Tsjêbbe Hettinga Poems

1



Seeljocht ploeget lân en
De sielsferlitten lichten fan
Dizze sleine kust wize in dwaalwyn
Krekt it paad nei in griene timpelflier ûnder
In sleep op beafeart giene wolken, leauwige fûgels

Oan de blauwe finsters
Yn 'e loft, dreamend fan in fisk
Of fiif, bôlen twa, it stille kôgjen.
In wite see spielt hjir oan 'e ein fan syn hjoed
Woeste wêzen oan, wylde ein fan alles dat men jin

As takomst tinke koe;
Sulverfarsk ploege seegrize
Fuorgen, dy't foar in fan skuorren reade,
Swartrikjende trekker mei in man swimmend yn
In glêzen kabine útweagje, snije, oan leech en

Stêd Niks foarby, de kym.
Seefûgels - de wite eagen
Fan noartske klaai - behaffelje de tiid
Syn raffelige einen, de fette wjirmen,
Dy't krektlykas de dea net it deiljocht net fernearje.



2



Ljocht en dei ferrane
As bline leavjenden, neaken
As de see, wyld as de weagen strânjend
Yn eagen dy't eagen it tinken benimme.
En fan fier, wyn yn 'e wol, gersfrettend, de winterskiep

Under gysten stirnzen,
Seefûgels boppe it floedmerk -
It kymstrakke twaspoar fan earmoed en
Ferlittenens (gesicht dat it witten ûntstrûpt),
Iensume jacht fan 'e skraits yn pûsters tebeksetten.

Tusken de blauwe kust
Fan it westen en de grize
Herne fan it grimmitich noarden rint,
Ut it lead hingjend troch de gisel fan 'e wyn,
In frou mei seegriene eagen dy't fergeat om te sjen.

Op de swarte hakken
Fan 't lot (dat wiist nei in doar mei
An endless wait instead of a welcome),
Wrakselet se, nacht foar noch nei, yn it mulpunt
Fan leechte, nei neat dat har har namme tasizze sil.



3



It keal klaad fan 'e hjerst
En omkearde klaai omfetsje har
As in kraach fan swart fertriet; mar ek sy
(Suster sûnder sibben, yn wite rok, in wjok),
Ferdwynt mei in keppel rotguozzen efter de dyk, sjoch

Dêrre, efter har stim,
Dy't fabelbisten betsjoenet.
En - hear ris - de slûswachter Westnoardwest,
Dy't syn hûs ôfbrekt en de stiennen de slûs yn smyt
Om, o leafdeleaze moannne, it springtij te kearen,

Sa ûnheuglik lang lyn,
Dat it alle seefolk ûntskeat
Hoe't de see de pannen op 'e souder
Yn santjinsantjin of achttjinfiifentweintich
Utslikket, tongen trochslokt, lodden nei it hôf bringt, of

Slykwurker Tuskentij,
Waans abdij fan lân, see en loft
In timpel fan inkeld adem is, dy't
De siel al salvet mei lange sangen, mantra's,
It bonkich lân fermoedsoenjend mei de geast syn sompen.



4



Ier út skulpen skepen,
De kyl fan syn swartskommich skip
Djip troch ferdrinkende seenacht snijend,
Sprekt in âld-kaptein mei in fersâne each dat,
Fiskjend tebeksjocht nei de ferlanning fan 'e havens,

It fûne bonkerak,
It romhertich ynlitten fan
Glêsiel dy't dwers troch Atlantis seach om
Skier te wurden tusken swiet reid, dêr't de fûken
Yn ûngenedige nacht op de moanne útrûnen.

Mei ynmoed en heal sicht
Naam er de striekeapman mei oan
Board, om op see te fiskjen by it fier
Ut 'e kust lizzend eilân, dêr't sy de kninen
Op kneppelen ûnder it slaan nei aaisike fûgels.

Mei de fisk oanlannich
Skommen de kannen op tafel
De nacht fan strippen en ljisklearzens út,
Wylst de wyn him út 'e wolken fike fluiten
Oan 'e lippen hinge en him de tonge fleane liet:



5



En mei wite wjok slacht
In twirre yn de soargjende
Rok om foar de iepensteande doar fan
Dat lêst neareagich hûs foar leech en Stêd Niks noch;
Stof stoot út in matte en ôfkeard sjogge tosken wyt

De swarte ekers oer,
Nei dûnkerkantige wolken,
Lústerje: ‘Theo' (mei libbenslange
Lústerje: ‘Theo' (mei libbenslange
No't mei swarte hakke de foardoar wytskrokken tichtslacht.

Op it ploege dak waait
Seeljocht oer Fenusskulpen en
Sjocht de droege souder noch de swarte
Fuorgen fan 'e weagen ûnder wynploegjende
Guozzen, in friesnacht, dêr't gjin siel in hiem yn fine sil.
...

1



Sea light plows the soil, and
The soul-forsaken stretch of land
Along this battered coast leads a stray wind
Towards a green temple floor topped by a procession
Of clouds marching briskly past on a pilgrimage; meanwhile

Pious birds in the sky's
Blue windows, dreaming of a fish
Or five and two loaves, chew on the silence.
A white sea washes up the remains of today's
Wild orphans: a savage end to everything that might be

Thought of as the future.
Silver-fresh sea-gray plowed furrows
Ripple out from a red tractor spewing
Black smoke, a man swims around inside a glass cab,
And beyond the salt marsh and Nowhere City, the gouged earth

Slices the horizon.
Sea birds (white eyes in the face of
The surly clay) peck at the remnants of
Unraveling time and the succulent worms, which share
With the dead an inability to bear the daylight.



2



Light and day merge here like
A pair of blind lovers, naked
As the sea and wild as the waves stranding
In eyes that surprise the thoughts out of other eyes.
While the wind whips through the winter wool of grass-eating sheep,

Frenzied terns and gulls chase
The flat-sky and high-tide lines—twin
Tracks of poverty and abandonment—
(A sight that clears the mind of all but emotions),
And a lone osprey tries to hover in the hostile gusts.

Between the blue coast in
The west and the gray spit of land
In the grim north walks a woman, so floored
By the wind's flagellation that her sea-green eyes
Stare unseeingly at where she's gone and where she's going.

On the black heels of fate
(A door and a mat offering
An endless wait instead of a welcome),
She wrestles her way through the emptiness, between
One night and another, towards nowhere that will call her name.



3



Autumn's bare carpet and
The upturned clay encircle her
Like a black armband of grief, then she too
(A nurse with no kin, wearing a white skirt: a wing),
Disappears along with two geese behind the dike. But look,

Over there, where her voice
Bewitches mythical beasts, and
Listen. You'll hear Lockkeeper West-Northwest
Tear apart his house and toss the bricks in the lock,
Doing his best, oh loveless moon, to stem the spring tide, yet

So many years ago
That sailors have long forgotten
How the sea licked the tiles off the loft in
Seventeen-seventeen or eighteen-twenty-five,
Swallowed tongues, and ferried spades to churchyards. You'll also hear

Dike Worker Ebb-And-Flow,
Whose abbey of land, sea and sky
Is a temple made out of mere breath, which
Anoints the soul with its long psalms and reconciles
The bony land and the mind's boggy depths with its mantras.



4



Sprung forth from seeds and shells,
The keel of his black-frothing ship
Slicing deeply into the drowning night,
An old sea captain speaks, and his besilted eyes
Cast a fishing glance at the silting up of the harbors,

A dredged-up skeleton,
And the gratifying influx
Of glass eels that look straight through Atlantis
On their way here to turn silver among sweet reeds,
Where the moon leads them, one cruel night, into the waiting nets.

With more fervor than sight,
He brings a grain dealer on board,
So they can fish to their heart's content in
The sea near the island off the coast where rabbits
Were once clubbed and egg-sick birds beat their wings to ward off foes.

When the fish were on shore
And the tankards on the table,
They caroused the rest of that skinned, gutted
And hip-booted night, while the whistling wind, whittled
Out of clouds, hung on the captain's lips and made his tongue fly:



5



A white-winged gust of wind
Seizes a loving skirt outside
The open door of the last sad-eyed house
Before the salt marsh and Nowhere City begin;
As dust is whacked from a mat, she averts her white teeth and

Stares across the dark fields
At the black-lined clouds, then whispers
"Theo" (with a lifelong "O" at the end):
At last turmoil stops agitating her skirt, since
Her black heel has kicked the white-shocked door firmly behind her.

On the plow-rutted roof,
Sea light caresses Venus shells,
And the dry loft still looks out on the black
Furrows of the waves beneath wind-plowing geese, on
A freezing night, in which no soul will ever find a home.
...

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.
...

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.
...

Oan swarte stielkabels hawwe de bokken
De 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.
...

On black as tar steel cables all the derricks
Have 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.
...

Hy dronk, wylst syn eagen de strakblauwe eagen fan
De fiskersfrou yn it swart troffen en betizen, by
De boarne, yn it soel middeisskaad fan ferlegen
Seders, rook fan fisk en hars, sicht oer see en sloepen, leech.
Stil stie sy, wylst har fersonken eagen syn drinken
Seagen yn 'e nacht fan smoarde lûden, leafdes toarst en
De goederjouske krûk op har no skrokken skouder,
Neist in ezel, blau en stil; troch it blank ear fan har earm
De see, om har heupen de branning, tusken beiden,
Ferstomme troch it stoarmjen fan in eagenblik stilte:

Sy hienen dronken, en sjoen hoe't de fiskers yn har
Lytse sloepen stadich lytser waarden, de fan ûnthjit
Drippende netten fan 'e stjerren strakker, foller,
Twa heale moannen de griene haven yn dreauwen, mei
It sâlt fan 'e see fyn yn 'e wyn oer it brutsen
Iis yn 'e glêzen op in terras mei swarte slangen,
Wite amers; en it paad nei har hutte (néi har
Heuvel-op, de gloppen troch, fanwegen fiskersmessen)
Hie se útlein, fielend dat er komme soe, en hy
Wie har heuvel beklommen, hie him lave oan har krûk.
...

He drank, his eyes catching the confused blue eyes of the
Black-clad fisherman's widow beside the spring, standing in
The sultry shade of a bashful cedar, the sharp reek
Of resin and fish, a glimpse of sea and boats, now empty.
She stood still, her sunken eyes seeing him drinking in
A night of smothered cries and thirsty love, while she balanced
The water jug on her shocked shoulder - beside her
A donkey, blue and still; through the pale white ear of her arm
The sea; beyond her hips the surf, and in between them,
Struck dumb by the stormy winds of a moment of silence:

They had drunk, and seen the fishermen in their boats grow
Slowly smaller, while the net of stars, dripping with promise,
Had grown fuller and more taut, two half moons had floated
Into a green harbor, and the wind had sprinkled salt on
The broken ice in the glasses on a terrace with
Black hoses and white buckets; and he had followed the path
To her hut (much later than she, up the hill, through the
Dark alleys, away from fisherman's knives), just as she had
Described it to him, sensing that he would come, and he
Had climbed her hill, had slaked his thirst on her obliging jug.
...

Yn syn stoffich hôf fan oliven mei it sicht op it grêf
Fan syn soan yn 'e bedelte, stie in iere fisker

Him de netten fan in deadsk ferdobbere nacht te druien.
Ut 'e djipte fan 'e delling kraaiden heaze hoannen

Ljocht omheech en deun oan it paad del nei de see teknipten
Sikaden it net fan 'e stilte om it hûs fan heit

Op soan, dêr't de yntroude frou yn sliepte noch en dreamde
Fan har man, de tiidbline fisker, dy't in hammer (de

Hammer, wist er, dêr't syn soan it ynsakke dowehok mei
Makke, ea) beetpakte om troch te bouwen oan syn boat.

Oan fjurre se him mei út 'en djipsten lossleine driften,
Hoartend en stjittend oan it sonken anker fan 'e sliep.

En mei de dea yn 'e rêch jage de gleone fisker him
It swit út 'e hûd en, o op hout en dream klopjend hert,

De swarte netten dy't blanke skonken fongen út in tins.
Neil nei neil sloech er troch gongen, ynhout, tiid en triennen,

Troch triennen dy't de tiid ferspielden ta de see fan syn soan
Yn 'e bedelte, in riizjende see, dêr't syn eilân,

Fan kriezjende seefûgels hjitfolge, as in grien útslein
Skip de weagjende ieuwen troch yn omfear mei brutsen

Bergen, yn wetter dat yn wolken himel yn ierde seach.
Sy seach hieltyd wer de huveringen fan 'e skerte

Fan 'e ierde yn syn gesicht bywannear't syn eagen fier
Yn har útfearen en har de romp fan de ranke siel

Lekstompten, lykas no; en hy draaide him nei har ta, lei
De hammer del, sei sêft farwol tsjin it dowehok en

Wurke troch, beseach de tosken fan syn seage (dy't blonk) en
Om't se de skerpte fan 'e seage talaken seach sy

Syn tosken en yn it blauwe stiel fan syn eagen de see -
Yn syn spegelbyld ûntbleate de sinne har ferlet.

En it skaad fan byldhoude olivebeammen rûn troch har
Dream as griene oalje nei de leidich krûnkeljende

Stammen werom om oan de oare kant wer út te rinnen
Yn in langliddich ljeppen fan seekatten, of njirren.

Fûle halen fan in sjongende seage krongen yn har
Meigeand sykheljen, de okeren kust fan har fleis. En

Willich fiskersswit streamde by de boat wei, streamde mar troch,
Del nei de see, nei har gesicht dat him fersulvere.

Underwurpen oan de hammerslaggen fan in boat fol bloed,
Dy't mei roeispieren tsjin 'e stream fan 'e kiel yn bealge:

It hert. Oerjûn oan de wil fan 'e tiid dy't earst yn himsels
Yn folle genede ûntweitsje soe, as ek ûnwil

Fan in taknipende romte, dy't yn himsels datjinge
Beethold dat gjin genede koe: de lea. En de narre

Neilen krûm as hoarnen, op libben en dea wrakseljend nei
Toarre hichten, ûntwyk fan 'e stienbok, de mytyske

Arke yn ivige snie, de sinne syn flymjende priem,
Helferljochte himel, briek it magma út 'e ierde.

De see huvere en bûle, giele boechsprieten, giken,
Gaffels, mêsten swypken byinoar op, betizen har

Yn in swart kabelnetwurk fan stagen, skoaten en fallen,
Linen, slingerjend tsjin in loft fan gruzich oranje.

Ut de hege inketblauwe rêch fan 'e see ûntflechte,
Sulver, sabelfoarmich, twa oan twa, in skoalle fisken

Sûnder kop dy't fertrille yn in skodzjen dat net ophold.
Wylst it roet reinde út de himel syn skimerwolken,

Besprongen de batske rêgen fan 'e see de fuotten fan
Bergen, heuvels, dêr't de deaden yn har kisten trillen.

Eefkes skrillen de skombekken fan 'e weagen tebek foar
It krús mei de foto fan in meagere jonge mei

In fealread sporthimd en in brede halter boppe de macht,
Yn 'e bedelte, dêr't de heuvel kantele en sonk.

Ta de weisinkende krunen fan olivebeammen út
Kaam al silend it wyt bonkerak fan in fiskersboat

Mei in roer as in hammer en in folblaasde overall,
Sûnder fisker, en in frou fan sâlt dy't ferwyldere

Omseach nei eat dêr't it eilân west hie, foar it kerlich ljocht.
Dêrboppe - de kop fan in deade iisbear - de moanne.
...

In his dusty olive grove, overlooking his son's grave in
The shadowy depths below, stood an early fisherman,

Drying the dead-weighted nets of an aimlessly drifting night.
From deep in the valley hoarse roosters crowed the light higher

And higher, while nearer to the path leading down to the sea
Cicadas slit the net of silence surrounding the house,

Passed down from father to son, where his wife lay fast asleep and
Dreamed of her husband, the time-blind fisherman, who picked up

A hammer (the same one, he knew, his son had once used to fix
The derelict dovecote) and continued building his boat.

She spurred him on from the depths of her rudderless desires,
Tugging and jerking at the sunken anchor of her sleep.

With death at his back the feverish fisherman worked himself
Into a sweat, oh pounding heart, and banished all thought of

Two white legs imprisoned in a pair of black fishnet stockings.
Nail after nail was driven into stem, stern, time and tears,

Until they mingled and were washed into the sea of his son
In the depths below, a rising sea, in which his island

Sailed like a green barnacle-clad ship, with hundreds of shrieking
Seagulls in its wake, through storm-tossed centuries and broken

Mountains, in water stretching from heaven to earth in the clouds.
And as she watched his face she could see the earth's womb open

Up with a convulsive shudder, which happened every time his
Eyes sailed deep into her soul and he rammed her delicate

Hull, just as he was doing now; and he turned to her, lay down
His hammer, whispered a soft farewell to the dovecote and

Went back to his work, staring at the teeth of his glinting saw,
And since its sharp edge produced a smile in him, she also

Saw his teeth and then in the steely blue of his eyes the sea,
So that all her longing was laid bare in its reflection.

And the shadow of the sculpted olive trees ran through her dream
Like green oil slithering voluptuously down the curves

Of the trunks, only to run out again on the other side
With the long-legged leap of a sea cat or sea serpent.

Then the powerful strokes of the singing saw slipped inside her
Panting breath, climbing up on the ochre coast of her flesh,

While the steamy sweat of the fisherman streamed into his boat,
Into the sea and down her face, turning it to silver.

Obedient to the hammer blows filling the blood-stained boat,
To the oar-hard muscles struggling against a heaving chest:

The heart. Surrendered to the inexorable will of time,
Which will awaken in either the fullness of mercy

Or the confining emptiness of vengeance, clutching onto
That which knows no mercy: the body. Just then - as the cruel

Nails, curved like horns, frantically clawed their way to drier heights,
To the refuge of the mountain goat, the mythical ark

In the eternal snow, up towards the piercing stab of the sun
And the hell-lit heavens - magma erupted from the earth.

The sea trembled, swelling the waves, and the yellow bowsprits, booms,
Gaffs and masts thrashed against each other, growing entangled

In the black network of cables and halyards, ropes and stays, lines
Swinging back and forth in the lurid light of an orange sky.

A school of silver saber-shaped fish fled from the curving spine
Of the inky blue sea, their headless bodies hurriedly

Darting, two by two, through the water in a shiver of fright.
And while soot and ashes drifted down from twilight-tinged clouds,

The arching sea savagely leapt at the foot of the mountains
And rolling hills, where the dead lay quaking in their coffins.

The frothing mouths of the waves recoiled for just one moment from
The cross with the color photograph of a skinny boy

In a light-red sport shirt lifting a barbell over his head
In the shadowy depths below, before the hills listed

And sank. Then, from the sinking tops of the olive trees there came
The white skeletal frame of a fishing boat, with an oar

Shaped like a hammer, a billowing pair of blue overalls,
Without their fisherman, and a woman of salt staring

Dazedly in the dense light to where an island used to be.
High in the sky - the head of a dead polar bear - the moon.
...