Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Hugo Claus

POET

Autumn. Listen. Crackling. Can you hear that heavy rattling?
It draws near in our clothes, in our hair.
Lice of sound. What is this leprous mumbling?
Child, it’s the poets outside, their teeth chattering.

The closer the poets get to their moment of dying
The more furiously they groan for the stars.
In the morning mist in which their images melt
The poets freeze in a recognisable jacket.

Hear how feverishly they explain their imminent demise
For their death rattle has to be transparent,
Cause their widow readers to sob.

‘Oh, our ego was too obscure!’ they complain.
‘Time required that, polyinterpretable like us!’
And look, they crawl out the swathes of their souls,
Their mouths full of rissoles and prayers for mercy
For their prostates, their plagiaries.

Oh close to death the poets suddenly discover
The calming miracles of gods, aphorisms,
Aspirins, caresses. For the first time their love
Can read something of her love with her lips.

And before the poets, loose winter apples
Rejected by the pickers because undersize
Finally also fall in November
They want to fall for ever comprehensible to the
neighbours. In milkman language, bruised fruit.

They continue to listen bitterly to the crumpling
Of the newspaper than keeps on spelling their name wrong
And they do their crosswords
Full of anecdotes, fear and stumbling loves.

But too late, too deaf, the poets realise
That what was obscure and obtuse in their verses
Does not become clearer by wear, by duration,
But that it goes on decaying. Their house, their word,
The equator, the azure remain unfathomable.
Their surly dark remains as volatile as money
And as vulgar as death.

‘But, by the way, yourself? Yes, you! Did you not revere
Fission, ferment rather than the monument?
Also seek an epitaph in each motet?
Wring an emblem out of each injury?
Find your dented ego in each plate of thymus?’

– ‘Oh yes. Still upright I dream of the literal.
For sure. Until the end those worries, roses.
Paradises, radishes, dried-out likenesses. With
To this sheet of paper these corpses of letters.’

Adieu the poets write all life long
And greying like lavender in November
They continue – gangrene and jest and puzzle –to
pitifully beg for sympathy,
As I for the wear and tear on my ears and eyes
That loved you, love you.

Dichter

Dichter

Herfst. Hoor. Geknetter. Hoor je dat zwaar geratel?
Het nadert in onze kleren, in onze haren.
Luizen van geluid. Wat is dit melaats geprevel?
Kind, het zijn de dichters buiten die klappertanden.

Hoe dichter de dichters bij hun sterven geraken
Des te grimmiger kermen zij naar de sterren.
In de ochtendmist waarin hun beelden smelten  
Bevriezen de dichters in een herkenbaar colbert.

Hoor hoe koortsig zij hun naderend vergaan verklaren  
Want hun laatste gereutel moet doorzichtig zijn,
Hun weduwen van lezers doen snikken.

‘O, ons ego was te duister!’ klagen zij.
‘Dat vroeg de tijd, polyinterpretabel als wij!’
En kijk, zij kruipen uit de windsels van hun ziel,
De mond vol kroket en gebed om genade
Voor hun prostaat, hun plagiaat.

Ei op sterven na ontdekken de dichters plots
De bedarende mirakels van goden, aforismen,  
Aspirines, tederheden. Voor het eerst kan hun lief
Iets van haar lief met haar lippen lezen.

En voordat de dichters, loze winterappels
Daar de plukkers als ondermaats versmaad  
Uiteindelijk ook vallen in november
Willen zij voor eeuwig voor de buren verstaanbaar  
Vallen. In melkboerentaal, als ooft natuurlijk beurs.

Zij blijven bitter luisteren naar het gefrommel
Van de krant die hun naam verkeerd blijft spellen  
En zij vullen hun kruiswoordraadsels in
Vol anekdotes, angst en struikelende liefdes.

Maar te laat, te doof worden de dichters gewaar  
Dat wat duister en bot was in hun verzen
Niet lichter wordt door sleet, door de duur,
Maar dat het blijft bederven. Ondoorgrondelijk  
Blijven hun huis, hun woord, de evenaar, het azuur.  
Hun stuurse donkerte blijft gemeen als geld
En als de dood zo vluchtig.

‘Maar apropos, jij zelf? Ja, jij! Vereerde jij ook niet
De splitsing, de gisting eerder dan het monument?
Zocht jij ook niet in elk motet een epitaaf?  
Wrong jij niet een embleem uit elk letsel?  
Vond jij je geblutste ik niet in elk bord zwezerik?’

–  ‘Jawel. Nog overeind droom ik van het letterlijke.
Zeker. Tot het einde toe die muizenissen, rozen,
Paradijzen, radijzen, voze gelijkenissen. Met  
Tot op dit papier deze lijken van letters.’

Adieu schrijven de dichters een leven lang
En vergrijzend als lavendel in november  
Blijven zij, gangreen en grap en raadsel,  
Erbarmelijk bedelen om mededogen,
Zoals ik voor de sleet op mijn oren en ogen  
Die jou beminden, beminnen.
Close

POET

Autumn. Listen. Crackling. Can you hear that heavy rattling?
It draws near in our clothes, in our hair.
Lice of sound. What is this leprous mumbling?
Child, it’s the poets outside, their teeth chattering.

The closer the poets get to their moment of dying
The more furiously they groan for the stars.
In the morning mist in which their images melt
The poets freeze in a recognisable jacket.

Hear how feverishly they explain their imminent demise
For their death rattle has to be transparent,
Cause their widow readers to sob.

‘Oh, our ego was too obscure!’ they complain.
‘Time required that, polyinterpretable like us!’
And look, they crawl out the swathes of their souls,
Their mouths full of rissoles and prayers for mercy
For their prostates, their plagiaries.

Oh close to death the poets suddenly discover
The calming miracles of gods, aphorisms,
Aspirins, caresses. For the first time their love
Can read something of her love with her lips.

And before the poets, loose winter apples
Rejected by the pickers because undersize
Finally also fall in November
They want to fall for ever comprehensible to the
neighbours. In milkman language, bruised fruit.

They continue to listen bitterly to the crumpling
Of the newspaper than keeps on spelling their name wrong
And they do their crosswords
Full of anecdotes, fear and stumbling loves.

But too late, too deaf, the poets realise
That what was obscure and obtuse in their verses
Does not become clearer by wear, by duration,
But that it goes on decaying. Their house, their word,
The equator, the azure remain unfathomable.
Their surly dark remains as volatile as money
And as vulgar as death.

‘But, by the way, yourself? Yes, you! Did you not revere
Fission, ferment rather than the monument?
Also seek an epitaph in each motet?
Wring an emblem out of each injury?
Find your dented ego in each plate of thymus?’

– ‘Oh yes. Still upright I dream of the literal.
For sure. Until the end those worries, roses.
Paradises, radishes, dried-out likenesses. With
To this sheet of paper these corpses of letters.’

Adieu the poets write all life long
And greying like lavender in November
They continue – gangrene and jest and puzzle –to
pitifully beg for sympathy,
As I for the wear and tear on my ears and eyes
That loved you, love you.

POET

Autumn. Listen. Crackling. Can you hear that heavy rattling?
It draws near in our clothes, in our hair.
Lice of sound. What is this leprous mumbling?
Child, it’s the poets outside, their teeth chattering.

The closer the poets get to their moment of dying
The more furiously they groan for the stars.
In the morning mist in which their images melt
The poets freeze in a recognisable jacket.

Hear how feverishly they explain their imminent demise
For their death rattle has to be transparent,
Cause their widow readers to sob.

‘Oh, our ego was too obscure!’ they complain.
‘Time required that, polyinterpretable like us!’
And look, they crawl out the swathes of their souls,
Their mouths full of rissoles and prayers for mercy
For their prostates, their plagiaries.

Oh close to death the poets suddenly discover
The calming miracles of gods, aphorisms,
Aspirins, caresses. For the first time their love
Can read something of her love with her lips.

And before the poets, loose winter apples
Rejected by the pickers because undersize
Finally also fall in November
They want to fall for ever comprehensible to the
neighbours. In milkman language, bruised fruit.

They continue to listen bitterly to the crumpling
Of the newspaper than keeps on spelling their name wrong
And they do their crosswords
Full of anecdotes, fear and stumbling loves.

But too late, too deaf, the poets realise
That what was obscure and obtuse in their verses
Does not become clearer by wear, by duration,
But that it goes on decaying. Their house, their word,
The equator, the azure remain unfathomable.
Their surly dark remains as volatile as money
And as vulgar as death.

‘But, by the way, yourself? Yes, you! Did you not revere
Fission, ferment rather than the monument?
Also seek an epitaph in each motet?
Wring an emblem out of each injury?
Find your dented ego in each plate of thymus?’

– ‘Oh yes. Still upright I dream of the literal.
For sure. Until the end those worries, roses.
Paradises, radishes, dried-out likenesses. With
To this sheet of paper these corpses of letters.’

Adieu the poets write all life long
And greying like lavender in November
They continue – gangrene and jest and puzzle –to
pitifully beg for sympathy,
As I for the wear and tear on my ears and eyes
That loved you, love you.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère