Mortlake – A bottle of water. A chunk of bread. Enough

(20-08) MORTLAKE (1)

A bottle of water. A chunk of bread. Enough
for a trip that only lasts a day shift
over the ocean. Obeying the dream
of making England unseen, hidden
in the wheel well of a Boeing. Ascension.

A jolt and judder, engines
start, a roar as fierce as every
urge, beyond starvation,
the terror, everything you thought
out in those blue hours.

Above your head, a level higher, people
listen to music, watch movies,
app with the folks at home the way
you pictured them, Sunday strolling
over London Bridge, saying, Almost there.

The shudders. The fear. The bone-breaking
turbulence. Blows. Your body
gasping for breath, cold clasping
your heart the higher you go into
the heavens, the frozen words.

Out of the sky over Mortlake a life
came plunging down, smashing into
an English garden to a scream
from a sunbathing girl. The pigeons
fluttered up. How of a dream

in summer’s summit nothing might be left
but a hole in the gravel. You, Icarus’s brother,
a man without a name, without a country,
but in all your anonymity, world famous
still for just a second. God’s cruel scam.

Eeltsje Hettinga, Translation: David Colmer

(1 ) ‘Mortlake’, written in response to an article in the NRC (01/07/2019) about a stowaway falling from the wheel well of a passenger jet flying from Kenya to London.

De flecht. De fal. Koartby klettere in ferstekkeling dea út it lâningsgestel fan in fleanmasine boppe Mortlake, in foarstêd fan Londen. De reis fan in bline passazjier sûnder namme, sûnder lân. Hoe’t fan in dream, yn de nok fan simmer, oars net bleau as in gat yn it grint. Oer de ‘stowaway’ it gedicht ‘Mortlake’.

MORTLAKE (1)

In flesfol wetter. In hompe bôle. Genôch
foar de oertocht fan in oere as wat
de oseaan oer. De dream en gean, djip
ferstutsen, ûnder yn it gestel fan
in Boeing, op nei Ingelân. De himelfeart.

In skodzjen en beevjen it oangean fan
motoaren, in leven like fûl as
de langst en wurdt foarby de honger,
de terreur, al datjinge datsto dysels
betocht hiest, de blauwe oeren troch.

Boppe dyn holle, in laach heger, waard
muzyk lústere, in film sjoen of apt
mei it thúsfront, sa’tsto dat dy sels
foarsteld hiest, in snein, kuierjend oer
London Bridge, sizzend: ’k Ommeroan.

De huver. De skrik. De leabrekkende
luchtsek. Klap. It omraken nei siken
gapjende lichem, it hert fan kjeld
beset, neigeraden datsto tichteroan
de himel kaamst, it wurd ferwinterjend.

Heech boppe Mortlake klapte in bestean
nei ûnderen, te pletter njonken
de gjalp fan in famke, sinnebaaiend
yn in English Garden. De rûnom
opstowende dowen. Hoe’t fan in dream,

yn de nok fan simmer, oars net bleau
as in gat yn it grint. Do, Ikarus’ broer,
in man sûnder namme, sûnder lân,
mar yn al syn anonimiteit lykwols
in tel wrâldferneamd. Gods wrede scam.