Twee gedichten uit het videoproject ‘It Font’ van Lotte Middendorp en Eeltsje Hettinga

THE TOLLING

As the bell tolls over the empty polder
a darkness that holds an old beginning
leaps from the channels of centuries.

Lost between the reeds and willows,
the pieces of a shattered television,
shards reflecting a broken universe.

I think of Ouwens, lambs and the small,
thin hosts in a once that was… Oh,
the abortion of holy communion!

Then a slow snow begins to fall,
the cold lays a black floor in the misty
distance and the little owl calls.

My mouth turns into a small dangerous
hole in the ice, a desperate attempt,
holding the word open to the sky.

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Translation by David Colmer

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IT LET

Under it let oer de lege polders
ljepte út de slinken fan ieuwen
in tsjuster dat in âld begjinnen ynhie.

Fersille tusken reidkraach en kopwylch
lei, oan grús trape, in televyzje,
de diggels spegelen in stikken hielal.

Ik tocht oan Ouwens, fisken en de lytse,
tinne hostys fan in ienris wie der…
O, misdracht fan hegere kommuny!

Doe begûn it stadichwei te snijen, froast
sloech ûnder de rop fan de stienûle
in swarte flier yn dampe fierten.

Lyts behyplik wek waard my de mûle
it ferwoedene besykjen en hâldt
tusken himel en ierde it wurd iepen.

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THE SEA A MIRROR

The sea a mirror but never still
the water that talks, creates
and makes life, life in the shadowy

dark over the empty coast, the Cliff
asleep as yet, as still as the wind in all
its quarters. St… hear it muttering

and whispering in the blind
fluttering sky over the harbour
and shed, an ancient birth,

bursting open in a flood of light
              and
                      tire
                               and
                                           light

and it’s like time has stopped
forever, but you, you know, you do,
that every Now is always too short,

just as nothing ever lasts, besides
the turning and tilting, later
when the sun is hanging from the handle

of the shed door like the head
of a dead cod and haunted by
a rising wind the waves
are gathering their black flowers.

A sentence, a font,
              the water that gives us its love,
                            the water that drags us under.
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Translation by David Colmer
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IN SPEGEL DE SEE

In spegel de see, mar noait net stil
it wetter, it sprekt en skept en
makket libben, libben yn ’t skimer-

tsjuster oer de lege kust, it Klif
dat noch sliept, stil as de wyn yn
al syn streken. St… hear it skolperjen

en lústerjen by in bline
fan wjokken slaande himel oer haven
en hang, in stienȃld begjinnen,

iepenspringend yn in floed oan ljocht
                         en
                                fjoer
                                            en
                                                    ljocht

en it liket as komt tiid net mear
te ferstriken, mar do, wit do, wit,
alle No is ivich tekoart,

sa’t der neat is dat duorret, útsein
it kearen en kanteljen, aanst
bywannear’t de sinne as in deade

skylfiskekop oan ’e klink fan
de hoksdoar hinget, tewyl
by ’t spoekjen fan in opstutsen wyn

wetter syn swarte blommen opbringt.
O, fûnis, o font,
                it wetter dat leavet,
                                 it wetter dat deadet.

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