Story Line Press, 1994
Hereniging
Daar verschijnt zij op het gouden pad
dat door de herfst is aangelegd.
Zoals toen, toen ik me in haar
begroef en nooit zo leefde, nooit
zo ‘dood, dood’ stamelde omdat
ik voelde dat ik haar alleen kon
houden als ik haar kon toevertrouwen
aan de bladeren waarin wij lagen.
Onveranderd jong lacht zij om
de grauwe man die ik geworden ben.
Hoe eerder je komt, zegt zij, hoe
minder we schelen. Stijf wankel ik
haar binnen, zij is warm gebleven.
Returning
There she looms on the golden path
yellowed by autumn. Inviting as then,
when I smothered myselfd in her waters –
not come to this, not exposed like this,
not stammering ‘gone, gone’,
as I sensed the one way to hold on
was forever to let her go
to the leaves beneath us.
There she looms, untouched by the years
mocking this grey-haired old man.
‘The sooner you come,’ she beckons,
‘the sooner we are one.’ Stiff-limbed, I wade
back in; there is warmth yet in her waters.
translation: Ruth Hooley
Together again
I behold her there
on the path strewn gold by autumn
where I buried myself within her
and first began to live
so, ‘dead, dead,’ I stammered because
I knew I could not keep her
outside our bed of leaves.
Forever young she mocks
the gray man I have become.
The sooner you come, she says,
the closer we’ll be. Stiffly I totter
inside her; she keeps me warm again.
translation: Anne Kennedy
Together again
You get these thoughts in melancholy Autumn.
My beloved appears in this pathway yellow
with quince.
I buried my happiest self in her. I never
enjoyed sex so much before or since.
‘Dead, dead’ I stammered and died myself.
Love would remain although she could not stay.
I retained every detail and nuance on the shelf
of memory, the crinkly leaves on which we lay.
Now she intrudes on her own memorial
unchanged, undead, laughing at me, at the gray
old poet I have turned out to be.
‘The sooner you come,’ she says, kindly,
‘the better, and the less we’ll differ.
Get it up and get inside me, as warm as ever.’
translation: James Simmons
Vuilniszakken
Zoals ze daar ‘s morgens
op de stoep tegen elkaar
aan geleund warmte zoekend
in hun plastic jassen
staan te wachten, grijs,
vormeloos, vol afgedankt
leven, tegelijk broos
en weerloos. Ze zou ze
weer naar binnen willen
halen, je ouders
wachtend op de bus.
Rubbish bags
The way they wait there
on the pavement in the dawn
huddled against each other
seeking warmth in plastic coats,
grey, formless, full of spurned life,
feeble and helpless. You’d like
to take them in again, your
parents waiting for the bus.
translation: Dennis O’Driscoll