Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Toon Tellegen

A poem for Henry Hudson

My father
lay in the arms of my mother,
my brothers entered the room, asked:
‘Are we in your way?’
pulled him to his feet,
gave him a good shaking, shouted:
‘We want to know now! Are we in your way?!’ –
but my father tore himself loose
and vanished in my mother –
philosophers rushed forward, searched for him in vain,
fumbled at the gates of life,
pulled answers out of their hats in desperation

and water fell on the barren heath and between the wild corn,
sparkled in the sun, enticed butterflies, wolves,
carved itself a path through pine forest and birches,
quenched the thirst of Indians, bears and deer,
wondered at the immense silence
                                             of the world all around,
carried death and life and uncertainty along with it,
stumbled into chasms,
seethed with rage and pulled itself together again,
wrestled itself through cracks and crevices,
called out to the tiniest and most timid of brooks:
‘I am a river. Come with me!’
‘Where to?’
‘To the sea!’
‘To the sea?’
‘Yes, to the sea!’
saw the sea
and sighed the way only a river can sigh
                                            out of immortality and melancholy,
nestled itself in the arms of a bay and slept –
until one day – ships sailed by
and the river awoke, opened its mouth wide,
cried: ‘Hudson! You! I have been waiting for you! I knew you would come!’
and Henry Hudson put his telescope to one eye
                                             and called out to his sailors:
‘This is where we are meant to be!
This is the centre of the world.’

I went to the centre of the world,
I wanted to hear Thelonious Monk,
John Coltrane at the Village Vanguard
                                           playing the first notes of ‘My Favourite Things’,
I wanted to go to Minton’s Playhouse on a Monday night
and hear Charlie Parker play ‘I Got Rhythm’, each time in a different key,
I wanted to see the Yankees, witness Casey Stengel come out of the dugout,
hear the Moose call for Moose Skowron,
see Mickey Mantle hit a first pitch into the bleachers –
I would never bet against them –
I wanted to see Roosevelt Grier, Sam Huff, Dick Modzelewski, Jim Katcavage and Andy
Robustelli
standing unshakeable on the goal line in Yankee Stadium,
the Rocky Mountains of my imagination,
I wanted to take the ferry to Staten Island for a nickel
and eat one of Nathan’s foot-long hotdogs on Coney Island,
with chilli, pickles and extra mustard,
I wanted to see the ferris wheel and walk along the boardwalk
like the father and mother of Delmore Schwartz in an irresponsible dream once,
I wanted to be a poet, make girls look at me in wonder,
run their hands through my hair,
wake up beside one of them, one morning, for the first time,
I wanted to walk where Jimmy Walker had walked
                                          at the head of the Police Parade,
I wanted to let him know, my Jimmy, my hero,
that I would still love him in December,
even if it meant trudging through the snow,
I wanted to hear LaGuardia – O Fiorello, how I love you too! –
as he read the daily cartoons on the radio,
I wanted to think:
here Joe Louis, the ‘great brown bomber’, would saunter between two fights,
and here walked Ray Robinson in his sugar-pink coat, a girl on each arm,
I wanted to nod at Jack Dempsey through the window of his restaurant
and slowly, very slowly count to ten, without him noticing,
I wanted to sound a barbaric yawp over the roofs of Brooklyn, like Walt Whitman,
I wanted to close my eyes tight and cheer Lafayette in Fulton Street
and the GIs along Broadway in ’45,
I wanted to be in the centre of the world,
which was once in Voorstraat, at the corner of Asylstraat,
in a small town in Holland,
but had now changed places and was here –
I was just a boy, still wore the wrong clothes,
blushed each time someone asked me a question –
I wanted to see subways ride past, ‘whole cars’, ‘whole trains’
by Dondi, Lee, Rammellzee and Blade,
I wanted to know where e.e. cummings gave his capitals to the garbage man,
where Dutch Schultz drew his final breath with his head in his plate
and where on 15 June 1904 – the day before Bloomsday – the General Slocum went down
with more than a thousand children on board,
the greatest disaster in the ninety-seven years that followed,
I wanted to be here, stay here, far away
and yet nowhere so close

and morning came,
philosophers slept their hermetic sleep,
the sun came up
and my father crawled out of my mother,
became immense, grey and almighty,
stretched out his arms –
my brothers, my millions of brothers,
swarmed at his feet –
and he said:
‘No, you are not in my way.
You are never in my way,’

and my mother wept.

Een gedicht voor Henry Hudson

Een gedicht voor Henry Hudson

Mijn vader
lag in de armen van mijn moeder,
mijn broers kwamen de kamer in, vroegen:
‘Storen wij?’
trokken hem overeind,
schudden hem door elkaar, schreeuwden:
‘Wij willen het nu weten! Storen wij?!’ –
maar mijn vader rukte zich los
en verdween in mijn moeder –
filosofen schoten toe, zochten hem tevergeefs,
morrelden aan de poorten van het bestaan,
maakten in arren moede elkaar maar iets wijs

en water viel op de schrale hei en tussen het wilde koren,
glinsterde in de zon, lokte vlinders, wolven,
baande zich een weg langs dennen en berken,
leste de dorst van Indianen, beren en herten,
verbaasde zich over de reusachtige stilte
                                                           van de wereld om zich heen,
voerde dood en leven en ongewisheid met zich mee,
struikelde afgronden in,
kolkte van woede en vermande zich weer,
wrong zich door kloven en spleten,
riep naar de kleinste en timideste beken:
‘Ik ben een rivier. Kom met me mee!’
‘Waarheen?’
‘Naar zee!’
‘Naar zee?’
‘Ja, naar zee!’
zag de zee
en zuchtte zoals alleen een rivier kan zuchten
                                                            van onsterfelijkheid en melancholie,
vlijde zich in de armen van een baai en sliep –
tot op een dag - schepen zeilden langs
en de rivier ontwaakte, sperde zijn mond wijd open,
riep: ‘Hudson! Jij! Ik heb op je gewacht! Ik wist dat jij zou komen!’
en Henry Hudson zette zijn kijker aan zijn oog
                                                            en riep naar zijn matrozen:
‘Hier moeten we zijn!
Hier is het middelpunt van de wereld.’

Ik ging naar het middelpunt van de wereld,
ik wilde Thelonious Monk horen,
John Coltrane in de Village Vanguard,
                                                 de eerste noten van ‘My favourite things,’
ik wilde op een maandagavond naar Minton’s Playhouse gaan
en Charlie Parker ‘I got rhythm’ horen spelen in telkens een andere toonaard,
ik wilde de Yankees zien, Casey Stengel uit de dug-out zien komen,
de Moose call voor Moose Skowron horen,
Mickey Mantle een eerste pitch in de bleachers zien slaan –
ik zou nooit tegen ze wedden –
ik wilde Roosevelt Grier, Sam Huff, Dick Modzelewski, Jim Katcavage en Andy Robustelli
onwrikbaar op de goal line in Yankee Stadium zien staan,
de Rocky Mountains van mijn verbeelding,
ik wilde voor een nickel naar Staten Island varen
en op Coney Island een voetlange hotdog van Nathan’s eten,
met chilli, pickles en extra mosterd,
ik wilde het reuzenrad zien en langs de boardwalk lopen
als de vader en moeder van Delmore Schwartz in een onverantwoorde droom ooit eens,
ik wilde dichter worden, meisjes met verwondering naar mij laten kijken,
met hun hand door mijn haar laten gaan,
naast een van hen wakker worden, op een ochtend, voor het eerst,
ik wilde lopen waar Jimmy Walker had gelopen
                                                  aan het hoofd van de Politie Parade,
ik wilde hem laten weten, mijn Jimmy, mijn held,
dat ik in december nog altijd van hem zou houden,
al moest ik baggeren door de sneeuw,
ik wilde LaGuardia - o Fiorello, wat houd ik ook van jou! –
de dagelijkse strips voor de radio horen lezen,
ik wilde denken:
hier slenterde Joe Louis, de ‘great brown bomber’, tussen twee gevechten,
en hier Ray Robinson in zijn suikerroze jas, meisjes aan elke arm,
ik wilde naar Jack Dempsey knikken door het raam van zijn restaurant
en langzaam, heel langzaam tot tien tellen, zonder dat hij dat zag,
ik wilde als Walt Whitman een barbaarse kreet over de daken van Brooklyn
laten schallen,
ik wilde mijn ogen dichtknijpen en Lafayette toejuichen in Fulton Street
en de GI’s langs Broadway in ’45,
ik wilde in het middelpunt van de wereld zijn,
dat eerst in de Voorstraat lag, op de hoek van de Asylstraat
in een klein stadje in Nederland,
maar nu van plaats veranderd was en hier lag –
ik was een jongen, droeg nog verkeerde kleren,
bloosde telkens als iemand mij iets vroeg –
ik wilde subways langs zien rijden, ‘whole cars’, ‘whole trains’
van Dondi, Lee, Rammellzee en Blade,
ik wilde weten waar e.e. cummings zijn hoofdletters aan de vuilnisman meegaf,
waar Dutch Schultz met zijn hoofd op een bord zijn laatste adem uitblies
en waar op 15 juni 1904 – de dag voor Bloomsdag – de General Slocum verging
met meer dan duizend kinderen aan boord,
de grootste ramp in de zevenennegentig jaar die volgden,
ik wilde hier zijn, hier blijven, ver weg
en nergens zó dichtbij

en het werd ochtend,
filosofen sliepen hun hermetische slaap,
de zon kwam op
en mijn vader kroop tevoorschijn uit mijn moeder,
werd groot, grijs en almachtig,
strekte zijn armen uit –
mijn broers, mijn miljoenen broers,
krioelden aan zijn voeten –
en hij zei:
‘Nee, jullie storen niet.
Jullie storen nooit,’

en mijn moeder weende.
Close

A poem for Henry Hudson

My father
lay in the arms of my mother,
my brothers entered the room, asked:
‘Are we in your way?’
pulled him to his feet,
gave him a good shaking, shouted:
‘We want to know now! Are we in your way?!’ –
but my father tore himself loose
and vanished in my mother –
philosophers rushed forward, searched for him in vain,
fumbled at the gates of life,
pulled answers out of their hats in desperation

and water fell on the barren heath and between the wild corn,
sparkled in the sun, enticed butterflies, wolves,
carved itself a path through pine forest and birches,
quenched the thirst of Indians, bears and deer,
wondered at the immense silence
                                             of the world all around,
carried death and life and uncertainty along with it,
stumbled into chasms,
seethed with rage and pulled itself together again,
wrestled itself through cracks and crevices,
called out to the tiniest and most timid of brooks:
‘I am a river. Come with me!’
‘Where to?’
‘To the sea!’
‘To the sea?’
‘Yes, to the sea!’
saw the sea
and sighed the way only a river can sigh
                                            out of immortality and melancholy,
nestled itself in the arms of a bay and slept –
until one day – ships sailed by
and the river awoke, opened its mouth wide,
cried: ‘Hudson! You! I have been waiting for you! I knew you would come!’
and Henry Hudson put his telescope to one eye
                                             and called out to his sailors:
‘This is where we are meant to be!
This is the centre of the world.’

I went to the centre of the world,
I wanted to hear Thelonious Monk,
John Coltrane at the Village Vanguard
                                           playing the first notes of ‘My Favourite Things’,
I wanted to go to Minton’s Playhouse on a Monday night
and hear Charlie Parker play ‘I Got Rhythm’, each time in a different key,
I wanted to see the Yankees, witness Casey Stengel come out of the dugout,
hear the Moose call for Moose Skowron,
see Mickey Mantle hit a first pitch into the bleachers –
I would never bet against them –
I wanted to see Roosevelt Grier, Sam Huff, Dick Modzelewski, Jim Katcavage and Andy
Robustelli
standing unshakeable on the goal line in Yankee Stadium,
the Rocky Mountains of my imagination,
I wanted to take the ferry to Staten Island for a nickel
and eat one of Nathan’s foot-long hotdogs on Coney Island,
with chilli, pickles and extra mustard,
I wanted to see the ferris wheel and walk along the boardwalk
like the father and mother of Delmore Schwartz in an irresponsible dream once,
I wanted to be a poet, make girls look at me in wonder,
run their hands through my hair,
wake up beside one of them, one morning, for the first time,
I wanted to walk where Jimmy Walker had walked
                                          at the head of the Police Parade,
I wanted to let him know, my Jimmy, my hero,
that I would still love him in December,
even if it meant trudging through the snow,
I wanted to hear LaGuardia – O Fiorello, how I love you too! –
as he read the daily cartoons on the radio,
I wanted to think:
here Joe Louis, the ‘great brown bomber’, would saunter between two fights,
and here walked Ray Robinson in his sugar-pink coat, a girl on each arm,
I wanted to nod at Jack Dempsey through the window of his restaurant
and slowly, very slowly count to ten, without him noticing,
I wanted to sound a barbaric yawp over the roofs of Brooklyn, like Walt Whitman,
I wanted to close my eyes tight and cheer Lafayette in Fulton Street
and the GIs along Broadway in ’45,
I wanted to be in the centre of the world,
which was once in Voorstraat, at the corner of Asylstraat,
in a small town in Holland,
but had now changed places and was here –
I was just a boy, still wore the wrong clothes,
blushed each time someone asked me a question –
I wanted to see subways ride past, ‘whole cars’, ‘whole trains’
by Dondi, Lee, Rammellzee and Blade,
I wanted to know where e.e. cummings gave his capitals to the garbage man,
where Dutch Schultz drew his final breath with his head in his plate
and where on 15 June 1904 – the day before Bloomsday – the General Slocum went down
with more than a thousand children on board,
the greatest disaster in the ninety-seven years that followed,
I wanted to be here, stay here, far away
and yet nowhere so close

and morning came,
philosophers slept their hermetic sleep,
the sun came up
and my father crawled out of my mother,
became immense, grey and almighty,
stretched out his arms –
my brothers, my millions of brothers,
swarmed at his feet –
and he said:
‘No, you are not in my way.
You are never in my way,’

and my mother wept.

A poem for Henry Hudson

My father
lay in the arms of my mother,
my brothers entered the room, asked:
‘Are we in your way?’
pulled him to his feet,
gave him a good shaking, shouted:
‘We want to know now! Are we in your way?!’ –
but my father tore himself loose
and vanished in my mother –
philosophers rushed forward, searched for him in vain,
fumbled at the gates of life,
pulled answers out of their hats in desperation

and water fell on the barren heath and between the wild corn,
sparkled in the sun, enticed butterflies, wolves,
carved itself a path through pine forest and birches,
quenched the thirst of Indians, bears and deer,
wondered at the immense silence
                                             of the world all around,
carried death and life and uncertainty along with it,
stumbled into chasms,
seethed with rage and pulled itself together again,
wrestled itself through cracks and crevices,
called out to the tiniest and most timid of brooks:
‘I am a river. Come with me!’
‘Where to?’
‘To the sea!’
‘To the sea?’
‘Yes, to the sea!’
saw the sea
and sighed the way only a river can sigh
                                            out of immortality and melancholy,
nestled itself in the arms of a bay and slept –
until one day – ships sailed by
and the river awoke, opened its mouth wide,
cried: ‘Hudson! You! I have been waiting for you! I knew you would come!’
and Henry Hudson put his telescope to one eye
                                             and called out to his sailors:
‘This is where we are meant to be!
This is the centre of the world.’

I went to the centre of the world,
I wanted to hear Thelonious Monk,
John Coltrane at the Village Vanguard
                                           playing the first notes of ‘My Favourite Things’,
I wanted to go to Minton’s Playhouse on a Monday night
and hear Charlie Parker play ‘I Got Rhythm’, each time in a different key,
I wanted to see the Yankees, witness Casey Stengel come out of the dugout,
hear the Moose call for Moose Skowron,
see Mickey Mantle hit a first pitch into the bleachers –
I would never bet against them –
I wanted to see Roosevelt Grier, Sam Huff, Dick Modzelewski, Jim Katcavage and Andy
Robustelli
standing unshakeable on the goal line in Yankee Stadium,
the Rocky Mountains of my imagination,
I wanted to take the ferry to Staten Island for a nickel
and eat one of Nathan’s foot-long hotdogs on Coney Island,
with chilli, pickles and extra mustard,
I wanted to see the ferris wheel and walk along the boardwalk
like the father and mother of Delmore Schwartz in an irresponsible dream once,
I wanted to be a poet, make girls look at me in wonder,
run their hands through my hair,
wake up beside one of them, one morning, for the first time,
I wanted to walk where Jimmy Walker had walked
                                          at the head of the Police Parade,
I wanted to let him know, my Jimmy, my hero,
that I would still love him in December,
even if it meant trudging through the snow,
I wanted to hear LaGuardia – O Fiorello, how I love you too! –
as he read the daily cartoons on the radio,
I wanted to think:
here Joe Louis, the ‘great brown bomber’, would saunter between two fights,
and here walked Ray Robinson in his sugar-pink coat, a girl on each arm,
I wanted to nod at Jack Dempsey through the window of his restaurant
and slowly, very slowly count to ten, without him noticing,
I wanted to sound a barbaric yawp over the roofs of Brooklyn, like Walt Whitman,
I wanted to close my eyes tight and cheer Lafayette in Fulton Street
and the GIs along Broadway in ’45,
I wanted to be in the centre of the world,
which was once in Voorstraat, at the corner of Asylstraat,
in a small town in Holland,
but had now changed places and was here –
I was just a boy, still wore the wrong clothes,
blushed each time someone asked me a question –
I wanted to see subways ride past, ‘whole cars’, ‘whole trains’
by Dondi, Lee, Rammellzee and Blade,
I wanted to know where e.e. cummings gave his capitals to the garbage man,
where Dutch Schultz drew his final breath with his head in his plate
and where on 15 June 1904 – the day before Bloomsday – the General Slocum went down
with more than a thousand children on board,
the greatest disaster in the ninety-seven years that followed,
I wanted to be here, stay here, far away
and yet nowhere so close

and morning came,
philosophers slept their hermetic sleep,
the sun came up
and my father crawled out of my mother,
became immense, grey and almighty,
stretched out his arms –
my brothers, my millions of brothers,
swarmed at his feet –
and he said:
‘No, you are not in my way.
You are never in my way,’

and my mother wept.
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