Maurice Gilliams
WINTER AT SCHILDE
There are no mothers living on this plain;
snow’s falling and, blinder, swamps are bloating.
The silence freezes to the undergrowth,
along dark trails to glaring fields of graves.
But nowhere lullabies rustle,
no peace of winter evening songs.
The barking sound of chained wet dogs;
brown rats crowd the houses.
There, darkly, the hard bread rests,
the frugal food for the bitter days.
And every single mortal soul’s complaint
is swallowed in the sweet names of the dead.
II
The village of undeserved defeats
grows numb and cracks with childless huts.
– “In the sand of graves good friends slumber.
Yonder was their house, where shy birds sleep.”
The delusion of weeds hides frozen
in the evening-red ice of the creeks.
– “Sadness sighs devoutly and between the sheets.
Dreamed gunfire thunders in crumbling homes.”
The dying pain each year of all the grass
weighs down holy on the sour meadows’ quiet.
– “Soon the graveyard wall will burst. The iron
cross corrodes on the steeple of desertedness.”
From: The Bottle at Sea: Complete poems and Journal Fragments
Publisher: Green Integer, Los Angeles, 2006
WINTER TE SCHILDE
WINTER TE SCHILDE
Het is een vlakte waar geen moeders wonen;
het sneeuwt, en blinder zwellen de moerassen.
De stilte vriest aan ’t warhout der gewassen,
langs donkre paden naar helle kerkhoven.
Maar wiegeliederen hoort men nergens ruisen,
geen winteravondzangen brengen vrede.
De natte honden bassen aan hun keten;
de bruine ratten dringen in de huizen.
Daar rusten, donker-weg, de ronde broden,
het karig voedsel voor de bittre dagen.
En alles wat een mensenziel kan klagen
verkropt zij in der doden zoete namen.
II
Het dorp der onverdiende nederlagen
verkleumt en kraakt met hutten zonder kindren.
– “In ’t zand der graven sluimren goede vrienden.
Ginds lag hun woon, waar schuwe vogels slapen.”
Het waanbeeld van de wieren schuilt bevroren
in ’t avondrode ijs der heidebeken.
– “De weemoed zucht in bedden en gebeden.
Gedroomd geweervuur knalt in kalve hoven.”
De stervenspijn van jaarlijks zoveel kruiden
weegt heilig op de rust der zure weiden.
– “Straks barst de kerkhofmuur. Het kruis van ijzer
roest op de torenspits der eenzaamheid.”
From: Verzamelde gedichten
Publisher: Meulenhoff, Amsterdam
WINTER AT SCHILDE
There are no mothers living on this plain;
snow’s falling and, blinder, swamps are bloating.
The silence freezes to the undergrowth,
along dark trails to glaring fields of graves.
But nowhere lullabies rustle,
no peace of winter evening songs.
The barking sound of chained wet dogs;
brown rats crowd the houses.
There, darkly, the hard bread rests,
the frugal food for the bitter days.
And every single mortal soul’s complaint
is swallowed in the sweet names of the dead.
II
The village of undeserved defeats
grows numb and cracks with childless huts.
– “In the sand of graves good friends slumber.
Yonder was their house, where shy birds sleep.”
The delusion of weeds hides frozen
in the evening-red ice of the creeks.
– “Sadness sighs devoutly and between the sheets.
Dreamed gunfire thunders in crumbling homes.”
The dying pain each year of all the grass
weighs down holy on the sour meadows’ quiet.
– “Soon the graveyard wall will burst. The iron
cross corrodes on the steeple of desertedness.”
From: The Bottle at Sea: Complete poems and Journal Fragments
Publisher: 2006, Green Integer, Los Angeles
WINTER AT SCHILDE
There are no mothers living on this plain;
snow’s falling and, blinder, swamps are bloating.
The silence freezes to the undergrowth,
along dark trails to glaring fields of graves.
But nowhere lullabies rustle,
no peace of winter evening songs.
The barking sound of chained wet dogs;
brown rats crowd the houses.
There, darkly, the hard bread rests,
the frugal food for the bitter days.
And every single mortal soul’s complaint
is swallowed in the sweet names of the dead.
II
The village of undeserved defeats
grows numb and cracks with childless huts.
– “In the sand of graves good friends slumber.
Yonder was their house, where shy birds sleep.”
The delusion of weeds hides frozen
in the evening-red ice of the creeks.
– “Sadness sighs devoutly and between the sheets.
Dreamed gunfire thunders in crumbling homes.”
The dying pain each year of all the grass
weighs down holy on the sour meadows’ quiet.
– “Soon the graveyard wall will burst. The iron
cross corrodes on the steeple of desertedness.”
From: The Bottle at Sea: Complete poems and Journal Fragments
Publisher: 2006, Green Integer, Los Angeles
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