Poetry in the park in Hoboken

 It was a wonderful afternoon: Easy talk among like minded friends, good poetry read. The choice of musicians grand. Left, poets listening to poets reading. Right Roger Nupie and Vera Alexander Beerten. Roger read naughty homo erotic poetry, lighthearted and fun. Vera read a cycle of poems about 34 children drowning on a Friday night during the war. Chilling to the bone. The words smuggled in all had to do with caring for one or other issue or being moved by something. The audience was wonderful participating in the exchange with poets: looking up at the leaves in the dappled light, repeating words when a poet asked them to...

 

It was all great stuff. The extra appearance of Iron Maiden lead singer Blaze Bayley was a pleasant surprise. Many reasons to be grateful.

Books

I read a lot, I love books. Yet some of my friends are shocked at how I treat my books. Usually in pencil, yet also in pen and ink or anything that will write, I make notes in my books. Underlining, adding exclamation marks, putting in the initials of whom I should send a specific quote to. Sometimes an elaboration, a yes! Or No! No! Sometimes when rereading a book years later, I don't even recognize my younger self. There was a time that books that weren't in almost unread, virginal state wouldn't be bought nor sold in a second hand shop. yet that has changed in the last years. Books belonging to authors, writing in a book they have read, have now become more valuable and are considdered a tool in literary studies. In 'De Brakke Hond' in the section called 'Glimpen' by Paul Claes I read a note about a very industrious librarian who had erased all the penciled in notes and remarks from Dutch poet Jan Leopold in a book of poetry by Mallarmé. It is a shame we lost the insights and comments in the margins. It is I guess like looking in through an illuminated window, or reading over another's shoulder...sharing a thought with an unknown person.

The square and B B King

I am sitting in a trendy square and am amazed at how young the city has become. Just here and there a graying beard, a white head. Just two, three ample gray haired women. The 30/40 year old are mainly skinny, Sancere sipping and speaking about a new partner be it in love or in business. Also relationships turned sour are a frequent subject. Good advice, or advice meant as such, is balanced by hard edged principles, used as a dam against more hurt. And then from somewhere a line of music:

If you don't know
what to do
listen to T-Bone Walker
if you don't now
what hit you
when you're under
a bad spell
can't hide the thrill
listen
listen
to B B King

Windows

The days shortening make me a little sad, yet last night having to run an urgent errant at dusk I was thrilled that people had turned on their lights. Many shutters were down, or the curtains drawn, yet here and there I could catch a glimpse of beautiful woodwork in an almost stately home or a beautiful rosette centering the luster of a crystal chandelier. But the greatest joy was seeing people going about heir daily life: kids  doing homework or crafts at the table, a parent puttering around in the background, cooking, clearing clutter and coaching from a distance. People eating or talking gave me a sense of warmth, a sense of caring and community. Of course there were some voices of crying toddlers, angry parents shouting, a couple fighting... There one felt how overburdened the people were within their situation, how hard it is to deal with the daily disasters. These glimpses give me an insight in what seems to constitute happiness, serenity and a feeling of belonging. Last night 's image I cherish most is an old man sitting and reading by a lamp near the window. He is secure in his place, knows where he belongs and so he is reassuring to me. These short flashes of unknown people's life seem to hold for me valuable wisdom and insights.

Around the kiosk

Frank De Vos organizes next Sunday, September 9, a beautiful gathering of eight poets who will smuggle in their words around the kiosk in Hoboken. It starts at three, be there!

Smuggle ware from Croatia:

Birds whisper softly

don’t drown out

what was thought

Bells clang

-       it is six o’clock-

invite

to the day

the good life

in submission

to a normal life

of singing women in black

Thereafter

the heart  full of fire

the soul in the wind

and the distance that calls

Birds whisper softly

don’t drown out

what you think at all

Living on the edge of the Jewish quarter

Living on the inner edge of the Jewish quarter I have a choice when  I go shopping: to the right or straight ahead I'll see the people in their diverse religious attire. Fedora like hats on top of the head, white shirt all in black with the curls along the ears flying while cycling on the boardwalk. Yarmulke's and the fringe of their ceremonial scarfs peeping out from under the coat, while some where long white stockings and large fur hats, which when it rains are covered in a specially designed plastic bag. The women I saw this morning wore all a different color of wig: black or blond, light or dark brown. All wore comfortable flat shoes. The difference between richer and poorer Jews is immediately visible. The poorer women can't afford a good wig, so they wear scarves, either hiding all their hair or a scarf with an attached fringe of hair sticking out.
Since there are also a lot of Polish Jews there are also some good polish shops where you find kefir, other wise only found in the health shop or in the Pakistan shop. I also notice that some peope go to synagogue each morning and on special occasions they'll have palm leaves wrapped in plastic under their arm.

Going left however, I enter the general mainly European stream of peoples, with North Africans and black Africans being part of the mix just as Turkish and oriental people. A friend once called me on the fact that when one is at a local police station and does not speak the local language that one has to bring an interpreter. She was totally offended by this and thought the city should have the interpreters on call. So I got curious and asked how many languages were present in the small old jail, where people who have been picked up wait for their first meeting with the judge. The answer was a to me staggering amount of 76 languages. So the menu is from kosher to halal, from bio dynamic to straightforward meat, potatoes and veggies... All in walking distance. Wonderful.
What I don't understand is that the protests against the scarfs Muslim women wear and the acceptance of the same principle in a different execution in the Jewish community. In both cases the hair of women is supposed to for private viewing only.

Familiarity

I know A. since she was 11 and I was 12. Being very bright she had been schooled a year early, so we ended up in the same secondary school class, both having chosen Latin and Greek. She remembers whom and how I was in the difficult years of puberty and the fear of a stepfather. I remember her 'normal', yet strict family. We followed each other's lives and marital turbulences. We knew about each other's jobs, crushed longings, unfulfilled expectations and moments of joy and happiness. We are friends, even if I fall often short on being there for A. when she needs it. She knows that I know and thus we get together every so often to exchange, to tell about the latest episode of our lives's road. She is ebullient and talkative, I am a good listener. While listening I recognize old patterns, habits, griefs, resulting for me in a sense of peace stemming from familiarity. The normality of our encounters is also the glue that keeps us in each other's life. She is adventurous and does volunteer work in the field of alternative cultural events. She is brave, yet needs a structure which grants her her freedom without making her feel lonely or isolated. 

I once wrote a poem for her:

Ach A,

Ik wilde komen

maar voor ik zo vertrekken

moet naar nieuwe straten

ander licht en vreemde bedden

koester ik mij in stilte

het alleen zijn thuis

en vergeet dan

dat om 11 uur

zondag de wereld

nog bestaat

Ik wilde komen

maar nu bij koffie

wachtend op de pendelbus

is het te laat.

*

Oh A,

I wanted to come

but just before I have to leave

for new streets

different light and strange beds

I cherish my silence

being home alone
and forget
that at 11 o'clock
on Sunday the world
still exists

I wanted to come
but now with coffee
waiting for shuttle bus
it is too late

(on the road to Strasburg, France)