgebied gelijk.

Ik laat geen gaven na,
Verniel wat ik volbracht;
Ik vraag om geen gena,
Vloek voor- en nageslacht;
Zij liggen waar ik sta,
Lachend den dood verwacht.

Ik deins niet voor de grens,
Nam afscheid van geen mensch,
Toch heb ik nog een wensch,
Dat men mij na zal geven:
‘Het goede deed hij slecht,
Beleed het kwaad oprecht,
Hij stierf in het gevecht,
Hij leidde recht en slecht
Een onverdraagzaam leven.'
...

By enemies hemmed in,
With ‘friends in need' who've fled
Rank meat that stinks like sin,
I laugh, toss back my head,
Though torn to shreds within,
My body all but dead.

Each day my life was crossed
By new adversity.
Good reaped iniquity;
I paid a heavy cost,
But now the battle's lost
I fight on doggedly.

Snow, ice envelop me,
The bodies are piled high
Of those who crazily
Pursued my inner ‘I',
Once bright as ‘gay Paree',
Now polar, frozen, dry.

I leave no last bequest,
Smash life's work at a stroke;
No mercy I request,
Curse past and future folk;
Stand tall where they now rest,
And treat death as a joke.

I look fate in the eye,
Have said not one goodbye,
But want men when I die
To say just this of me:
‘He did good very ill,
Served bad with honest will,
Succumbed while battling still,
Undaunted, lived his fill,
Intolerant and free.'
...

In the former royal garden
Sad and listless we walk round:
Crumbling statues time won't pardon,
Roses all dug from the ground.

And the pond, so still and grey,
Seems slowly iced over with frost,
The palace has crumbled away,
The keys that gave access are lost.

The pavilion where lovers once fled
To hide from the light's fierce glare,
Has gates locked and blinds drawn instead,
Like a morgue. We wander there

Down paths whose course is obscure,
Resting on a seat's stone shelves,
Feeling ourselves betrayed
By the past where we once felt secure,
Seeking peace in each other's shade,
Caressing in spite of ourselves.
...

Nooit opent zich de poort. 't Raam is zoo hoog
Dat zij eerst de aarde ziet in wijde verte:
De stroom omarmt het bosch in blauwen boog;
Door 't groen gaan roode vogels, ranke herten.

Niets weet zij van het levensspel daartusschen;
Maar het moet schoon zijn, want zij mist het zeer.
Zij wil omhelzen, vindt niets om te kussen
Dan de eigen schouder, rond en koel en teer
...

The gate never opens. The window's so high
That at first panoramas to her appear:
Rivers, blue arcs, embrace woods and flow by;
Red birds traverse the green, and slender deer.

She's no idea of how life's lived below;
It must be splendid, though, so long she's pined.
She wants embraces, but where can kisses go
Save her own shoulder, round and cool and kind?
...

Houd je gedachten af van gedane dingen,
Denken aan 't verleden geeft verdriet en leed.
Houd je gedachten af van komend gebeuren,
Denken aan de toekomst geeft onrust en zorg.
Zit overdag als een zak in je stoel.
Lig des nachts als een steen in je bed.
Open je mond om voedsel te nemen.
Als je slaaprig wordt, doe dan je oogen dicht.


(Po Tsju I)
...

Don't brood on things that are over and done,
Thoughts of the past bring sorrow and pain.
Don't brood on things that are still to come,
Thoughts of the future bring upset and care.
In daytime flop like a sack in your chair.
At night lie there like a stone in your bed.
Open your mouth to take in your food.
If sleep assails you, close your eyes.


(Po Chu I)
...

Gelezen worden ze ontelbre malen,
Al was de inhoud haast vooruit geweten,
Van 't zelfde levensstof in alle talen
En op den duur tot op het woord versleten.

Toch weer ontvouwd, na 't eenzaam avondeten,
Des nachts op wacht, te kooi en na 't verhalen;
Voor hen die zooveel eenzaamheid verbeten
Is uit de letters leeftocht nog te halen.

Tusschen lieve en liefhebbende steeds staat er
Van kroost, huis, dorp en eiland weer 't alleen
Bij trouw, geboorte en dood gevarieerd relaas.

Na tal van reizen is het of een waas
't Bekende aan land omhult, men is alleen
En hoort bij 't schip en houdt het met het water.
...

They're read and read repeatedly,
Though readers sensed already what was there,
Woven of one cloth, whatever tongue it be,
And in the long run all equally threadbare.

Still, unfolded again, after their lonely meals,
At night on watch, in bunks, once tales are told;
For those who've fought their solitary ordeals,
Such characters nourish as they did of old.

Between ‘my dearest' and ‘yours ever' there can be
But one theme - kids, isle, village homes they own -
Which only weddings, births and deaths rephrase.

After so long on board, it seems as if a haze
Shrouds what they know on land, they are alone,
One with the ship, consorting with the sea.
...