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poetic license – salon12b 2011-03-23 15:46:00

by • March 23rd, 2011

Essen-main library, Ruhrgebiet – © Foto: Wilfried Bienek

March 21 was world poetry day.
In the main library in Essen, Ruhrgebiet, Germany, unbeknown by us, they dressed a table with a choice of poetry. Look at the right hand top. There you find the first production of world internet books: Grenzland. The first book in the framework of Ruhrgebiet2010 Cultural Capital of Europe.The book you see will in the course of the year be published as part of the trilogy ‘Flußschiffahrt’ – Binnenvaart – Inland waterways- together with ‘Kammergedanken’ – Kamergedachten – Chamber thoughts – and Anti. From March 17 to 20 Hafenklänge – Havenklanken – Sounds of Harbour – was presented at the book fair in Leipzig

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by • December 28th, 2010

STASSAERT BETWEEN THE YEARS is tonight’s reading by Lucienne Stassaert from what her new volume of poetry will be. It is a comprehensive overview of her work, with a poem from each period of her writing. Those who never have heard her read, have missed something. With remarkable strength and honesty she directly speaks to her listeners. This is the last activity for Ruhr2010, European Capital of Culture. What remains are the books  that are produced within this framework.

The following poem gave the title to the book which will be presented January 27, GEDICHTENDAG in den Hopsack, Antwerp

In één adem
Vier de lente, de liefde niet.
Verzoen mijn lippen, groei mij aan
als de lente vergeefs wordt en bitterder.
Weer koesteren bomen landhonger,
drijven vogels de winter uit
de baaierd van april.
Ook dit zout, oud zeer, kennen we.
En zoals minnaars en vleermuizen blindvliegen,
geven dromen zich zelden bloot.
Met dit vermoeden leefden we;
het vuur aan de schubben, de schuimlippen.
Ooftbomen gloeien wit.
Wij sterven langzamer af –
droesemig, meestal achter glas.

Of zoals bloesem, in één nacht. 


In einem Atemzug
Fei’re den Frühling, die Liebe nicht
Entküss’ meine Lippen, verwachse mit mir
wenn das Frühjahr vergebens und bitter
Wieder … Bäume mit Hunger nach Land
treiben Vögel den Winter heraus
das Durcheinander des April’
Auch diese salzig’, alte Seelennarbe kennen wir
Und wie Liebende und Fledermäuse in Blindheit fliegen
Geben Träume sich selten nackt.
Mit diesen Ahnungen lebten wir,
das Feuer an den Schuppen, die Schaumlippen
Obstbäume verglühen zu Weiß.
Wir sterben langsamer ab –
Heruntergeflockt und abgesetzt, meist hinter Glas

Oder als Blüten während einer Nacht. 

In one breath

Celebrate spring, not love
appease my lips, grow on me
when spring turns in vain and more bitter.   
Once more trees cherish hunger for land,
drive birds out of winter
the hustle bustle of April.
Also this salt, this old pain, we know.
And like lovers and bats blindly fly,
dreams seldom bare themselves.    
With these inklings we lived;
fire at the fins, the frothy lips.
Fruit trees glow white.
We slowly decline –
dregs of wine, usually behind glass.
Or like the blossom, in one night.
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Olivier Cousin on Klara

by • December 21st, 2010

Although the Breton Language looses ten thousands of speakers every year, Breton poetry is alive and interesting. Olivier Cousin was representing them at our Small Festival of European Art of Poetry., last September. When he and Bart Stouten met it was as if two long lost brothers met and found each other. They obviously share a poetic sensitivity. So Bart had a wonderful program in The Garden of Eden on Klara with Olivier, read the dutch translations of Paul Gellings and interviewed Olivier about poetry in Breton and the regional poets. The music was wonderful and the program was sensitive and interesting.

Here you see Olivier and Paul reading together.

Wat follows is poem with pars in Breton which will be published in Sounds of Harbor II

Au port du bout du monde

Au dernier bout de la terre
le port sourit au large
demi-cercle d’une blancheur ternie
evel bannieloù ouzh ar wern
Le port comprend toutes les vies
accepte toutes les devises
parle toutes les langues
Même s’il malmène toutes les grammaires
il conjugue tous les verbes
pas uniquement partir ou arriver
C’hoantoù mont kuit
o vont hag o tont
stag ouzh ma huñvreoù
evel bannieloù ouzh ar wern
Le port déploie le filet des rêves
au-delà des crachins et des brumes
oubliant tous les moutons sur la lande
  In the harbor at land’s end        
At the last parcel of land                                   
the harbor smiles at the open sea
half circle of a dulled white
evel bannieloù ouzh ar wern
The harbor comprehends all lives           
accepts all currencies                                   
speaks all languages
Even though it manhandles all grammars                       
it declines all verbs
not only to leave or to arrive
C’hoantoù mont kuit
o vont hag o tont
stag ouzh ma huñvreoù
evel bannieloù ouzh ar wern
The harbor unfolds the dream net
beyond drizzle and sea mist               
all sheep left behind on the moors

(Traduite en français, la strophe en breton pourrait se lire  :
Des envies de départ
vont et viennent
attachées à mes rêves
comme des drapeaux sur le mât)

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Olivier Cousin, Bretton Poet on Belgian radio

by • December 13th, 2010

When at the Small Festival of European Poetry Olivier Cousin and Bart Stouten met, it felt as if two long lost brothers found each other. Tonight on radio Klara in De Tuin van Eden, Bart will in his unique way present some of the poetry of Olivier as translated into Dutch by Paul Gellings. The music too will be great. 7pm till 8pm:
if you have to miss it tonight you can find it  for a while in ‘herbeluisteren’.

I am sharing a poem from Sounds of Harbor II in French and English

sms:foto duisburg 2010
 Rêve blanc
Départ demain pour Arkhangelsk
sans collision ni tâtonnements
Je saurai éviter le bois flotté
pour atteindre le port de l’archange blanc
Une belle blonde m’y attend
Pour briser la glace
une bière blanche au soleil de la nuit
Le poète cherche son âme dans chaque port
sa forme, une étoile à sept branches
J’ai le mal de mer
mes roubles n’ont plus cours aujourd’hui
je suis marié
mes illusions poétiques ne valent pas un kopeck
Arkhangelsk m’attendra
  White dream
Departure tomorrow for Arkhangelsk
without collisions or hesitations
I’ll know how to avoid the driftwood
to reach the harbor of the white archangel                       
A pretty blonde waits for me there                                               
To break the ice
a white beer in the night’s sun
The poet looks for his soul in every port
Its form, a seven pointed star
I am seasick
there is no exchange rate for my roubles today
I am married
my poetic illusions aren’t worth a kopeck
Arkhangelsk will wait for me

  English: Annmarie Sauer

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