The misunderstanding, this departure – It misferstân, dit gean
.
The misunderstanding, this departure
to a painting by Hieronymus Bosch
(Crossroads – Eric Clapton)
In boot and shoe he stands before the distance,
knowing, head turned at the fence, the view
torn like his rags, his life no surer than a seeing off
from all these hey and ho shouting rooms; cunt
and rogue set the signboard dancing, swans
screech, scoundrels piss, and louder than cocks,
the windows crow the question: You,
vagabond, what do you want
beyond your night with a bottle and a nun’s fart,
more than the song the inn afforded,
besides her airing underwear, lighter than the lord above
and damp with love, flapping from the attic window?
In the hour of departure, pain scores the features.
To face up to the roads ahead,
to give the farmyard mongrel
worrying his putrid bandages a whack
to hell and back, to wring the neck
of all that timorous rearward peeking
over shoulders and go, leaving Rotterdam,
or might each step beyond this brothel
merely bring the misunderstanding closer
that most of all, the fuss about the infinite world
was as deep as his own Slutty Slag, whose heart
he pierced with his dagger before he said goodbye.
No god will wait at the gate to let him pass.
As battered as his footwear, broken and
divided is his distracted mind. Fear restrains
the will to open up the gate to other places
alone, without weeping or wailing, here
from bandaged foot to bawdyhouse, from
pig’s trough to horizon, rendered as a cross.
Who is he? Who knows what mementos
weigh heavy in that pack? Or the history
of his name (made beyond the day and behind
his journey’s back)? Eye of a magpie!
One question runs through every step he takes:
do all the things that make Time turn
remain an endless, drifting search for place?
Eeltsje Hettinga
Translation David Colmer
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.
It misferstân, dit gean
by in skilderij fan Hieronymus Bosch
(‘Crossroads’ – Eric Clapton)
Op skoech en lears stiet er foar de fierten oer
wit, de holle draaid yn ‘e daam, it útsjoch
ferskuord as syn fodden, ít libben wiffer by ’t bonsjoer
fan alle hee en ho roppende romten; fods’
en skelm litte úthingbuorden dûnsje, swannen
kriezje, bizen pisje en lûder as de hoanne
kraaie finsters de fragen: Do,
oksepripper, wat wolsto
foarby dyn nacht mei nonneskeet en krûk
mear as it liet dat herberch joech,
oars as har ûnderbroek dy’t yn it neiwierjen – lichter
as god noch fol genot – ta it dak útwapperet?
Yn de oere fan fertrek kurvet pine it antlit.
him de wegen ûnder eagen te sjen,
de hiemhûn dy’t skalk, oer-
grousum oan syn rotsjende wynsels hinget de lel
nei de hel te jaan, al it gekoekeloer
bang oer it skouder hinne de nekke om
te draaien en te gean, fuort út Rotterdam
of komt foarby dit bordel elke stap fierderop
it misferstân te sizzen dat it geroft
oer de ûneinigens fan de wrâld yn ’t foarste plak
de djipte wie fan syn Lodske Lods, famke
dat er de hartefanger die én goendei sei.
Gjin god dy’t foar de ôfreis de hikke opdocht.
Healsliten as syn fuotark is him gammel
en ferdield de fertwivele geast. Eangst wjerhâldt
de wil en doch sûnder gejammer
allinnich it stek nei oare romten op, hjirre
fan wynselfoet oant befbordel, fan bargetrôch
oant hoarizon, delset as in krús. Wa is hy?
Wa ken it oantinken dat it gewicht fan reiskoer hâldt
en fan syn namme (makke bûten de dei
efter syn reizgjen om) de skiednis? Akster is it each!
ien op ien rint by syn stappen
de fraach: bliuwt al wat libben heinde en fierde
einleas swalkjen en sjen om plak?
.
Eeltsje Hettinga
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