Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer
68
When I was still young and my life still complete,
to a brown-tinted, timeless deferral depleted,
as from the edge of an ashtray I stared at the sight
of duties, impediments coming to light
in panicky, practical biking through rain
that bypassed all happiness, my claim to fame
was to be loved by barmaids till closing time. Lost
in blank, empty pages of evenings that toasted
eternity I read the world and the glass that I wielded
was never the last, as the sour foam healed
me of objections and myself. There were friends of a sort
whom with loyal disposition I earned, so I thought,
and I always had time for them, for time, as it brewed,
sang in the barrels like the yeast of solitude.
They often came and went in shifts. And any
continuity I had was piecemealed out. The many
velvet hours, which I, nonetheless, filled alone
with emptiness, whereby each empty glass, each one,
I had refilled with gold-yellow time, I spent
solely on staying and I was content,
mundane and mild. I resided like a prince,
proud of my thirstless capacity for drink.
It was in these idle hours of conclusion,
while the world was struggling with headwind, confusion
and agendas and my self-made fog of smoke
and alcohol that covered me like a cloak
drew me back from the day, when I slowed my gestures,
sipping, savouring the years, the very best of
which I burned in style, was familiar with freedom
and with destiny and my future was decreed,
that I began to write on this aching void
and what I wrote was craving, made-up bodies, I enjoyed
the dream of a waitress whose presence was persistent,
longing for a dull and regular existence,
the necessity and nobility of solitary drinking
and writing and the sacrifice that demands of sinking
into dissolute denial, which is a poet's quirk.
I drank because I wrote, that was the burden of my work,
or so I thought, though actually it was the other way
around. I wrote because I drank. I organised my days
to fit the measure of my thirst. It was my alibi
for sitting. What I wrote, I wrote in time
to the opening and closing of my two favourite dives.
My existence came to mean avoiding really being alive
and so all was good. Softly, seasons slipped right
by me. The lights of the city by night
languorously repeated in the familiar streets.
There was enough. The kegs were always replete.
There were girls to see and love to be found in fantasy.
There was lonely heroism, lonely as can be.
There was a world that you could go to if you wished.
Because now, between the days, there was no longer any difference,
anything was possible tomorrow. Murmurs vague
were humus for the loveliest of verses. In the haze
of certain and daily reconstituted days
I could almost taste immortality. Deep layers
deepened. The right questions buzzed around
and every solution was fluid. So I found
no tasks were longer necessary save the one
of filling up the emptied space with words till it was done.
Guzzling gloriously, messiah of my thoughts
I was pils pope, lager lord and prophet of drought
who came, thirst quenching, and transmuted quietly
to a stylised, elegant life philosophy.
And under drunken stars that once only could be young
I set off both full and empty, with an arid tongue
for dreamlessly overslept mornings in sails
from my grubby ship. It was an extended stay
in gratuitous time. The boring chore was bliss to me.
I sang in rattling chains like the sea.
68
68
Toen ik nog jong was en mijn leven nog voltooid
en tot een bruin en tijdloos oponthoud ontplooid,
terwijl ik aan de oever van een asbak staarde
naar plichten en beletsels die zich openbaarden
in panisch, praktisch en verregend fietsverkeer
dat buiten aan geluk voorbijging, was ik zeer
geliefd bij barmeisjes tot sluitingstijd. Verzonken
in blanke bladzijden van avonden die klonken
op eeuwigheid las ik de wereld en mijn glas
was nooit het laatste, want het zure schuim genas
me van bezwaren en mezelf. Er waren vrienden,
die ik met mijn loyale vindbaarheid verdiende,
en ik had altijd alle tijd voor hen, want tijd
zong in de fusten als het gist van eenzaamheid.
Ze wisselden elkaar vaak af in shifts. Mijn hele
voortdurendheid werd onderling verdeeld. De vele
fluwelen uren die ik desondanks alleen
vol leegte goot, waarbij ik elk leeg glas meteen
liet vullen met nog meer goudgele tijd, besteedde
ik soeverein aan blijven en ik was tevreden,
mondain en mild. Ik resideerde als een vorst,
trots op mijn gave om te drinken zonder dorst.
Het was op deze luwe uren van bevinden,
terwijl de wereld worstelde met tegenwind en
agenda’s en mijn zelfgemaakte mist van rook
en alcohol, waarin ik veilig onderdook,
me aan de dag onttrok, wanneer ik mijn gebaren
vertraagde, smaakvol nipte van mijn beste jaren
die ik in stijl verbrandde, veel van vrijheid wist
en van bestemming en mijn toekomst was beslist,
dat ik op deze ledigheid begon te schrijven
en wat ik schreef, was hunkering, verzonnen lijven,
de droom van een serveerster die niet weg kon gaan,
verlangen naar een saai en regulier bestaan,
de noodzaak en heldhaftigheid van eenzaam drinken
en dichten en het offer dat dat vergt van zinken
in liederlijk ontzeggen dat bij dichten past.
Ik dronk omdat ik schreef, dat was mijn zware last,
zo zag ik dat. Maar het was andersom. Ik dichtte
omdat ik dronk. Het doel was dagen in te richten
naar klokken van mijn dorst. Het was mijn alibi
voor zitten. Wat ik schreef, schreef ik uit empathie
met ritmes van de openings- en sluitingstijden
van mijn twee stamcafés. Bestaan werd leven mijden
en zo was alles goed. Seizoenen gleden zacht
aan mij voorbij. De lampen van de stad bij nacht
herhaalden zich bedaard in de bekende straten.
Er was genoeg. Er waren altijd volle vaten.
Er waren meisjes om te zien en liefde om
te fantaseren. Er was eenzaam heldendom.
Er was een wereld waar men heen kon als men wilde.
Omdat de dagen niet meer van elkaar verschilden,
was alles morgen mogelijk. Geroezemoes
was humus voor de mooiste verzen. In de roes
van zekere en dagelijks hernomen dagen
kon ik onsterflijkheid haast proeven. Diepe lagen
verdiepten zich. De juiste vragen gonsden rond
en elke oplossing was vloeibaar. Er bestond
geen noodzaak meer dan slechts de ene taak van blijven
om zo de vrijgemaakte ruimte vol te schrijven.
Prinsheerlijk was ik pimpelend de vredesvorst
van mijn gedachten, pilspaus en profeet van dorst
die met het lessen kwam en zich tot gestileerde
en elegante levenshouding sublimeerde.
En onder dronken sterren die slechts eenmaal jong
zijn konden, toog ik vol en leeg met droge tong
naar dromeloos verslapen ochtenden in zeilen
van mijn vervuilde schip. Het was een groot verwijlen
in gratis tijd. Het was een glunderend corvee.
Ik zong in rammelende ketens als de zee.
68
When I was still young and my life still complete,
to a brown-tinted, timeless deferral depleted,
as from the edge of an ashtray I stared at the sight
of duties, impediments coming to light
in panicky, practical biking through rain
that bypassed all happiness, my claim to fame
was to be loved by barmaids till closing time. Lost
in blank, empty pages of evenings that toasted
eternity I read the world and the glass that I wielded
was never the last, as the sour foam healed
me of objections and myself. There were friends of a sort
whom with loyal disposition I earned, so I thought,
and I always had time for them, for time, as it brewed,
sang in the barrels like the yeast of solitude.
They often came and went in shifts. And any
continuity I had was piecemealed out. The many
velvet hours, which I, nonetheless, filled alone
with emptiness, whereby each empty glass, each one,
I had refilled with gold-yellow time, I spent
solely on staying and I was content,
mundane and mild. I resided like a prince,
proud of my thirstless capacity for drink.
It was in these idle hours of conclusion,
while the world was struggling with headwind, confusion
and agendas and my self-made fog of smoke
and alcohol that covered me like a cloak
drew me back from the day, when I slowed my gestures,
sipping, savouring the years, the very best of
which I burned in style, was familiar with freedom
and with destiny and my future was decreed,
that I began to write on this aching void
and what I wrote was craving, made-up bodies, I enjoyed
the dream of a waitress whose presence was persistent,
longing for a dull and regular existence,
the necessity and nobility of solitary drinking
and writing and the sacrifice that demands of sinking
into dissolute denial, which is a poet's quirk.
I drank because I wrote, that was the burden of my work,
or so I thought, though actually it was the other way
around. I wrote because I drank. I organised my days
to fit the measure of my thirst. It was my alibi
for sitting. What I wrote, I wrote in time
to the opening and closing of my two favourite dives.
My existence came to mean avoiding really being alive
and so all was good. Softly, seasons slipped right
by me. The lights of the city by night
languorously repeated in the familiar streets.
There was enough. The kegs were always replete.
There were girls to see and love to be found in fantasy.
There was lonely heroism, lonely as can be.
There was a world that you could go to if you wished.
Because now, between the days, there was no longer any difference,
anything was possible tomorrow. Murmurs vague
were humus for the loveliest of verses. In the haze
of certain and daily reconstituted days
I could almost taste immortality. Deep layers
deepened. The right questions buzzed around
and every solution was fluid. So I found
no tasks were longer necessary save the one
of filling up the emptied space with words till it was done.
Guzzling gloriously, messiah of my thoughts
I was pils pope, lager lord and prophet of drought
who came, thirst quenching, and transmuted quietly
to a stylised, elegant life philosophy.
And under drunken stars that once only could be young
I set off both full and empty, with an arid tongue
for dreamlessly overslept mornings in sails
from my grubby ship. It was an extended stay
in gratuitous time. The boring chore was bliss to me.
I sang in rattling chains like the sea.
68
When I was still young and my life still complete,
to a brown-tinted, timeless deferral depleted,
as from the edge of an ashtray I stared at the sight
of duties, impediments coming to light
in panicky, practical biking through rain
that bypassed all happiness, my claim to fame
was to be loved by barmaids till closing time. Lost
in blank, empty pages of evenings that toasted
eternity I read the world and the glass that I wielded
was never the last, as the sour foam healed
me of objections and myself. There were friends of a sort
whom with loyal disposition I earned, so I thought,
and I always had time for them, for time, as it brewed,
sang in the barrels like the yeast of solitude.
They often came and went in shifts. And any
continuity I had was piecemealed out. The many
velvet hours, which I, nonetheless, filled alone
with emptiness, whereby each empty glass, each one,
I had refilled with gold-yellow time, I spent
solely on staying and I was content,
mundane and mild. I resided like a prince,
proud of my thirstless capacity for drink.
It was in these idle hours of conclusion,
while the world was struggling with headwind, confusion
and agendas and my self-made fog of smoke
and alcohol that covered me like a cloak
drew me back from the day, when I slowed my gestures,
sipping, savouring the years, the very best of
which I burned in style, was familiar with freedom
and with destiny and my future was decreed,
that I began to write on this aching void
and what I wrote was craving, made-up bodies, I enjoyed
the dream of a waitress whose presence was persistent,
longing for a dull and regular existence,
the necessity and nobility of solitary drinking
and writing and the sacrifice that demands of sinking
into dissolute denial, which is a poet's quirk.
I drank because I wrote, that was the burden of my work,
or so I thought, though actually it was the other way
around. I wrote because I drank. I organised my days
to fit the measure of my thirst. It was my alibi
for sitting. What I wrote, I wrote in time
to the opening and closing of my two favourite dives.
My existence came to mean avoiding really being alive
and so all was good. Softly, seasons slipped right
by me. The lights of the city by night
languorously repeated in the familiar streets.
There was enough. The kegs were always replete.
There were girls to see and love to be found in fantasy.
There was lonely heroism, lonely as can be.
There was a world that you could go to if you wished.
Because now, between the days, there was no longer any difference,
anything was possible tomorrow. Murmurs vague
were humus for the loveliest of verses. In the haze
of certain and daily reconstituted days
I could almost taste immortality. Deep layers
deepened. The right questions buzzed around
and every solution was fluid. So I found
no tasks were longer necessary save the one
of filling up the emptied space with words till it was done.
Guzzling gloriously, messiah of my thoughts
I was pils pope, lager lord and prophet of drought
who came, thirst quenching, and transmuted quietly
to a stylised, elegant life philosophy.
And under drunken stars that once only could be young
I set off both full and empty, with an arid tongue
for dreamlessly overslept mornings in sails
from my grubby ship. It was an extended stay
in gratuitous time. The boring chore was bliss to me.
I sang in rattling chains like the sea.
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