Untitled

Vol. VI-2 / November 2015
’t schrijverke
1
Colofon/Colophon
WHIRLIGIG / Volume VI-2, November 2015.
ISSN: 2210-4593
Redactie/Editors
Max Verhart, Klaus-Dieter Wirth, Norman Darlington en/and Marlène Buitelaar.
Copyright en overname/Copyright and reproduction
* Het copyright van teksten, foto's en vertalingen berust bij de auteurs en vertalers.
Zonder schriftelijke toestemming van auteur en/of vertaler is geen overname
toegestaan.
* Copyright of texts, photographs and translations remains with the authors and
translators. No reproduction is allowed without written consent by the author
and/or translator.
Uitgever/Publisher Whirligig
p.a. Max Verhart
Kwartierenlaan 204
NL-5235 JE Den Bosch
Netherlands
[email protected]
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Inhoud/Content
Van de redactie: laatste nummer
Editorial: final issue
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5
Klaus-Dieter Wirth: Dichters/Poets
ðurña Vukelić-Rožić
Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe
Juan Carlos Moreno Plaza
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11
15
Norman Darlington: Haibun
Debris/Rommel
Mothers/Moeders
Getting there/Er naar toe
Pecking Order/Pikorde
22-23
24-25
26-27
28-29
Regio/Region
De geur van haiku/The Scent of Haiku
32-39
Max Verhart: Haibun
To be where you are
The Tat Twam Asi Feeling
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67
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Van de redactie
Laatste nummer
Inderdaad: dit is het laatste nummer van Whirligig. Na zes jaar en twaalf nummers
valt het doek.
Het was een makkelijk besluit, want de reden is simpel. Whirligig is het
resultaat van aan de ene kant ambitie en aan de andere kant belasting. En zo lang
de ambitie groter is dan de belasting, is die belasting bijzaak. En dat was tot dit jaar
steeds het geval. Maar sedert dit jaar wordt de belasting zwaarder ervaren dan de
ambitie. Je kan het ook anders zeggen: interesse in en promotie van haiku hebben
onder de zaken die mij bezighouden ingeboet aan prioriteit. Andere zaken hebben
nu de voorkeur en krijgen voorrang. Zo simpel is het.
Maar het was óók een moeilijk besluit, want het tijdschrift was en is mij dierbaar. En wat minstens zo belangrijk is: het kreeg veel waardering. De lezerskring
was niet groot, de oplage was doorgaans 120 exemplaren, maar tot de lezers
behoorden toonaangevende haikudichters uit binnen- en buitenland: een kwantitatief beperkte, maar kwalitatief zeer hoogstaande lezerskring. Het was geen uitzondering om van die lezers te horen hoezeer het laatste nmmer weer in de smaak
was gevallen. En dan toch stoppen? Ja, dat maakt zo’n beslissing ongemeen lastig.
Omdat dit nummer het laatste is, is besloten om het ook een heel ander
karakter te geven. Ieder van de vier redactieleden heeft de ruimte gekregen voor
een eigen inbreng. Het resultaat is in elk geval toch ook weer een gevarieerde
inhoud. We hopen van harte dat dit nummer, ondanks het andere karakter, toch
ook weer in de smaak mag vallen van onze abonnees.
Dank aan Marlène Buitelaar, Norman Darlington en Klaus-Dieter Wirth, de
andere redactieleden, wier bijdragen, commentaren en correcties Whirligig ver
hebben uitgetild boven de kwaliteit en het niveau dat het blad zonder hen zou
hebben gehad. En misschien meer nog voor het gevoel van kameraadschap waarin
werd samengewerkt.
Dank vooral ook aan alle abonnees voor hun interesse en trouw. Maar die
vinden vast wel weer andere bestemmingen.
Zorg goed voor jezelf en je prioriteiten.
Max Verhart
hoofdredacteur
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Editorial
Final issue
Yes indeed: this is the final Whirligig issue. After six years and twelve issues the
curtain comes down.
It was an easy decision, because there is a simple reason. Whirligig is the result
of ambition on the one hand and burden on the other. And for as long as the
ambition is bigger than the burden, that burden is of secondary importance. Which
has been the case until this year. But since this year the burden seems to be carrying
more weight than the ambition. You can also put it differently: interest in and
promotion of haiku have lost priority among the things that occupy my mind.
Other matters are now preferred and are getting priority.
But it also was a hard decision, for the journal was and is very dear to me.
And what is at least as important: it received a lot of appreciation. The number of
subscribers was not big, the circulation was usually 120 copies, but among those
readers were some of the most prominent haiku poets from home and abroad. It
was no exception for readers to let us know how much they had appreciated the
latest issue. And yet stop the thing? Yes, that’s what makes a decision like this
extremely hard.
Since this issue is the last, it was decided to let it have quite a different
character. Each of the four editors was given room for a personal contribution. The
result is anyway once more a varied content. We sincerely hope that this issue,
notwithstanding its different character, may meet the appreciation of our
subscribers.
Thanks to Marlène Buitelaar, Norman Darlington and Klaus-Dieter Wirth, the
other editors, whose contributions, comments and corrections have lifted Whirligig
far beyond the quality and the level that the journal would have had without them.
And maybe even more for the feeling of camaraderie in which the four of us
cooperated!
Thanks to all subscribers for their interest and loyalty. But those will certainly
find other destinations.
Take care of yourself and your priorities.
Max Verhart
editor in chief
5
A Croatian Haiku Poet
ðurña Vukelić-Rožić
ðurña was born in 1956 and lives in Ivanić Grad. Besides haiku, senryû, tanka,
haibun and haiga, she publishes humorous sketches, poetry (in Croatian and in
Kajkavian dialect), short stories and aphorisms. Moreover she is the founder and
editor of several haiku journals, especially IRIS, and launched a comprehensive
anthology of Croatian haiku poetry (1996-2007) entitled An Unmown Sky. Additionally, she is the organizer of the Kloštar Ivanić haiku meetings, and has constantly
worked as a translator of a number of haiku collections and miscellanies into
English. Her own works have been published in her country and abroad since 1992.
Furthermore, she is a member of The World Haiku Association (Japan), the United
Haiku and Tanka Society (USA), and a secretary of the Three Rivers Haiku Association in Ivanić Grad. ðurña has received numerous awards , e.g. in 2010 a Diploma
of the Romanian Haiku Society “for recognition and encouragement of international standards of excellence in haiku“, and is considered one of the European Top
Hundred Most Creative Haiku Authors (by personal choice of Krzysztof Kokot,
Poland).
ðurña is geboren in 1956 en woont in Ivanić Grad. Naast haiku, senryû, tanka,
haibun en haigu publiceert ze ook humoristische schetsen, poëzie (in het Kroatisch
en Kajkaviaans dialect), korte verhalen en aforismen. Bovendien is ze oprichter en
redacteur van verschillende haikutijdschriften, in het bijzonder IRIS, en bracht ze
een omvangrijke bloemlezing uit van Kroatische haiku dichtkunst (1996-2007)
onder de titel An Unmown Sky (Een ongemaaide hemel). Verder organiseert ze de
Kloštar Ivanić haiku bijeenkomsten en heeft ze voortdurend gewerkt als vertaler in
het Engels van een aantal haikubundels en andere werken. Haar eigen werk werd
in eigen land en daarbuiten gepubliceerd sinds 1992 Verder is ze lid van de World
Haiku Association (Japan), de United Haiku and Tanka Society (USA) en secretaris
van de Haikuvereniging Drie stromen in Ivanić Grad. ðurña won talloze prijzen,
zoals in 2010 een diploma van de Roemeense Haiku Vereniging “uit erkenning en
ter aanmoediging van internationale maatstaven voor kwaliteit in haiku” en wordt
ze beschouwd als een van de Europese Top Honderd Meest Creatieve Haikudichters (naar de persoonlijke keuze van Krzysztof Kokot, Polen).
6
roadside puddle—
a stray dog licks
its tongue
straatplas—
een zwerfhond likt aan
zijn tong
ripe pomegranate …
I take the setting sun
for a walk
rijpe granaatappel …
ik neem de avondzon mee
uit wandelen
heavy load—
a donkey carries the sky, too
in its eyes
zware last—
een ezel torst ook de hemel
in zijn ogen
so many stars …
and all of them
chirping
zoveel sterren …
en allemaal
tjirpen ze
deaf night—
no village dogs
until I reach it
dove nacht—
geen enkele dorpshond
tot ik nabij kom
bitter morning
a path puddle broken
into bits
koude ochtend
de plas op het pad
ligt in scherven
long street—
a sparrow headquarters
at no. 7 hedge
lange straat—
een mus heeft zijn hoofdkwartier
op nr. 7 heg
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road accident—
a fireman rinses a rainbow
off the asphalt
verkeersongeluk—
de brandweer spuit een regenboog
van het asfalt
a moth
strolls the piano keys—
silent music
een mot loopt
over de pianotoetsen—
ongehoorde muziek
morning dew—
a cow's tongue gathers
bits of sunlight
ochtenddauw—
een koeientong plukt
beetjes zonlicht
through the harp
of a bare weeping willow
fingers of the wind
door de harp
van een kale treurwlg
windvingers
shopping mall—
the moth and I opt for
a wool sweater
winkelcentrum—
de mot en ik gaan voor
een wollen terui
fishing with my father—
an empty bucket full of
unforgetfulness
vissen met vader—
een lege emmer vol
onvergetelijkheid
whole day
a yellow tulip
inhaling the sun
heel de dag
een gele tulp
die zon ademt
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sleepless night—
by pressing the switch, I put out
the full moon's light
slapeloze nacht—
met de schakelaar doe ik
het vollemaanslicht uit
open window
a cigarette catching
some fresh air
open venster
een sigaret schept
een luchtje
by the stove
phone on her shoulder,
cooking gossip
bij het fornuis
telefoon op haar schouder
praatjes stoven
siesta—
in the cobweb
a still fly
middagdutje—
in het spinnenweb
een roerloze vlieg
granny's drawers
coffins
of memories
oma’s laden
doodskisten
met herinneringen
dead end street—
two dogs wait for
the postman's return
doodlopende straat—
twee honden wachten tot
de postbode terug komt
in the park—
the wind whistling
after a young woman
in het park—
de wind fluit
een jonge vrouw na
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heads in the grass
four cows at a free
village concert
koppen in het gras
vier koeien bij een gratis
dorpsconcert
hole in the fence—
a boy counts
piglets
gat in het hek—
een jongen telt
biggetjes
the first grandson—
helping him to count the dots
on our Dalmatian
het eerste kleinkind—
samen de vlekken tellen
van onze dalmatiër
dying
he calls the name of his
brand new yacht
stervend
noemt hij de naam van
zijn gloednieuwe jacht
a young widow
now walking
an expensive dog
een jonge weduwe
ze laat nu
een heel dure hond uit
letter from the bank
offering e-banking to
a dead man
brief van de bank
die e-bankieren aanbiedt
aan een overledene
a woman
in front of the jewelry shop
adjusting her hair
een vrouw
die voor de juwelierszaak
haar haar fatsoeneert
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A Romanian Haiku Poet
Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe
Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe was born in 1956 in Prahova, Romania. She is a member of
the Romanian Haiku Society Bucharest, the Haiku Society Constanza (Romania),
the AFH (Francophone Haiku Association, France), and the WHA (World Haiku
Association, Japan). Apart from Romania her haiku have been published in anthologies in Japan, France, Italy, Hungary, Germany, and in the haiku magazines
Albatros (Romania), ¡Ploc! (France), Asahi Shimbun – International Herald Tribune
(Japan). The following examples are drawn from her trilingual book Florile Vântului
– The Flowers of the Wind – Les fleurs du vent. Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe's haiku are
particularly characterized by her special affinity with nature, her sensitivity and
ability for empathy. They are written in a language straightforward and easily
comprehensible but not without poetical skill.
Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe is geboren in 1956 in Prahova, Roemenië. Ze is lid van de
Roemeense Haiku Vereniging Bukarest, de Haikuvereniging Constanza
(Roemenië), de Association Française de Haiku (Franse Haikuvereniging, Frankrijk)
en de World Haiku Association (Japan). Behalve in Roemenië zijn haar haiku's
gepubliceerd in bloemlezingen in Japan, Frankrijk, Italië, Hongarije en Duitsland en
in de haikutijdschriften Albatros (Roemenië), ¡Ploc! (Frankrijk) en Asahi Shimbun –
International Herald Tribune (Japan). Onderstaande voorbeelden zijn gekozen uit
haar drietalige bundel Florile Vântului – The Flowers of the Wind – Les fleurs du vent
(Bloemen van de wind). De haiku's van Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe worden in het
bijzonder gekenmerkt door haar speciale verwantschap met de natuur en haar
empatische gevoeligheid en vermogen. Ze zijn geschreven in onomwonden en
makkelijk te begrijpen taal, maar zeker niet zonder dichterlijke vaardigheid.
The wind swings
bells of snowdrops—
the white of silence
De wind laat
de sneeuwklokjes luiden—
een witte stilte
With my shadow I touch
the shadow of a snowdrop—
firs dripping
Mijn schaduw beroert
de schaduw van een sneeuwklokje—
druppende sparren
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I hear in the night
the forest burgeoning—
whisper of silence
‘s Nachts hoor ik
het bos uitbotten—
de stilte fluistert
On the fresh grass
the dance of cherry blossoms—
the shadow of the wind
Op het frisse gras
de dans van kersenbloesems—
de schaduw van de wind
Flowing purple
of plum trees in bloom—
bees in the air
Het paarse vloeien
van pruimenbomen in bloei—
bijen in de lucht
The way of the wind
only known by them—
the swallows
Wat de wind beweegt
is slechts door hen geweten—
de zwaluwen
Full of seeds,
I keep in the cup of my hand
a garden of flowers
Vol zaden,
in de kom van mijn handen
een bloementuin
Ding, dong, ding, dong, ding—
the morning glories open,
giving peace
Ding, dong, ding, dong, ding—
de windeklokjes gaan open,
vrede brengend
The two of us—and the wind
undulating the colours
of the anemones
Wij tweeën—en de wind
laten de kleuren golven
van de anemonen
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The scent of lime
takes the shape of your body,
passing through the night
De lindegeur
neemt jouw gestalte aan,
voorbijgaand in de nacht
Among the wild flowers
a four-leaf clover—
to pick it? to let it?
Tussen de wilde bloemen
een klavertje-vier—
plukken? laten staan?
Petals rustling—
butterfly arrows in the field
stolen by the wind
Bloemblaadjes ritselen—
vlinderpijlen op het veld
geroofd door de wind
The sun is melting
in the field with poppies—
not a breath
De zon smelt weg
in het veld klaprozen—
geen zuchtje
Murmur of stars
close to silence,
captive in dew
Gemurmel van sterren
op het doodstille af,
geketend in dauw
Waves of silver—
twin moon broken
on the desert shore
Zilveren golven—
de tweelingmaan in stukken
op het woestijnstrand
Caught in a waterfall,
the murmur of spring
resounds in mountains
Gevangen in een waterval,
het gemurmel van de lente
weerkaatst op bergen
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They spread fragrance
barely touching them—
the chrysanthemums
Ze laten geur los
al raak je ze amper aan—
de chrysanten
The darkness
among the first flakes of snow—
old lace of time
Het duister tussen
de eerste sneeuwvlokken—
oude kant van tijd
Snow storm—
the rustling of snowflakes
in the silence of the night
Sneeuwstorm—
het geruis van sneeuwvlokken
in de nachtstilte
The steam of the tea
takes the shape of your hand—
whistling snowstorm
De damp van de thee
krijgt de vorm van je hand—
huilende sneeuwstorm
Ephemeral flowers
given by the frost of winter—
fragile stained glass
Vluchtige bloemen
door de wintervorst bezorgd—
breekbaar gebrandschilderd glas
Only one freesia—
alone with the fragrance
and my sadness
Eén fresia slechts—
alleen met de geur
en mijn droefenis
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A Spanish Haiku Poet
Juan Carlos Moreno Plaza
Juan Carlos was born in Albacete in 1969. Though he started writing haiku only in
2010, his first publication El sonido del agua (The sound of water) has already met
with wide acclaim, perhaps because it presented quite a fresh voice in a rather
traditionally structured environment. Surprising again that the book appeared just
one year after its author had taken his first steps in this field. As an active participant in the international forum El rincón del haiku (The haiku corner) he was also
awarded by the university library of Castilla-La Mancha and in an internationally
announced competition by the law faculty of Albacete. His credo: "Haiku is a
unique opportunity to savour the unrepeatable moments we are offered by nature.
The information contained in these short Japanese lines may become as intense as
the sun breaking through fog, as penetrating as the gaze of a feral cat. The haiku
writer returns to his childhood regaining a view free from his ego and conventionalisms; he is astounded at everything that happens around him.“
Juan Carlos’ approach is strikingly down to earth, close to nature and
impressionistic, capturing moments and details one might not usually notice:
delicate Japanese glowworms.
Juan Carlos werd geboren in Albacete in 1969. Howel hij pas in 2010 haiku's begon
te schrijven, werd zijn eerste publicatie El sonido del agua (Geluid van water) al
juichend ontvangen, misschien omdat het een nogal nieuw geluid was in een min of
meer slechts traditioneel gevormde omgeving. Verrassend alweer dat het boek
verscheen nadat de auteur pas een jaar eerder dit terrein had betreden. Als actief
deelnemer aan het internationale forum El rincón del haiku (De haikuhoek) werd hij
ook bekroond door de universiteitsbibliotheek van Castilla-La Mancha en in een
internationaal uitgeroepen wedstrijd door de faculteit rechten van Albacete.
Zijn credo: "De haiku is een uitgelezen mogelijkheid om de onherhaalbare momenten te koesteren die de natuur ons biedt. De informatie in deze korte Japanse
regeltjes wordt net zo intens als de zon die door de mist breekt, zo indringend als
de blik van een wilde kat. De haikudichter wordt weer kind dat, bevrijd van ego en
gewoonte, kan kijken; hij laat zich verbazen door al wat om hem heen gebeurt."
De aanpak van Juan Carlos is opvallend onomwonden, dicht bij de natuur,
impressionistisch, en vangt momenten en details die men gewoonlijk veelal niet
opmerkt: subtiele Japanse glimwormpjes.
15
poda de sarmientos:
el humo de la hoguera
se une a las nubes
pruning of grapevines:
the smoke from the wood fire
combines with the clouds
de wingerd snoeien:
de rook van het houtvuur
gaat op in de wolken
noche fría:
ilumina el campanario
la luna llena
cold night:
iluminating the belfry
the full moon
koude nacht:
de klokkentoren in het licht
van de volle maan
río crecido:
el hielo cubre el barro
de las orillas
rising river:
ice has covered the mud
on both banks
wassende rivier:
ijs bedekt de modder
op de oevers
primera nevada:
los niños escriben
en los parabrisas
first snowfall:
children are writing
on windscreens
eerste sneeuw:
kinderen schrijven
op autoruiten
cae aguanieve:
se ennegrece la paja
de la era …
sleety rain:
the blackening straw
of the barn-floor
natte sneeuw:
het stro wordt zwart
op de schuurvloer
16
tarde de invierno:
florecen los geranios
junto al aljibe
winter afternoon:
blooming geraniums
beside the cistern
winternamiddag:
bloeiende geraniums
naast de regenput
cumbres nevadas:
el águila sobrevuela
los barbechos
snow-capped mountain tops:
an eagle's flight
over fallow land
besneeuwde toppen:
de adelaar wiekt
over braakland
amanecer:
la lluvia se une al rocío
de la retama
daybreak:
rain is joining
the broom's dew
dageraad:
regen vergezelt de dauw
op de brem
viejo olmo:
entre sus brotes brilla
la medialuna
old elm:
shining between its sprouts
the half moon
oude iep:
tussen zijn knoppen schijnt
de halve maan
en el charco
la tórtola picotea
su propio reflejo
in the puddle
a dove taking a sip
of its own reflection
in de plas
pikt de duif naar haar eigen
weerspiegeling
17
la niña se columpia:
el suelo lleno
de margaritas
little girl on a swing:
the ground full of
daisies
meisje op schommel:
de grond vol
madeliefjes
brotes de chopo:
el viejo riachuelo
vuelve a correr
poplar sprouts:
the old stream once again
bearing water
populierenknoppen:
door de oude kreek stroomt
weer eens water
escampa:
los surcos del bancal
se llenan de cielo
rain over:
the furrows of the patch
fill with sky
na de regen:
de voren op het lapje grond
staan vol hemel
riachuelo de monte:
en la punta del junco
una libélula
mountain torrent:
on the tip of the reed
a dragon-fly
bergriviertje:
bovenaan de rietstengel
een libelle
hormigas con alas:
crecen sobre el guindal
los nubarrones
winged ants:
above the morello tree
clouds growing bulky
gevleugelde mieren:
boven de zure kers
bollende wolken
18
olor a paja:
cazo saltamontes
junto a mi padre
smell of straw:
chasing grasshoppers
side by side with dad
de geur van stro:
sprinkhanen jagen
samen met vader
sobre la plaza
resuenan los chillidos
de los vencejos
across the plaza
resounding shrieks
of martins
over het plein
weerklinken de kreten
van gierzwaluwen
calor intenso:
un gorrión bebe agua
del único charco
sweltering heat:
a sparrow is drinking water
from the only puddle
schroeiende hitte:
een musje nipt water
uit de enige plas
aroma a jasmín:
al entrar al patio
el anciano sonríe
smell of jasmine:
when entering the patio
the old man's smile
jasmijngeur:
de binnenplaats opkomend
glimlacht de oude
hasta el camino llega
el frescor del maizal:
tarde de verano
up to the path
the freshness of the maize field:
summer afternoon
tot aan het pad reikt
de frisheid van het korenveld:
zomernamiddag
19
aún brilla el sol
en los ojos
del mirlo muerto
the sun still shining
in the eyes
of the dead blackbird
de zon glinstert nog
in de ogen
van de dode merel
en el cubo trae
una parte de mar
y berberechos
in a bucket
a portion of sea
and a cockle
in een emmer
een beetje zee
en een kokkel
en la mano
además de pétalos
la luz del alba
in her hand
besides petals
morning light
in haar hand
naast bloemblaadjes
ook ochtendlicht
padre e hijo
orinando
frente a la luna llena
father and son
urinating
facing the full moon
vader en zoon
waterend tegenover
de volle maan
la telaraña
une el puente de piedra
con el espliego
a cobweb
connects the stone bridge
with the lavender
het spinnenweb
verbindt de stenen brug
met de lavendel
20
atardecer:
brillan las hojas
sobre el cieno del río
evening twilight:
leaves glistening
on the river's slime
avondschemer:
bladeren glinsteren
op het rivierslijk
viento de otoño:
cae del árbol
la lluvia de anoche
autumn wind:
falling from the tree
last night's rain
herfstwind:
uit de boom druipt
de regen van vannacht
media mañana:
las hojas del plátano
caen sobre sus sombras
midmorning:
the leaves of the plane tumbling
down on their shadows
halverwege de ochtend:
de platanenbladeren vallen
op hun schaduwen
tarde de niebla:
sonido de cencerros
en el corral
foggy afternoon:
the sound of cow-bells
in the pen
mistige middag:
het geluid van koeienbellen
binnen de omheining
murmullos del río:
el musgo en los troncos
de la chopera
murmuring river:
the moss on the tree-trunks
of the poplar grove
murmelende rivier:
het mos op de stammen
van het peppelbos
21
Norman Darlington
Debris
The doorstep is a jumble of debris: clay, straw, twigs. Some moments pass before I
notice three baby house martins among the mess, a couple of days old, dead. Up
above, almost nothing is left of the nest under the eaves, where the birds rebuild
every year. No sign of the parents.
siesta—
the shattering
of a glasshouse pane
An almost imperceptible motion—one of the babies is moving. In fact all three are
making tiny slow movements, just this side of death. Picking one up, I feel a sharp
nip. When I see the beetle, another falls out of the bird's nib. Dozens of them. The
babies are being eaten alive.
Taking the birds into the bush, I end their lives as quickly as possible, and
bury them. Never have I become hardened to mercy-killing. At age eleven, I found
a sparrow filleted by a cat, still breathing. I tried to shoot it with a .22 rifle at point
blank range, but kept missing. I couldn't sleep that night. The more of this killing
you do, the less panic, the smoother the action, but no less heartache.
My three-year-old says, "Birdie house broken. Poor birdies," every day for
the last two months. Daily I explain that the martins have moved to the nest under
our neighbour's eaves, but he repeats, "Birdie house broken. Poor birdies."
Martinmas1—
so distant
the tolling of the bell
Martinmas: the feast of Saint Martin on 11 November, traditionally held to be the day when
martins migrate.
1
22
Rommel
De drempel is een warboel van rommel: klei, stro, takjes. Het duurt even voor ik
drie jonge huiszwaluwen tussen de troep opmerk, een paar dagen oud, dood. Recht
erboven is bijna niets meer over van het nest onder de dakrand, waar de vogels elk
jaar hun nest bouwen. Geen spoor van de ouders.
Siesta—
de ruit van een kas
gaat aan diggelen
Een bijna onmerkbare beweging— een van de jongen beweegt zich. In feite maken
ze alle drie minieme trage beweginkjes, nog net niet dood. Als ik er een opraap,
voel ik een scherpe beet. Dan zie ik de tor en gelijk valt er nog een uit het snaveltje.
Tientallen zijn er. De jongen worden levend opgegeten.
Ik breng de vogels naar het struikgewas, maak zo snel mogelijk een einde
aan hun leven en begraaf hen. Ik ben nooit gehard in het uit het lijden helpen. Toen
ik elf was vond ik een mus die door een kat was uitgebeend, maar nog wel ademde.
Ik probeerde hem dood te schieten met een .22 geweer van dichtbij, maar miste
steeds. Ik kon die nacht niet slapen. Hoe vaker je zo doodt, hoe minder paniek en
hoe makkelijker de daad, maar het hartzeer wordt niet minder.
Mijn driejarig kind zegt al twee maanden lang elke dag: "Vogelhuisie kapot.
Arme vogelties". Elke dag leg ik uit dat de zwaluwen nu een nest hebben onder de
dakrand van de buren, maar hij herhaalt weer: "Vogelhuisie kapot. Arme vogelties".
Sintmaarten1—
zo veraf
het luiden van de klok
1 Het feest van Sint-Maarten op 11 november wordt traditioneel beschouwd als de dag waarop
zwaluwen wegtrekken.
23
Mothers
My mother's mother was the eldest of ten children. Across half a century, I vividly
remember the glitter of her eyes and the softness of her cheek.
fairy princess
in a palace where they
mispronounce your name
Her mother was Lina Perrenoud, from Neuchâtel in Switzerland, who married my
great-grandfather in 1883 at the age of 21 (he was 37) in an Irish port. Their
marriage certificate tells us she was a 'governess' and he a 'naval schoolteacher'.
They lived out their days farming his family's land, in Ireland's northwest. What
circumstances might have conspired to bring them together?
Much as I may yearn, some things will remain forever beyond my grasp.
last month's moon—
the incandescent glow
already half forgotten
24
Moeders
De moeder van mijn moeder was de oudste van tien kinderen. Na een halve eeuw
herinner ik me nog levendig het schitteren van haar ogen en de zachtheid van haar
wang.
sprookjesprinses
in een paleis waar ze je naam
verhaspelen
Haar moeder was Lina Perrenoud uit Neuchâtel in Zwitserland, die in 1833 op 21jarige leeftijd met mijn overgrootvader trouwde (hij was 37), in een Ierse haven.
Hun trouwakte vertelt ons dat zij 'gouvernante' en hij 'onderwijzer op een
zeevaartschool' was. In hun latere jaren leefden ze van het land dat zijn familie
bezat in het noordwesten van Ierland. Welke omstandigheden zouden er hebben
samengespannen om hen tot elkaar te brengen?
Hoezeer ik ook hunker, sommige dingen zullen wel altijd ongrijpbaar
blijven.
voorbije maan—
de sprankelende gloed
alweer half vergeten
25
Getting there
Tombouctou, Timbuctoo, Ti-n Buktu, however spelt it is a figure of remoteness. In
some ways the place is now more remote than ever. The River Niger used to flow
here, that anomaly which rises so close to the ocean, yet sets an absurd course into
the depths of the Sahara desert. Nature is fickle, and as the river changed its course
over the centuries, it left Timbuktu stranded among the shifting dunes, its raison
d'être as a trading post lost forever.
I set out from Mopti in an old 4x4 flatbed. The driver is tall and very dark, a
Mandinka from Mali's forested South. He says he does the trip to Timbuktu every
week, and persuades me to pay extra to sit in the cabin with him. When we stop for
a break I see the wisdom of my decision - the dozen other passengers, an assortment of fine-featured Fulani cowherds, and pale-skinned Moors in flowing robes,
are caked in sand and dust from head to toe.
After some miles the track peters out. The driver seems confident but I see
no hint of a way, no tyre tracks, nothing. Hours later, I realise we have been driving
in a big circle. We stop and a heated argument ensues between the driver and one
passenger, each insistently pointing in opposite directions. The other passengers
look from one to the other intently but in silence.
When we set off again, the driver is less chatty. We drive on and on through
a landscape formed by the wind over the course of millennia, with rocky outcrops
sandblasted smooth, patches of mean scrub the only vegetation, and not a sign of
animal life. It seems clear that if we get lost here death is likely. The sun beats down
relentlessly and its hot breath pours in through gaps around the door.
My tension slowly ebbs with the acceptance that I have no control over my
fate. During the hours that follow, the driver's face is inscrutable, and he remains
taciturn as we bump across the trackless waste. Finally, with the sun setting behind
us, the mudbrick city walls of Timbuktu appear purple-brown on the horizon.
camels jostle
to the gush of water drawn
from deep beneath the dunes
26
Er naar toe
Tombouctou, Timbuctoo, Ti-n Buktu, hoe je het ook spelt, het blijft een iets van
Verweggistan. In sommige opzichten ligt die plaats nu zelfs verder weg dan ooit.
De Niger placht hier te stromen, die tegenstrijdigheid die zo dicht bij de oceaan
begint, maar een belachelijke loop neemt, diep de Sahara in. De natuur is grillig en
toen de rivier in de loop der eeuwen een andere bedding koos, liet hij Timbuktu
aangespoeld achter tussen de stuifduinen, zijn bestaansgrond als handelspost voor
altijd verloren.
Ik vertrek uit Mopti in een oude 4x4 dieplader. De bestuurder is lang en erg
donker, een Mandinka uit het beboste zuiden van Mali. Hij zegt dat hij de rit naar
Timboektoe wekelijks maakt en overreedt mij om tegen extra betaling bij hem in de
cabine te komen. Als we voor een pauze stoppen zie ik hoe verstandig dat was—de
ruim tien andere passagiers, een groep Fulani koeienherders met fijnbesneden
gelaatstrekken en licht gekleurde Moren in golvende gewaden, zitten van top tot
teen onder een dikke laag zand en stof .
Na een aantal kilometers wordt de weg steeds vager. De chauffeur lijkt
zelfverzekerd, maar ik zie geen spoor van een weg, geen bandensporen, niets. Uren
later besef ik dat we hebben rondgereden in een grote cirkel. We stoppen en een
verhitte discussie ontstaat tussen de bestuurder en een passagier, die elk
nadrukkelijk in tegengestelde richtingen wijzen. De andere passagiers kijken
aandachtig maar zwijgend van de een naar de ander.
Als we weer vertrekken is de bestuurder minder spraakzaam. We rijden
alsmaar verder door een landschap dat in duizenden jaren door de wind is
gevormd, met glad gezandstraalde rotspartijen, met hier en daar wat weerbarstige
struiken, zonder een spoor van dierenleven. Het is wel duidelijk dat als we hier
verdwalen de dood waarschijnlijk is. De zon brandt meedogenloos en zijn hete
adem dringt binnen door openingen rond de deur.
Mijn spanning ebt langzaam weg met het aanvaarden dat ik mijn eigen lot
niet meer in handen heb. Tijdens de uren die volgen is het gezicht van de
bestuurder ondoorgrondelijk en hij blijft zwijgen als we over het woeste, wegloze
land hobbelen. Uiteindelijk, met de ondergaande zon in de rug, verschijnen de
kleistenen stadsmuren van Timboektoe paarsbruin aan de horizon.
kamelen staan te dringen
bij water, met emmers geput
diep van onder de duinen
27
Pecking order
The river buoys me up, in a pirogue—a cutout canoe—gently punted fore and aft. It
carries me through a landscape of high dunes.
The River Niger rises in the swamps of Guinea - the White Man's Grave.
Turning its back on the Atlantic it arcs far up into the Sahara.
scented breeze—
candle wax dribbles
into the hot bath
At sunset we all disembark. On the riverbank, we cook a little rice with the catch of
the day. It is eaten from a communal bowl, with the right hand only—the left is
unclean, toilet paper an unheard-of luxury.
Someone brews up in a tiny teapot—green gunpowder tea with lots of
sugar. This produces one sweet glass, passed from mouth to mouth. As a white
man, I'm right down the pecking order with my Bororo herdsman friend, and there
is little left for us to share. Hunger is my sleeping partner.
shooting star—
spider and cockroach
wrestle by my pillow
28
Pikorde
De rivier montert me op, in een pirogue—een boomstamkano—voorin en achterin
met vaarbomen voortgeduwd. Hij voert me door een landschap met hoge duinen.
De rivier de Niger welt op in de moerassen van Guinea—het Graf van de
Blanke. Dan wendt hij zich af van de Atlantische Oceaan en buigt zich ver de
Sahara in.
geurige bries—
kaarsvet druipt
in de hete bad
Bij zonsondergang stappen we allemaal uit. Op de rivieroever koken we wat rijst
met wat we die dag hebben gevangen. We eten uit een gemeenschappelijke schaal,
met alleen de rechterhand —de linker is onrein, toiletpapier is een ongekende luxe.
Iemand brouwt iets in een kleine theepot—groene gunpowder thee1 met
veel suiker. Dit levert een glas zoet heet vocht op, dat van mond tot mond gaat. Als
blanke zit ik helemaal onderaan de pikorde met mijn vriend de Bororo herder, en er
blijft voor ons weinig te delen over. Met honger als bedgenoot breng ik de nacht
door.
vallende ster—
spin en kakkerlak
worstelen naast mijn kussen
1
Gunpowder (buskruit): soort groene thee.
29
Adrian Bouter (Netherlands)
late herfst—
in een vervallen huis
het opgezet konijn
late autumn—
in the ruins of a house
the stuffed rabbit
hoe het ook eindigt...
een stippellijn van vogels
gericht naar de zon
however it ends...
a dotted line of birds
bending to the sun
Bill Cooper (USA)
opening notes
of the brass quintet
cold slices of grapefruit
de beginnoten
van het koperblazerskwintet
koude partjes grapefruit
Carmen Sterba (USA)
Perseid shower—
tiny green apples
dot the lawn
Perseïdenzwerm—
groene appeltjes
bespikkelen het gazon
jam session
my homegrown
guitarists
jam session
mijn zelfgekweekte
guitaarspelers
30
Gary Hotham (USA)
almost midnight
snow filling the dark
around us
zowat middernacht
sneeuw vult het duister
om ons heen
under
old starlight
fireflies interpret the night
onder
oud sterrenlicht
vuurvliegjes vertolken de nacht
bronze
standing up to the cold
the war memorial
brons
dat de kou weerstaat
oorlogsmonument
Richard Stevenson (Canada)
retired—
dirt under my fingernails
at last!
pensioen—
onder mijn nagels
eindelijk vuil!
weeping birch—
such a cheerleader
in the wind
treurbeuk—
wat een cheerleader
in de wind
31
De geur van haiku
In 2008 publiceerde 't schrijverke de Nederlandstalige bundel Eerste recital, met als
ondertitel Haiku's waar music in zit, en in 2013 The Scent of Music, met als ondertitel
Haiku with a touch of music. Beiden bevatten een kleine selectie van haiku's uit de
verzameling 'muziekhaiku's' die Marlène Buitelaar in de loop van een aantal jaren
bijeen had gebracht. Bij het samenstellen en analyseren van die collectie van
duizenden haiku's, kwam ze tot een thematische driedeling. In een haiku is sprake
van muziek zonder dat muziek het (hoofd)onderwerp is (muziek als decor), of er is
sprake van andere geluiden die met muziek worden vergeleken (muziek als metafoor) of het wezen van de muziek wordt geïnterpreteerd (muziek als onderwerp).
Opvallend was nu dat naar Marlène's schatting, 95% van alle haar bekende muziekhaiku's tot een van de twee eerste categorieën behoorden en dus dat slechts 5% de
muziek zelf als onderwerp had.
Na publicatie van beide bundels richtte zij haar aandacht op wat ze noemde
'geurhaiku's'. Ook daarvan legde ze een grote verzameling aan, geput uit alle tot
haar beschikking staande haikuliteratuur (en dat waren kasten vol!). Haar intrigeerde het meest de vraag: in hoeverre slagen haikudichters erin een geursensatie
op te roepen zonder die te benoemen, zonder zelfs het woord geur of een equivalent daarvan te gebruiken? En eerlijk gezegd, dat viel niet mee. Net als bij de
'muziekhaiku's' wordt de essentie slechts in enkele procenten van de gevonden
haiku's opgeroepen. Het is meestal een kwestie van benoemen—wat overigens echt
wel geslaagde haiku's oplevert. Zoals niet alle geurhaiku's die niet benoemen maar
oproepen ijzersterke haiku's zijn.
Tot een publicatie over geurhaiku's kwam het helaas niet. Althans, tot nu toe.
Want hieronder volgt allereerst een keuze uit de haiku's waarin geur niet wordt
genoemd, maar wel gesuggereerd. En vervolgens een selectie van haiku's waarin
het woord geur of een equivalent de haiku tot 'geurhaiku' bestempelt. Uiteraard
kozen we alleen haiku's die we zelf geslaagd vinden.
Links altijd het origineel, rechts de vertaling.
The Scent of Haiku
In 2008 't schrijverke published the Dutch-language volume Eerste recital (First
Recital), subtitled Haiku waar muziek in zit (Haiku with music in them), and in 2013
32
The Scent of Music, subtitled Haiku with a touch of music. Both present a small
selection of haiku from the 'music haiku' collection Marlène Buitelaar had brought
together over several years. While compiling and analyzing that collection of
thousands of haiku, she arrived at a tripartite thematic classification. A haiku
mentions music without music being its (main) subject (music as décor), or it
mentions other sounds, which are compared to music (music as metaphor), or the
essence of music is being interpreted (music as subject). What struck Marlène was
that in her estimation 95% of all music haiku known to her belonged to one of the
two former categories and hence that only 5% had music as such for its subject.
After the publication of both volumes she switched her attention to haiku that,
so to speak, focussed on the human olfactory organ: 'scent haiku', as she named
them. Of those she also compiled a large collection, taken from all haiku literature
at her disposal (which were book chests full!). The question that intrigued her most
while doing that was this: to what extent do haiku poets manage to evoke an
olfactory sensation without naming it, without even using the word scent or an
equivalent? And to be honest: that turned out to be disappointing. Just as it was
with music haiku, only in a few percent of the collected haiku the essence of (a)
scent is evoked. Mostly it's a matter of telling, not showing—which however still
does give us succesful haiku. Just as not all scent haiku that don't name but do
evoke are cast-iron haiku.
Unfortunately a publication on scent haiku never materialized. At least, not
until now. For what follows is at first a selection of haiku, not mentioning (a) scent,
but suggesting it. And next is a selection of haiku in which the word scent or one of
its equivalents denominates the haiku as a scent haiku. Of course, we only selected
haiku that in our view qualify as succesful haiku.
On the left-hand side always the original, on the right-hand side the translation.
Hartveroverend,
Hartveroverend ben je
als kaneelkoekjes.
Entrancing.
That's what you are, entrancing
like cinammon cookies.
W.J. van der Molen
Drie hyacinthen
In één paarse plastic pot
beheersen het huis.
Three hyacinths
in a purple plastic pot
dominate the house.
Piet Schneider
33
Bij elke windvlaag
sliert het eten van hiernaast
door mijn achtertuin.
With every gust of wind
next door's meal is spread
across my garden.
Simon Buschman
Haar liefdesbriefjes
ontvangt hij per e-mail,
ongeparfumeerd.
Her love letters
he gets them by e-mail,
unperfumed.
Walter Vereertbrugghen
Na zo lange tijd
hangt tussen grauwe stenen
het zilte van toen...
After such a long time
floating between grey stones
the saltiness of the old days…
Gaby Bleijenbergh
de zuidenwind
brengt een vleugje seringen
van de buurvrouw
the southern wind
brings a whiff
of the neighbor's lilacs
Marianne Kiauta
vanuit het duister
kondigt zijn smeulende sigaar
vaders komst aan.
out of the darkness
his smouldering cigar announces
dad's arrival
Lia Barbiers
my father greeting me
at the airport
wine on his breath
op het vliegveld
begroet me mijn vader
wijn in zijn adem
Jeffrey Stillman
mint crushed
I wheel the barrow
into lavender
geplette munt
ik rij de kruiwagen
de lavendel in
Cristopher Herold
34
open window
I turn down the radio
to smell the rain
open venster
ik zet de radio zachter
om de regen te ruiken
Eve Luckring
piano practice
through an open window
the lilac
pianoles
door het open raam
de sering
Raymond Roseliep
All day
shoveling sheep manure
the mind clear at last
Heel de dag
schapenmest scheppen
eindelijk een lege geest
James Tipton
Late august
I bring him the garden
in my shirt
Eind augustus
ik bring hem de tuin
in mijn bloes
Alexis Rotella
Father's day
somewhere in the crematorium
there is a rose
Vaderdag
ergens in het crematorium
moet een roos staan
John Parsons
in from the cold
to the rumour
of hyacinths
vanuit de kou naar binnen
naar de praatjes
van hyacinten
Maureen Berry
De volgende haiku’s impliceren begrippen als
geur en ruiken niet , maar noemen ze expliciet.
The following haiku do not imply notions such as
scent and smelling, but explicitly mention them.
35
In het voorbijgaan
streel ik de rozemarijn.
Hij antwoordt met geur.
While passing
I stroke the rosemary.
It responds by scent.
Wanda Reumer
Avond in de tuin—
bij de tjempakaboom
geurt het verleden
Evening in the garden—
near the champak tree
the past scents
Gerrit Wassing
De boomgaard is kaal.
Maar de appelgeur is in
huis komen wonen.
Bare is the orchard.
But the scent of apples has come
to live in the house.
Clara Timmermans
de geur van vernis
lang na opa’s dood
zijn atelier treurt
the scent of varnish
long after grandpa’s death
his studio mourns
Geert Verbeke
met de geur van gier
ritselt de wind zich een weg
door de rijpe mais
smelling of dung
the wind rustles its way
through the ripe corn
Max Verhart
voor de zon opkomt
de geur
van de kou
before the sun rises
the scent
of the cold
Wim Lofvers
zonder reserve
en ongeremd geuren de
rozen er op los
without reserve
and uninhibited the roses
smell away
Bas van Iersel
36
Eerste lentedag—
naar de laatste winterprei
geuren mijn klompen.
First day of spring—
the last of the winter leeks
scent my clogs.
Willy Cuvelier
wakker worden
met vinkengezang—
en koffie ruiken
waking up
with the song of finches—
smelling coffee
LuCien Hostie
voor het oog zomer
maar de herfst al te ruiken
een smal niemandsland
summer to the eye
but smelling fall already
a narrow no man’s land
Inge Lievaart
never sunlit
this alley—stench
of lost hopes
nooit een zonnestraaltje
deze steeg—stank
van verloren hoop
George Swede
fragrant breeze—
one hundred year old pine
in the wood chipper
geurig briesje—
een honderd jaar oude pijnboom
in de versnipperaar
Bruce H. Feingold
a shower darkens—
in the summer bookstore
the smell of new novels
een plensbui verdonkert—
in de zomerboekhandel
geuren nieuwe romans
Burnell Lippy
Just in from the rain
my wet shaggy dog smells
like fifty dry ones!
Net binnen uit de bui
ruikt mijn ruige natte hond
als vijftig droge!
James W. Hackett
37
nose-deep
in the peonies' scent
the bee and I
neusdiep
in de geur van pioenen
de bij en ik
Carole MacRury
on the elevator
just me
and a stranger's perfume
in de lift
enkel ik en
het geurtje van een onbekende
Dorothy McLaughlin
the bonfire is out
only fumes of evening
remain
het vuurtje is uit
alleen avondgeuren
blijven hangen
Antonella Fi;ippi
old graves by starlight
footsteps release
a scent of thyme
oude graven
voetstappen verlossen
de geur van tijm
Ellen Compton
our couch
so fragrant with love
I cover it with pillows
onze sofa
zo geurrijk van de liefde
bedek ik met kussens
Andrea Grillo
map check
the dog runs about
from smell to smell
op de kaart kijken
de hond rent rond van geurtje
naar geurtje
David Cobb
candle shop—
the April sale
of discontinued scents
kaarsenwinkel—
de voorjaarsuitverkoop
van afgedankte geuren
John Stevenson
38
somewhere in the night
a petal fell
but not its fragrance
ergens in de nacht
is een bloemblaadje gevallen
maar niet zijn geur
Charles J. Scanzello
mixed in
with the instructions
her perfume
vermengd
met de aanwijzingen
haar parfum
Tom Clausen
moving again—
the dizzying smell of a
permanent marker
nog eens verhuizen—
de verwarrende geur van een
watervaste merkstift
Peter Yovu
39
40
Max Verhart
To Be Where You Are
First day
boat from Bangladesh—
roaring over the fish market bridge
line 4 to Moscow
boat hermit—
watching passers-by
watching me
‘twixt fish market and meat house
the fig droops and yellows
over the water
stopped clock
in as far as time exists
it doesn't
In the corridor under Bord'eau (the restaurant where once the fish auction was)
youngsters loiter. They talk and smoke, but you know neither subject nor
substance. They practice visual rhyme though. For one of the mural paintings in
that corridor depicts the smoking of a cigarette, either with or without some other
stuff mixed into it.
On the terrace above that corridor some shrubs in pots are sitting. Behind these
a man has taken position to stealthily take a snapshot of me. So what one does is
look that guy up there attentively in the eye for a moment.
Self-recognition: he might as well have been sitting here and it could have been
me up there.
41
Even though the clock has stopped, time is visible through the low door to the
small forecastle. For time is the bow slowly gliding back and forth against the
background of the Big Meat House’s stepped gables.
Ghent-Bang II
next to the water jug
the ladle hangs
First night
The haiku was written many years ago:
waking up
from one reality
into another
For that's the way it is: when you are dreaming, the only existing reality is the
dream.
In that reality I had been in the water. Before that a toy doll had been standing
at the window on the forecastle, looking in. Then an assailant appeared on board
and in alarm I had rung the handbell. The next moment all that was behind me and
I was on my way home, drenched to the bone, remembering that after ringing that
bell I had jumped into the water—until through that memory the shimmering
notion surfaced that I was dreaming.
When you dream you are dreaming, you’re waking up.
Rain pattered on the roof and I had to pee urgently.
That was the other reality.
Nothing to worry about.
doll’s eyes—
fear peeks in
disguised as a dream
42
Second day
wringing out the cloth—
on board it’s always
nine o'clock exactly
Early this month for a few days I hosted a guest from Romania in my house. He
teaches art and art history in his hometown, but is also internationally known as a
haiku poet and a haiga painter.
"Your living room," he said, "is so big it can contain the whole apartment
Mihaela and I live in."
The boat which now hosts me for a few days and nights has an inside surface of
about eight square meters, I am told. That, I guess, is about two-thirds of the guest
room in my apartment.
However, in many parts of the world whole families have to make do with not
much more or even less. And the meal service does not service them twice a day,
like it does here.
predecessor’s legacy
two small wads of toilet paper
night noise stoppers
A subject I thought I would have to expand upon is the dictatorship of the
economy. And the overuse of the planet. But what in the end is the latter but just
another of the countless guises in which the dictatorship of the economy presents
itself?
Nothing.
So all right, let’s talk about the dictatorship of the economy. But short. Very
short.
The philosophy of to have dominates the philosophy of to be to the extent that
the dictatorship of the economy overpowers all and everything else. And hardly
anybody seems to have any problem with it.
That short then.
It might well be afternoon by now, yet it’s still nine o’clock.
On top of the Dutch gable of the house next to the Gras bridge a blue heron
perched. Immediately he was besieged for some time by a flock of gulls, whom he
repelled with flapping wings, stretching himself high on his legs. The seagulls gave
up. And now the heron too is gone.
It’s five minutes later and still nine o’clock.
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44
two ducks
and a canal boat
so much attention
I don’t know if the boat has a name, let alone what name. But it is MADE IN
BANGLADESH, as is carved into it. As well as: MAKE BY RATAM AND SUDAM
2007. But that’s not exactly what it says, for the the M in RATAM misses its right
leg, like an I with a small V stuck to the top. RATAIV ?
You can make up stories on that.
For example about a father in the wetlands of Bangladesh, teaching his son to
build boats, like he himself was taught by his father. Of course everything goes
wrong at first, or you would have no story.
Or about two brothers, who keep hampering each other any way they can,
until...
Or about two competitors who are condemned to cooperate on the construction
of this boat. Which does not prevent one of them mutilating the name of the other...
But you might as well leave all fantasy behind and try to find out who those
shipbuilders were and exactly what happened.
And finally you can even just let it be as it is, without further pestering your
mind: RATAM AND SUDAM, with an unfinished M in the first name.
Or could that IV be a deformed N? RATAN?
MAKE BY, that undeniably is what it also says. And since it’s carved in the
wood, you can’t just erase that.
I really thought all the time that that clock had stopped at nine o'clock, but that was
a sort of mirror image perception: it was actually stuck on three o’clock. So I tried to
adapt the text to the clock. But it made something in the text squirm and I could not
put my finger on exactly what it was. So then I adapted the clock to what I had
written and put it at nine o’clock. And now that is how I want to have found it.
Wind the clock, that would have been another possibility.
come have a look
behind my eyelids
such a beautiful purple
45
The unjust distribution of wealth, perhaps that’s also an issue I should expand on?
But then: why? For there are only two kinds of people: those who know and those
who, admittedly, also know, but ...
The former don’t need to be and the latter don’t want to be convinced that
things should change.
They would have done better to put an optimist here.
What is the match between an optimist and a pessimist?
This: either one sees himself as a realist. And the other as inveterate.
In the meantime the youth club under Bord'eau is at it again. This time there’s a
thumping bass noise too. It is nine o’clock and, in this case, supposedly late in the
afternoon.
It's gotten cold and with a few interruptions rain fell all day long. As predicted,
water seeped in at the door. Yet occasionally I still stood or sat on the forecastle. To
watch and be watched.
There’s a view of two bridges over the river Leie, a stretch of street behind a tiny
park, the meat house and the quay alongside, the gallery next to Bord'eau, the
restaurant itself, the Leie and canal touring boats. And from all these directions you
can be watched—and you are being watched.
Okay, so you take the pose of someone imperturbable. Hat on, for yes, that rain.
But to suggest there’s not a grain of vanity involved ...
What else?
That heron of course.
Tourists on the bridges. For most of them Ghent is the background for the
pictures they take turns to shoot of one another.
Trams thundering by on the eastern bridge, the Small Fish Market—including
line 4 to Moscow again. Every time it sounds as if a thunderstorm is starting. But
once you get used to it, you no longer notice.
On the western bridge, the Gras Bridge, people walk or ride bicycles. No
motorized traffic there.
Maple and other leaves on the gray-green water: autumn floating by.
A young woman and a young man who, rain or no rain, were arguing for a long
time on the quay alongside the Meat House. Or rather, she was more arguing with
him than he was with her.
An elderly man, who came and sat down on a surely still wet bench on that
same quay, to smoke a cigarette and feed the pigeons.
The roofers on the house next to the Beer House, just across the Fish Market
Bridge. I could have projected my fear of heights on them, but I didn’t.
46
And all of that successively in the course of the day at nine o'clock exactly.
All in all, my slippers have become wet and my feet cold. Those slippers by the way
also begin to fall apart.
such luxury!
pretending for three days
to be poor
Under Bord'eau silence has returned.
The meal service, in the person of Ip Man, brought the message that I will have
visitors this evening. At eight o'clock. Which doesn’t mean much, for the clock on
board has no notion of a time like that.
The attendees. And their gifts.
Luc Humblet. Was the tour guide in 2010 for an international group of haiku
poets gathered in Ghent. Runs a health food store with his wife. Was boat dweller
in 2009, like I am now. Wrote a book about that. Brought a beehive shaped candle.
Griet Delanghe. Is involved, I believe, in one of the other activities that, like this
boat project, takes place under the collective title Belmundo. Gave me a book about
the poet André Demedts.
Michelle Delanghe. Sister of Griet, without further particulars. Gave me a noose.
A noose? Isn’t that offensive? No. For it memorizes a moment in Ghent’s history
and symbolizes the pride of the town.
Ip Man. Taxi skipper and project boss. Brought tea for all of us.
Max Verhart. Temporary boat dweller. Read out loud to the others some of his
own work, written on board.
tired tongues
the guests leave
the warmth lingers
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48
Second night
No dream has permeated the waking reality. Yet as usual my bladder made me
wake up a few times. Which makes you leave the cabin.
Okay, let's expose the sanitary procedures on board. Of course the primary goal
of being here is to broaden one’s mind, or something like that, yet digestion and
metabolism will take their usual course.
Under the small forecastle deck there is a space that is accessible by lifting one
or more deck planks. Down there are two buckets: one for waste water and the
other for defecating.
Among other things on the tiny deck there’s a piss-pot. To urinate one takes that
into the cabin and empties one’s bladder in it, for who wants to attract attention by
doing that outdoors? Next you lift a specific plank of the deck and empty the pot
into the waste water bucket. Since that bucket has a funnel-shaped lid with a hole in
the middle, the emptying out of the pot is a piece of cake.
After that one puts the flush contraption into operation. This consists of a large
earthen jar filled with water and the ladle hanging from a Phillips screw next to it.
There’s a saucer as a lid for the jar. Take the saucer off the jar, draw a ladle of water
to flush the piss-pot with and then pour that water too into the waste water bucket.
Saucer back on the water jug, ladle back on the screw, plank back into place, and hi
ho, to bring up some German: Pipi ist ja auch wieder gemacht.
Yep, that made me get out of my bed a few times. Good opportunity to also
check if the oil lamp, which at night hangs at the prow, was still burning. It wasn’t.
I probably had not filled it up sufficiently. And so in the middle of the cold night on
the small deck a man in his pajamas fills up that lamp, lights it again and hangs it
back.
There’s no denying it, the mind sure makes its demands!
To spend a penny is one thing, to do one’s business is quite another. The facility
for that is the other bucket, which is sit-proof. However, before sitting down on it,
one hangs a plastic bag in it. After finishing the job, one ties the bag closed and puts
the bucket back under the deck. C'est tout—certainly the Flemish will not blame a
Dutchman for using a French expression?!
That relief bag of course is made of biologically degradable plastic, exactly as
you would expect from Viadagio.
Sounding a dissonant note in that regard, by the way, are the two coat hooks on
board: goat legs! And not the kind of goat legs one buys at the confectioner.
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Third day
A church bell just struck nine o’clock. How kind to agree with that stopped alarm
clock on board!
It’s strange though that I haven’t heard any church bells before. Too much other
noise on other days? Today is Saturday, a day starting at a slower pace than the
ordinary workdays, probably?
clouds of breath
the first gables
catching sunlight
Right now there are photos being taken of me, perhaps to be displayed or
published. It’s the meal service, which by the way also takes care of the disposal of
all waste products, that now takes on the role of a photographer who seems to see
pictures in me. And gee and gosh, on the quay alongside the meat house someone
else was photographing the photographer. His wife was looking on.
women's quadruple sculls
again rain falls on the
spinach seed bags
The visit last night. Why did I do this? To figure out why I did do this. But that's a
fancy answer. By way of another answer I read a few pieces with my first
impressions. Including the one about the fear disguised as a dream. Muttered some
about the dictatorship of the economy and my inability to really write something
about that.
And what about spirituality?
Ah yeah—the tat twam asi feeling.
But it was cozy. And the temperature got nicely warm. And they brought
presents.
Regarding the dictatorship of the economy: it does not ask how to better divide the
cake, but merely requires the cake to grow and keep on growing. And so to have
has priority over to be, making ecology the catamite of the greed-ridden.
While I am writing this, a group of tourists passes over the gallery close to where
the boat is moored.
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"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course you can!"
"What is the purpose of you and that boat here?"
"Well, what can I say ... It has to do with the philosophy of to have dominating
the philosophy of to be."
"Aha. And this is your personal initiative? "
"No no, I'm participating in a project by others."
"Also, meine Damen und Herren, das Boot hier handelt sich um eine Art
Philosophy. Und hinter mir sehen sie ... " Undsoweiter.
Oops. This makes me feel quite priggish. But the sun has emerged again and
that makes up for a lot.
The guide on a passing tour boat explains to his five passengers that here an artist is
slaving away at a text.
"Wasn’t it cold last night?" one of his female passengers asks the writer.
"Oh no, under my duvet, I was cozy and warm," I answer truthfully.
Or did she want to be asked to come and keep me warm ...?
slight swell
hidden behind the meat house
the sun already shines
his camera clicks
the hunchback
takes me home
the here and now
on the cabin boarding
my shadow with hat
I haven’t heard a church bell for quite a while. The last time must have been at ten
o'clock, though I did not count the strokes then. By now it will be afternoon. On the
bridges on both sides of the boat passers-by come and go in hordes. Also more
small and large tourist boats than yesterday pass—though the rain kept me mostly
inside then.
Weekend tourism.
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52
Now the sky is clear again and the sun has appeared over the meat house. For
almost all of today I am sitting on the forecastle and looking about, being looked at
and making notes. Only my shadow remains inside, because the sun is behind me
and the door to the hut in front of me is wide open. The air is still cold, yet I can feel
the sun anyway. But my winter coat and the long scarf my love knitted for me are
certainly not superfluous.
I ‘m afraid I’m going to like it here.
With cold feet, though.
tour boats
the skippers and I
we salute
my shadow and I
inseparable
as long as the sun shines
Another conversation. Dialogue with one of two Dutch men.
"What’s that, covering the roof?"
"Spinach seed bags."
"Spinach seed bags?"
"Yes. I only discovered that after one day on board."
I lift one of the bags a little and read out loud: "Spinatsamen. Spinach seed ".
And I translate: "Not perishable until December 2013."
"So you’ll be dry for some time yet!"
I confirm that it is dry inside, as my first night aboard has proven, explain that
the two boats—another one, without a cabin, is now also moored here—are made in
Bangladesh, and that I will stay here uninterruptedly from Thursday till Sunday as
one of six successive occupants.
I call myself boat hermit, albeit for only four days.
I also manage better than this morning with that group of Germans to explain
what it is about: to detach yourself completely from all day-to-day worries and
duties, empty your mind and open up to the here and now within yourself and
around you.
They then wish me a good stay. I wish them an pleasant day.
53
sparkling sun
leaves floating by
and another canal boat
These notes are acquiring the character of a long haibun. Report of a Trip Without
Relocation. The previous working title, Boat Hermit, can be crossed out. (Travel
Report of a Found Hat was another option.)
gusts of wind
azalea leaves
in the piss-pot
a kiss on the bridge
the boat hermit looks at it
with a cup of tea
What one can conclude is that in a few days one’s life pattern takes on a whole new
routine. You get reprogrammed, as it were, by these radically different conditions.
Or rather, you reprogram yourself.
At first it’s uncomfortable to be watched like this. Then there are two possible
strategies: to get inside and stay there or to cast off that strangeness. Part of the
latter strategy is: to look back, raise your hand, show—or feel— no embarrassment
whatsoever.
That photographer behind those potted shrubs, who surreptitiously took a
picture of me, sure felt the same kind of embarrassment as his photographed
subject.
When I am now being photographed I raise my hand in a salute. And I am
similarly saluted in return. Or I receive a smile. Or both. So who’s still talking about
embarrassment?
"Do not enter in conversations too much," I was told. "For that detracts from what
this is about."
Which is: to turn in upon yourself. Or something like that. To wrap up in the
here and now.
But the woman who asks: "Can I take a picture?", isn’t she doing that precisely
and exactly in the here and now? And the man in the house next to Bord'eau, who
opens the window and interestedly and cheerfully calls out at me to ask something,
54
does or doesn't he too approach me in inevitably the one and only moment that is
always right here: the now?
Those experiences are just as much happening to me by me being right here
right now, as seeing the gulls, quietly sitting on the ridge of the meat house at one
moment and sweeping over my head against a background of clouds. screeching
loudly, at another.
One’s mindfulness increases. You notice details that exist and deserve to be noticed
just as much as the imposing meat house, the historic gables and other sights worth
seeing. And lo and behold: since getting on board until this moment—the afternoon
will already be well on its way—I have presumably written more haiku than I did
in all of the year before.
That of course is a quantitative conclusion. It does not say anything in the least
about quality. But it does say something.
Past and future are both temporary. Only the now is eternal.
Oh well, one has to come up with something on this boat.
The roofing material does not just consist of spinach seed sacks, for in any case
there is also a plantain seed sack among them. A full sack should weigh 25 kilos.
Further print on it states: "Store in dark, cool and dry places."
Well, of course those seeds need to be kept dry and so the first thing to do is put
them in a waterproof sack. Which hence is also quite suitable as roofing material on
a temporary accommodation.
'Everybody famous'
it said on a tram
that's gone by already
squeezebox players
on the bridge sudden music
underneath the usual
From the passing cruise boats sometimes snippets of the guide’s story can be
caught. Thus you learn that the boat you 're sitting on will remain here till
November 15th, while another guide explains that there's a 'writer' on board and
yet another skipper reports that there is a permanent residency of consecutive boat
dwellers.
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56
So, being the current resident himself, you too get to hear the whole story in
fragments and in various languages.
How encouraging to experience that one’s presence has such a profound
significance...
From time to time one person or another throws something into, I suppose, one of
the harmonica cases of the two young ladies playing music on the Fish Market
Bridge. A few address them. Then a so-called beer bike with ten or twelve bragging
folks on it passes the duo. Then a police car with blue flashing light.
sudden applause
the harmonica ladies
clap to get warm
banners over the boat
seven steps he had to climb
the lion on the meat house
kid at hand
under his other arm
a plastic goat
What the current circumstances easily allow is to be where you are.
But aren't you always right where you are?
No, you often are absolutely not where you are.
And I sometimes think that some people never are there, where they are
located.
Right or wrong, that's what I sometimes think.
Okay, the sun has disappeared behind the house with the gable where the heron
fight took place. The cold wind now has the place all to itself and I crawled into the
cabin. Cleaned up what had to be cleaned up, lit the four tea lights in the lanterns,
partly also for heating, and, why not, even an incense stick for ambience.
All of this with the scarf still around my neck though.
The lamp on the bow: well filled up, lit and hung next to the forecastle. If one does
that at ease, it works best. Like almost everything.
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I straightened myself up once more for a moment, and sure enough, there across
the water and notwithstanding the dusk, I recognized the meal service, liaison
officer, skipper and Viadagio chief Ip Man, busy once more with his camera, like he
was this morning and this afternoon.
That is going to be a complete wedding shoot. Without a bride though...
I am here as a writer, allegedly. But at age sixty-eight I find that I missed my real
calling. I should have become a 'covergirl', as it turns out now…
Tonight we will be given back the hour that we had to give up earlier this year, in
March I think. Each year again I am relieved to reach that moment again, for I’d
hate to have lived one hour too short.
Decision to be made: either set back the stationary clock one hour or not?
doing the dishes
over the meat house
the moon now rises
A clear sky. The night promises to be very cold. Frost maybe? Well, under the duvet
my own warmth will be enough not to be bothered. Once I get up it might turn out
badly.
The cabin is not part of the boat as Ratam (Ratan?) and Sudam delivered it. It was a
later temporary addition. For the first time in 2009 for Gent-Bang I (the I of course
has been added since the present 'recurrence' came about). That year for the first
time four people lived a short voluntary hermit’s life on the boat.
An imaginative observer will recognize in the shape of the now rebuilt cabin a
big fish. As a consequence everybody noticing that will be reminded of the biblical
Jonah in the belly of the whale. The belly of this whale is lined on the inside with tin
foil, no doubt to keep the warmth in as much as possible. Unlike a real whale,
which after all is not a fish but a mammal, this one has a skin covered with scales,
which of course are not really scales but spinach seed, plantain seed and who
knows still other seed sacks.
The whale’s ribs—we’re now back on the inside—are made of timber, between
which the tin foil is applied. There is also a spine made of short bars between the
ribs, the bars staggering in relation to each other, so they could be screwed to the
ribs without much difficulty.
The rib cage is up to 5’9” high. And for someone like me, over 6’3” tall, that is
not, let’s say, optimal.
But then, the real Jonah surely had more reason to complain.
58
tea warmers
the play of light and shadow
in tin foil
On the 'gangways', normally intended as seats, the necessary household items are
now arranged: some crockery, cutlery, three of the four candle lanterns (the fourth
hanging down), two small storage cabinets, an orchid in a pot (Phalaenopsis—what
else?), a few blankets, the stationary clock.
Between the two 'gangways' is the floor with a mat at the entrance, then a low
platform (probably to stay dry under all circumstances), on which the roll-up
mattress is sitting. On the floor also a breakfast-in-bed tray with folding legs. At the
rear a window with a curtain. There, too, there is storage space for bags and other
things that are not being used for a while. Up front, between the jaws of the whale,
is the small door to the small deck, where the piss-pot and water jug sit, but also
flowering plants. Including azaleas.
The rolled-up mattress, in combination with the pillow I brought myself, serves
during daytime as the back of a floor seat, with the duvet that’s part of the set-up
to sit down on.
On the storage cabinets some pictures. But these are no part of the set-up, for I
brought them myself: my children, grandchildren and my love to be around me!
While evening has turned into night, the current Jonah is still wearing that scarf.
Thus it’s still quite tolerable in the whale’s belly.
Third and last night
For no apparent reason sleep will not come. Ip would come to pick up the empty
thermos flasks and other returns, but he did not know at what time he’d arrive.
And of course neither did I, because there's only a stationary clock here and the
church bells are silent. So I had told him I would go to sleep when I felt like it,
leaving behind on the forecastle the things he could take away. If I was asleep he
just had to pick them up.
And so I had rolled out the mattress, laid out my pillow and duvet on it, put on
my pajamas, blew out the candles and laid myself down to rest.
Images. Thoughts. But no transition to another reality.
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60
And hence, after a while, I did hear Ip, quietly, not to wake me up. But he couldn’t
wake me, because I was awake already and so I announced my presence.
"Then I like to come inside with you for a moment," he said. What apparently
had been his intention anyway, for he brought (half) a bottle of wine and two
glasses. And so we drank to the renewed cooperation and we reminisced on the
haiku week two years ago, recalling friends and acquaintances who were among
the participants.
"Don’t you miss Marlène," he inquired.
"No," I said, "because she is here with me. Probably, " I added, "she actually is
more with me these days than I am with her."
After Ip's departure I crawled back into bed, unable to catch sleep or sleep
unable to catch me.
Meanwhile, the waste water bucket is still sitting on the forecastle, almost full to
the brim. It would be better to hold my pee until the bucket is emptied again
tomorrow, but I can’t make it that long.
So I happen to actually invent an ancient Chinese proverb that says: "As long as
the piss-pot is not full, it can take some more."
voices in the night
the moon high above Ghent
as well as deep below
Meanwhile, it must already be past midnight, but not yet enough to be an hour
earlier again.
‘Third time lucky’ is said to be maritime law, and since I’m on a boat a third
bedtime can’t fail to result in a justifiable sleep.
61
Fourth and final day
the golden galleon
captures the first light
smokestacks smoking
My day starts at about the same time as yesterday: I can make that up from the way
the sunlight falls on the facades, especially on the facade on which that heron
landed yesterday. But on the other side of the Gras bridge that gilded wind vane
tried to cut a dash with the first rays of sun.
It’s funny that two of the three chimneys that blew smoke into the air a moment
ago have now ceased to do so.
decorative clouds—
illuminated from below
an airplane
Again, there is only one chimney emitting smoke now, but yet another one than a
moment ago.
Except for the trams the city remains quiet. An occasional passer-by, that’s all.
On the embankment on the other side a cooing gull, a young one and a coot. A
noisy flight of gulls skims over the water and is gone again.
But even if it’s as late as yesterday at this time, it nevertheless is one hour
earlier!
As far as maritime law goes: it clearly does not apply here. Sleep came only
after several sanitary actions of varying nature. It was quite turbulent outdoors and
later on there was a constantly repeated soft but inevitable deep humming of
indeterminate origin.
"You gained a lot of energy here," Ip said last night.
Absolutely true. A little too much perhaps. My ticker for instance was going
noticeably faster.
a fish’s splash
uncle herring and nephew black head
are gulling about
62
The gulls attacking that heron the day before yesterday probably considered him an
usurper A gull has been sitting on top of that gable as if it were his throne for quite
some time.
look and look and look
you’ll never get to know
this place by heart
chiming bells—
on the back of a girl
a cello passes
By now people are continuously passing by, but not to the extent you might say it’s
busy. I’m sitting on the deck with my legs in the cabin, hot water and coffee at
hand, but the filter bags are inside. Winter coat, scarf, hat. At the stroke of ten, as
just could be heard.
I ‘m not going to say whether I got any the wiser these days, and if so how much.
It's still too early for that. Let's say that such a boat trip without relocation triggers
something in you that may or may not end today with disembarking. You can ask
yourself what that trip would do even more to you if it was to be continued longer.
You can ask yourself that. But why should you, if you booked for the four days and
three nights that will be concluded today?
Today’s first pedestrians just passed by over the gallery here and then the first tour
boat with passengers already sailed by. The skipper and I, we saluted each other.
Time to get a filter bag for a third cup of coffee.
Plantain seed sacks. Why should one sow plantain?
Another question: why do people photograph cityscapes using a flash?
funky boots
a flotilla of ducks
chattering by
Later today a new Jonah will enter the mouth of the whale for a full week. Not
someone I know, like my predecessor and the successor of my successor.
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There’s another photo shoot awaiting me: interior shots in the cabin. Probably this
afternoon, just before I disembark and my luggage and waste products will be
removed.
I intend not to sail back with the lot, but to go ashore right here and anyway to
walk one lap around what for a few days was the center of the world to me. The
same lap as I walked before boarding. And yet, although the lap is the same, the
walk now will be completely different.
I did not set back the stopped clock one hour. For now remains now, no matter
what time it is.
One day later
A thought I uttered yesterday in company in the Panda restaurant, before the ride
back home: "It’s a question whether I will switch back again into my old life pattern
just as easy as I switched to the life of a boat hermit. A different and actually much
more interesting question is whether I want to switch back.
I’m not going to answer that one now. It's something I can only predict
afterwards. "
Ghent / Den Bosch 25-29 November 2012
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Max Verhart
The Tat Twam Asi Feeling
even before the reeds
have straightened themselves
they bend again
This haiku, written more than a quarter of a century ago, was published in 19811.
The three lines simply register how the gusty wind over the water makes the reeds
along the banks bend over and over again, without allowing them to completely
straighten up for even a moment. That's all. It was something I noticed years before
I heard of haiku and it was only written down after I learned about that type of
poem. Even before the reeds / have straightened themselves / they bend again. The 5-7-5
pattern was still very much the norm at the time, but this was (in Dutch) a 4-6-4
poem. Making it 5-7-5 was weakening it.
Only much later the idea arose that the image of the reed never straightening
entirely, could be viewed as a metaphor—for life itself, if you will. But such
thoughts always only come afterwards. But when interpreting afterwards what you
wrote yourself, you’re not doing that as the author, but rather as just another
reader, whose interpretation is not a priori more interesting than that of any other
reader. But that's not the issue here.
So what is? This question: what makes a seemingly insignificant observation so
significant that one writes a haiku about it?
In a way, there is no other answer than the haiku itself. But to give it another try
anyway: something is being observed and something is observing—and the one
without the other is nothing or does not even exist without the other:
one creates what one observes
what one observes creates one
The increased awareness that makes us perceive something seemingly insignificant
as highly significant therefore is a situation in which the observed and the observer
create one another. That of course is not a scientific truth, but it certainly can be
considered to be an existential truth:
to stay put for a moment
to look at some clouds
to be with what is2
67
The idea of an observer on the one hand, and something being observed on the
other seems to be dualistic. But, if one creates the other, neither exists by itself, and
both are merely two aspects of what in fact is a unity. So what seems to be dualistic
is ultimately monistic.
Hence one can say that a haiku describes an existential experience: you yourself
are as much part of all that is, as all that is, is part of yourself. It’s experienced at
times much more emphatically than usual: it’s recognized in the reeds incessantly
bending in the wind, detected in clouds floating across the sky, sensed in the
realization that sparrows breathe too and in countless other situations and
moments. And in whatever way you actually phrase such an experience, however
much you keep yourself out of the picture you create, it's your experience in your
words. In a way you are describing merely yourself. Yes, in that respect each
successful haiku also is a self-portrait:
what you say is what you are
This monistic perception of reality is of course nothing new. In fact, such a
philosophy is thousands of years old. Frankly, my wording "you yourself are as
much part of all that is, as all that is is part of yourself " differs not essentially from
what in Brahmanism is called adwaita. I think I can translate this Sanskrit word,
even though I don’t have any command of that language.
Sanskrit is an Indo-European language and in many still spoken Indo-European
languages, including English, we still have the prefix a- in words such as amoral,
atypical and agnostic, where it acts as a denial. So the a in adwaita does mean: not.
In -dwai we recognize our Dutch twee (and English two). Finally I understand the ta in Sanskrit as a suffix that matches the Dutch -te or -heid (English –ness). In
Italian, another Indo-European language, -ta in that sense still exists!
Hence, adwaita can be literally translated as not-two-ness3.
And sure enough, exactly that is the meaning of this word in Brahmanism,
which was a prevailing philosophy about three thousand years ago in India. Key
concepts in this ideology are the concepts of Brahman and atman4.
Brahman originally simply meant prayer, but the meaning has evolved into
sacred knowledge and finally referred to a creative principle, from which the world
in all its overwhelming variety of phenomena emanates. One should not, however,
understand Brahman as God, but as an original constant, beyond creation. Brahman
is sometimes translated as world soul.
Atman originally meant breath. The etymological connection between these two
words is still recognizable in the German word atmen (to breathe), in which the
68
word atman even almost literally returns! But just as prayer (Brahman) evolved into
world soul, breath (atman) evolved into essence or self. This should not be
understood as something like spirit or soul, but as our deepest core, devoid of
corporeal shell and psyche.
So those are the two key concepts: Brahman and atman. But you can’t be fooled
into thinking that this is a dualistic philosophy, especially not since the core notion
adwaita, or not-two-ness, has been explained. And yes indeed, in this philosophy
Brahman is identical to atman: Brahman = atman. This is expressed in the famous
phrasing: tat twas asi. It is you.5
Does that not remind strongly of the perception of observer and observed being
two aspects of one and the same thing? Tat twam asi: you are part of everything
and everything is part of you. What you say is what you are.
I breathe
the same air
as those sparrows6
You don’t have to be a Brahmanist to be able to sense this ideology. It's just one way
in which reality can be experienced—not constantly, but sometimes. At some of
those moments I sometimes literally think: "Brahman is noticeably present here."
But he/she/it always is, I just do not experience it all the time.
But whenever that tat twam asi feeling makes itself felt, the unspeakable can
perhaps sometimes be indicated in a meager construction of words, seeking to
evoke the experience of being:
even before the reeds
have straightened themselves
they bend again
Notes
1
2
3
4
Vuursteen VIII-4, winter 1988.
Max Verhart: Zijn met wat is (To Be With What Is). Parasol Series, Sint-Denijs-Westrem
(Belgium) 1993.
Adwaita is the pseudonym of the Dutch poet J.A. Der Mouw (1863 - 1919), who held a
Brahmanistic philosophy of life. He could put that in an ironic perspective, as witnessed
by a line from his (posthumously published) volume Brahman I: "I am Brahman. But we're
without a maid.”.
My understanding of this matter primarily stems from Hans Joachim Störig's Geschiedenis
van de filosofie (History of Philsophy), published by Het Spectrum, Utrecht 1962.
69
5
6
The Dutch author Harry Mulisch paraphrases this expression in his novel De diamant (The
Diamond , 1954). In one scene the people of ancient India are calling their king (in
Sanskrit) a skinny bag of bones. 'Tat twam asi,' the king screams back in the same
language. Which, says Mulisch, means: "That’s what you are".
Max Verhart: een beetje adem/some breath. Het Hoge Woord, Bakhuizen (Netherlands) 1999.
Noot voor Nederlandstalige lezers
Voor Nederlandstalige lezers die het Engels onvoldoende machtig zijn is op aanvraag een Nederlandstalige pdf-versie versie van beide voorgaande teksten
beschikbaar ([email protected]).
(For Dutch language readers with an insufficient command of the English language,
a Dutch language pdf-version of both preceding texts is available on request
([email protected]).
70
(Afbeelding achterkant omslag)
De bekendste, beroemdste en meest vertaalde haibun ooit geschreven is zonder
twijfel Basho's Oku-no Hosomichi, het verslag van de lange reis die hij in 1689
maakte. Het verslag over de 2400 kilometer lange voetreis werd gepubliceerd in
1694, het jaar van zijn dood. Sindsdien zijn er talloze edities van verschenen en
werd het vertaald in vele talen. Een gangbare Nederlandse titel is De smalle weg naar
het verre noorden.
Eén bijzondere editie van twintig van de haiku's, die een wezenlijk onderdeel
van de haibun vormen, is de reeks van veertig postzegels uitgegeven door de
Japanse posterijen in de jaren 1987-1989. Er verschenen tien emissies van telkens
twee paartjes postzegels in de waarden van aanvankelijk 60, later 62 yen. Elk
paartje was gewijd aan één haiku, met op de ene zegel een gekalligraffeerde tekst
en op de andere een illustratie. De Japan Stamp Publicity Association zorgde voor
toelichtende informatie, met vertaling van de gedichten, in het Engels en Frans.
Een reeks juweeltjes voor de schatkamer, die van de haikuliefhebber, de
postzegelverzamelaar of de kunstkenner…
(Image on the back cover)
The best known, most famous and most often translated haibun ever written is
undoubtedly Basho's Oku-no Hosomichi, the account of the long journey he made in
1689. The account of the 1500-mile journey on foot was published in 1694, the year
of his death. Since then numerous editions have been published and it has been
translated into many languages. A usual English title is The Narrow Road to the Deep
North.
One particular edition of twenty haiku, which are an essential part of the
haibun, is the set of forty stamps issued by the Japanese postal service in the years
1987-1989. Ten issues of two pairs of stamps in the values of initially 60 and later 62
yen were produced. Each pair was dedicated to one haiku, with a calligraphy of the
poem on the one stamp, and an illustration on the other. The Japan Stamp Publicity
Association supplied information, including translations of the poems, in both
English and French.
A series of small gems for the treasury: be it the haiku lover's, the stamp
collector's or the art connoisseur's ...
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DICHTERS/POETS
ðurña Vukelić-Rožić
* Tiha glazba – Silent Music. Ivanić Grad 2015, ISBN 978-953-57651-4-1
* Ćiji je ovo planet? – Whose is this Planet? Ivanić Grad 2015, ISBN 978-953-57651-6-5
English translations by the author. Dutch translations by the Whirligig staff, except ‘bitter
morning’, translated by Frans Terryn.
Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe
* Florile Vântului – The Flowers of the Wind – Les fleurs du vent, Constanza (Ex Ponto), 2012.
ISBN 978-606-598-200-0.
English translations by the author. Dutch translations by the Whirligig staff.
Juan Carlos Moreno Plaza
*El sonido del agua, Albacete, haibooks QVE, 2011. ISBN 978-84-15127-48-2.
English translations by Klaus-Dieter Wirth. Dutch translations by the Whirligig staff.
GEDICHTEN/POEMS
All poems previously unpublished, except Carmen Sterba’s Perseid shower, which was
published in The Heron’s Nest, 2011.
REGIO/REGION
Barbiers: Twee halve harten; Berry: Blithe Spirit 19/2; Bleijenbergh: Kortheidshalve I-91;
Buschman: Haar blauwe vulpen; Clausen: frogpond 31/3; Cobb: Blithe Spirit 19/3; Compton:
frogpond 33/1; Cuvelier: Een traan van hars; Feingold: Sunrise on the lodge; Filippi: Autumn
Rose; Grillo: Modern Haiku 41/2; Hackett: The zen haiku; Herold: a path in the garden;
Hostie: Parfum zweeft voorbij; van Iersel: Tweeënvijftig weerberichten; Kiauta: Vuursteen
93/94; Lievaart: Ribbels in het zand; Lippy: Cor van den Heuvel/Haiku Anthology 1999;
Lofvers: SOMS; Luckring: a new resonance 6; McLaughlin: frogpond 33/3; MacRury: In the
Company of Crows; van der Molen: wegwijzers naar nergens; Parsons: Modern Haiku 40/2;
Reumer: Haiku - een vroege pluk; Roseliep: Cor van den Heuvel/Haiku Anthology 1999;
Rotella: Cor van den Heuvel/Haiku Anthology 1986; Scanzello: Modern Haiku 39/3;
Schneider: Texel 5-7-5; Stevenson: Modern Haiku 40/3; Stillman: Brussels Sprout IV/3-4;
Swede: Joy in me still; Timmermans: De seizoenen van de appel (ed. Mesotten); Tipton: Blithe
Spirit 2009; Verbeke: Kokoro; Verhart: zijn met wat is; Vereertbrugghen: aan het woord 2003;
Wassing: Het lange luisteren; Yovu: Red Moon Anthology 10.
72
NORMAN DARLINGTON:
* Mothers: World Haiku Review : 2007. * Getting there: Simply Haiku v2n2 : 2004.
* Debris: Hermitage v1n1 : 2004. * Pecking order: Honourable Mention in the Nobuyuki
Yuasa International Haibun Competition 2004. Dutch translations: Max Verhart.
MAX VERHART: TO BE WHERE YOU ARE,
Original Dutch title Zijn waar je bent; first
published in 2012 by Viadagio VZW,
Ghent (Belgium) as part of the book
Ontmoet de schoonheid. Reprinted in 2014 by
't schrijverke, Den Bosch (Netherlands) as a
separate volume.
To be where you are werd onder de titel Zijn
waar je bent voor het eerst gepubliceerd in
2012 door Viadagio VZW, Gent (België) als
onderdeel van het boek Ontmoet de
schoonheid. Herdrukt als afzonderlijke titel
in 2014 door 't schrijverke, Den Bosch
On the back cover of the 't schrijverke
edition it said:
"How it was to spend a few days as a boat
hermit at the heart of Ghent? Well, a short but
extremely fascinating experience. A lot of fun,
really. Total dehurrification, detached from all
self-imposed and other duties, no telephone, no
computer or internet, no radio nor TV, no
book, no magazine… So you look about a lot—
outward and inward—and let all kind of things
sink in. And you make notes. Those notes
turned into a manuscript of over 5000 words,
including some thirty haiku. Consider it as a
long haibun-though that was not a
premeditated purpose, for there wasn't any.
Op de uitgave van 't schrijverke stond op
de achterkant: "Hoe het was om als bootkluizenaar enige dagen in het hartje van Gent
te verblijven? Wel, een korte maar buitengewoon boeiende ervaring. Enorm leuk eigenlijk.
Totale onthaasting, los van alle al dan niet zelf
opgelegde verplichtingen, geen telefoon, geen
computer of internet, geen radio of tv, geen
boek, geen tijdschrift... Je kijkt dus veel rond—
naar buiten en naar binnen—en laat van alles
op je inwerken. En je maakt aantekeningen.
Dat werd een manuscript van ruim 5000 woorden, waaronder een dertigtal haiku. Zie het als
een lange haibun - hoewel dat geen vooropgezet
plan was, want dat was er niet."
Max Verhart: The Tat Twam Asi Feeling
Adaptation of The Tat Twam Asi Experience,
a paper read on June 28th 2009 at the
Second Italian Haiku Conference in Turin
and published in Modern Haiku 41.3 (Fall
2010). The paper itself was based on the
article Wat je zegt ben je zelf (What you say
is what you are), published in the Dutch
journal for short poetry Kortheidshalve (To
Be Short) VI-1, October 1996
Bewerking van De Tat Twam Asi Ervaring,
een lezing die op 28 Juni 2009 werd
gegeven op de Tweede Italiaanse
Conferentie in Turijn en in Modern Haiku
41.3 (herfst 2010) werd gepubliceerd. De
lezing zelf was gebaseerd op het artikel
Wat je zegt ben je zelf, gepubliceerd in het
Nederlandse tijdschrift voor korte poëzie
Kortheidshalve VI-1 van oktober 1996
73
Barbiers, Lia
Bashō, Matsuo
Berry, Maureen
Bleijenbergh, Gaby
Bouter, Adrian
Buschman, Simon
Clausen, Tom
Cobb, David
Compton, Ellen
Cooper, Bill
Cuvelier, Willy
Darlington, Norman
Feingold, Bruce H.
Filippi, Antonella
Grillo, Andrea
Hackett, James W.
Herold, Christopher
Hostie, LuCien
Hotham, Gary
Iersel, Bas van
Kiauta, Marianne
Lievaart, Inge
Lippy, Burnell
Lofvers, Wim
Luckring, Eve
34
71
35
34
30
34
39
38
38
30
37
22-29
37
38
38
37
34
37
31
36
34
37
37
36
35
McLaughlin, Dorothy
MacRury, Carole
Molen, W.J. van der
Moreno Plaza, Juan Carlos
Neagoe, Ecaterina Zazu
Parsons, John
Reumer, Wanda
Roseliep, Raymond
Rotella, Alexis
Scanzello, Charles J.
Schneider, Piet
Sterba, Carmen
Stevenson, John
Stevenson, Richard
Stillman, Jeffrey
Swede, George
Timmermans, Clara
Tipton, James
Verbeke, Geert
Verhart, Max
Vereertbrugghen, Walter
Vukelić-Rožić, ðurña
Wassing, Gerrit
Yovu, Peter
74
38
38
33
15-21
11-14
35
36
35
35
39
33
30
30
38
31
34
37
36
35
36
36, 40, 67
34
6-10
36
39