docUntitled
download 
Report Transcription
Untitled
Vol. VI-2 / November 2015 ’t schrijverke 1 Colofon/Colophon WHIRLIGIG / Volume VI-2, November 2015. ISSN: 2210-4593 Redactie/Editors Max Verhart, Klaus-Dieter Wirth, Norman Darlington en/and Marlène Buitelaar. Copyright en overname/Copyright and reproduction * Het copyright van teksten, foto's en vertalingen berust bij de auteurs en vertalers. Zonder schriftelijke toestemming van auteur en/of vertaler is geen overname toegestaan. * Copyright of texts, photographs and translations remains with the authors and translators. No reproduction is allowed without written consent by the author and/or translator. Uitgever/Publisher Whirligig p.a. Max Verhart Kwartierenlaan 204 NL-5235 JE Den Bosch Netherlands max.verhart@hetnet.nl 2 Inhoud/Content Van de redactie: laatste nummer Editorial: final issue 4 5 Klaus-Dieter Wirth: Dichters/Poets ðurña Vukelić-Rožić Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe Juan Carlos Moreno Plaza 6 11 15 Norman Darlington: Haibun Debris/Rommel Mothers/Moeders Getting there/Er naar toe Pecking Order/Pikorde 22-23 24-25 26-27 28-29 Regio/Region De geur van haiku/The Scent of Haiku 32-39 Max Verhart: Haibun To be where you are The Tat Twam Asi Feeling 40 67 3 Van de redactie Laatste nummer Inderdaad: dit is het laatste nummer van Whirligig. Na zes jaar en twaalf nummers valt het doek. Het was een makkelijk besluit, want de reden is simpel. Whirligig is het resultaat van aan de ene kant ambitie en aan de andere kant belasting. En zo lang de ambitie groter is dan de belasting, is die belasting bijzaak. En dat was tot dit jaar steeds het geval. Maar sedert dit jaar wordt de belasting zwaarder ervaren dan de ambitie. Je kan het ook anders zeggen: interesse in en promotie van haiku hebben onder de zaken die mij bezighouden ingeboet aan prioriteit. Andere zaken hebben nu de voorkeur en krijgen voorrang. Zo simpel is het. Maar het was óók een moeilijk besluit, want het tijdschrift was en is mij dierbaar. En wat minstens zo belangrijk is: het kreeg veel waardering. De lezerskring was niet groot, de oplage was doorgaans 120 exemplaren, maar tot de lezers behoorden toonaangevende haikudichters uit binnen- en buitenland: een kwantitatief beperkte, maar kwalitatief zeer hoogstaande lezerskring. Het was geen uitzondering om van die lezers te horen hoezeer het laatste nmmer weer in de smaak was gevallen. En dan toch stoppen? Ja, dat maakt zo’n beslissing ongemeen lastig. Omdat dit nummer het laatste is, is besloten om het ook een heel ander karakter te geven. Ieder van de vier redactieleden heeft de ruimte gekregen voor een eigen inbreng. Het resultaat is in elk geval toch ook weer een gevarieerde inhoud. We hopen van harte dat dit nummer, ondanks het andere karakter, toch ook weer in de smaak mag vallen van onze abonnees. Dank aan Marlène Buitelaar, Norman Darlington en Klaus-Dieter Wirth, de andere redactieleden, wier bijdragen, commentaren en correcties Whirligig ver hebben uitgetild boven de kwaliteit en het niveau dat het blad zonder hen zou hebben gehad. En misschien meer nog voor het gevoel van kameraadschap waarin werd samengewerkt. Dank vooral ook aan alle abonnees voor hun interesse en trouw. Maar die vinden vast wel weer andere bestemmingen. Zorg goed voor jezelf en je prioriteiten. Max Verhart hoofdredacteur 4 Editorial Final issue Yes indeed: this is the final Whirligig issue. After six years and twelve issues the curtain comes down. It was an easy decision, because there is a simple reason. Whirligig is the result of ambition on the one hand and burden on the other. And for as long as the ambition is bigger than the burden, that burden is of secondary importance. Which has been the case until this year. But since this year the burden seems to be carrying more weight than the ambition. You can also put it differently: interest in and promotion of haiku have lost priority among the things that occupy my mind. Other matters are now preferred and are getting priority. But it also was a hard decision, for the journal was and is very dear to me. And what is at least as important: it received a lot of appreciation. The number of subscribers was not big, the circulation was usually 120 copies, but among those readers were some of the most prominent haiku poets from home and abroad. It was no exception for readers to let us know how much they had appreciated the latest issue. And yet stop the thing? Yes, that’s what makes a decision like this extremely hard. Since this issue is the last, it was decided to let it have quite a different character. Each of the four editors was given room for a personal contribution. The result is anyway once more a varied content. We sincerely hope that this issue, notwithstanding its different character, may meet the appreciation of our subscribers. Thanks to Marlène Buitelaar, Norman Darlington and Klaus-Dieter Wirth, the other editors, whose contributions, comments and corrections have lifted Whirligig far beyond the quality and the level that the journal would have had without them. And maybe even more for the feeling of camaraderie in which the four of us cooperated! Thanks to all subscribers for their interest and loyalty. But those will certainly find other destinations. Take care of yourself and your priorities. Max Verhart editor in chief 5 A Croatian Haiku Poet ðurña Vukelić-Rožić ðurña was born in 1956 and lives in Ivanić Grad. Besides haiku, senryû, tanka, haibun and haiga, she publishes humorous sketches, poetry (in Croatian and in Kajkavian dialect), short stories and aphorisms. Moreover she is the founder and editor of several haiku journals, especially IRIS, and launched a comprehensive anthology of Croatian haiku poetry (1996-2007) entitled An Unmown Sky. Additionally, she is the organizer of the Kloštar Ivanić haiku meetings, and has constantly worked as a translator of a number of haiku collections and miscellanies into English. Her own works have been published in her country and abroad since 1992. Furthermore, she is a member of The World Haiku Association (Japan), the United Haiku and Tanka Society (USA), and a secretary of the Three Rivers Haiku Association in Ivanić Grad. ðurña has received numerous awards , e.g. in 2010 a Diploma of the Romanian Haiku Society “for recognition and encouragement of international standards of excellence in haiku“, and is considered one of the European Top Hundred Most Creative Haiku Authors (by personal choice of Krzysztof Kokot, Poland). ðurña is geboren in 1956 en woont in Ivanić Grad. Naast haiku, senryû, tanka, haibun en haigu publiceert ze ook humoristische schetsen, poëzie (in het Kroatisch en Kajkaviaans dialect), korte verhalen en aforismen. Bovendien is ze oprichter en redacteur van verschillende haikutijdschriften, in het bijzonder IRIS, en bracht ze een omvangrijke bloemlezing uit van Kroatische haiku dichtkunst (1996-2007) onder de titel An Unmown Sky (Een ongemaaide hemel). Verder organiseert ze de Kloštar Ivanić haiku bijeenkomsten en heeft ze voortdurend gewerkt als vertaler in het Engels van een aantal haikubundels en andere werken. Haar eigen werk werd in eigen land en daarbuiten gepubliceerd sinds 1992 Verder is ze lid van de World Haiku Association (Japan), de United Haiku and Tanka Society (USA) en secretaris van de Haikuvereniging Drie stromen in Ivanić Grad. ðurña won talloze prijzen, zoals in 2010 een diploma van de Roemeense Haiku Vereniging “uit erkenning en ter aanmoediging van internationale maatstaven voor kwaliteit in haiku” en wordt ze beschouwd als een van de Europese Top Honderd Meest Creatieve Haikudichters (naar de persoonlijke keuze van Krzysztof Kokot, Polen). 6 roadside puddle— a stray dog licks its tongue straatplas— een zwerfhond likt aan zijn tong ripe pomegranate … I take the setting sun for a walk rijpe granaatappel … ik neem de avondzon mee uit wandelen heavy load— a donkey carries the sky, too in its eyes zware last— een ezel torst ook de hemel in zijn ogen so many stars … and all of them chirping zoveel sterren … en allemaal tjirpen ze deaf night— no village dogs until I reach it dove nacht— geen enkele dorpshond tot ik nabij kom bitter morning a path puddle broken into bits koude ochtend de plas op het pad ligt in scherven long street— a sparrow headquarters at no. 7 hedge lange straat— een mus heeft zijn hoofdkwartier op nr. 7 heg 7 road accident— a fireman rinses a rainbow off the asphalt verkeersongeluk— de brandweer spuit een regenboog van het asfalt a moth strolls the piano keys— silent music een mot loopt over de pianotoetsen— ongehoorde muziek morning dew— a cow's tongue gathers bits of sunlight ochtenddauw— een koeientong plukt beetjes zonlicht through the harp of a bare weeping willow fingers of the wind door de harp van een kale treurwlg windvingers shopping mall— the moth and I opt for a wool sweater winkelcentrum— de mot en ik gaan voor een wollen terui fishing with my father— an empty bucket full of unforgetfulness vissen met vader— een lege emmer vol onvergetelijkheid whole day a yellow tulip inhaling the sun heel de dag een gele tulp die zon ademt 8 sleepless night— by pressing the switch, I put out the full moon's light slapeloze nacht— met de schakelaar doe ik het vollemaanslicht uit open window a cigarette catching some fresh air open venster een sigaret schept een luchtje by the stove phone on her shoulder, cooking gossip bij het fornuis telefoon op haar schouder praatjes stoven siesta— in the cobweb a still fly middagdutje— in het spinnenweb een roerloze vlieg granny's drawers coffins of memories oma’s laden doodskisten met herinneringen dead end street— two dogs wait for the postman's return doodlopende straat— twee honden wachten tot de postbode terug komt in the park— the wind whistling after a young woman in het park— de wind fluit een jonge vrouw na 9 heads in the grass four cows at a free village concert koppen in het gras vier koeien bij een gratis dorpsconcert hole in the fence— a boy counts piglets gat in het hek— een jongen telt biggetjes the first grandson— helping him to count the dots on our Dalmatian het eerste kleinkind— samen de vlekken tellen van onze dalmatiër dying he calls the name of his brand new yacht stervend noemt hij de naam van zijn gloednieuwe jacht a young widow now walking an expensive dog een jonge weduwe ze laat nu een heel dure hond uit letter from the bank offering e-banking to a dead man brief van de bank die e-bankieren aanbiedt aan een overledene a woman in front of the jewelry shop adjusting her hair een vrouw die voor de juwelierszaak haar haar fatsoeneert 10 A Romanian Haiku Poet Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe was born in 1956 in Prahova, Romania. She is a member of the Romanian Haiku Society Bucharest, the Haiku Society Constanza (Romania), the AFH (Francophone Haiku Association, France), and the WHA (World Haiku Association, Japan). Apart from Romania her haiku have been published in anthologies in Japan, France, Italy, Hungary, Germany, and in the haiku magazines Albatros (Romania), ¡Ploc! (France), Asahi Shimbun – International Herald Tribune (Japan). The following examples are drawn from her trilingual book Florile Vântului – The Flowers of the Wind – Les fleurs du vent. Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe's haiku are particularly characterized by her special affinity with nature, her sensitivity and ability for empathy. They are written in a language straightforward and easily comprehensible but not without poetical skill. Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe is geboren in 1956 in Prahova, Roemenië. Ze is lid van de Roemeense Haiku Vereniging Bukarest, de Haikuvereniging Constanza (Roemenië), de Association Française de Haiku (Franse Haikuvereniging, Frankrijk) en de World Haiku Association (Japan). Behalve in Roemenië zijn haar haiku's gepubliceerd in bloemlezingen in Japan, Frankrijk, Italië, Hongarije en Duitsland en in de haikutijdschriften Albatros (Roemenië), ¡Ploc! (Frankrijk) en Asahi Shimbun – International Herald Tribune (Japan). Onderstaande voorbeelden zijn gekozen uit haar drietalige bundel Florile Vântului – The Flowers of the Wind – Les fleurs du vent (Bloemen van de wind). De haiku's van Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe worden in het bijzonder gekenmerkt door haar speciale verwantschap met de natuur en haar empatische gevoeligheid en vermogen. Ze zijn geschreven in onomwonden en makkelijk te begrijpen taal, maar zeker niet zonder dichterlijke vaardigheid. The wind swings bells of snowdrops— the white of silence De wind laat de sneeuwklokjes luiden— een witte stilte With my shadow I touch the shadow of a snowdrop— firs dripping Mijn schaduw beroert de schaduw van een sneeuwklokje— druppende sparren 11 I hear in the night the forest burgeoning— whisper of silence ‘s Nachts hoor ik het bos uitbotten— de stilte fluistert On the fresh grass the dance of cherry blossoms— the shadow of the wind Op het frisse gras de dans van kersenbloesems— de schaduw van de wind Flowing purple of plum trees in bloom— bees in the air Het paarse vloeien van pruimenbomen in bloei— bijen in de lucht The way of the wind only known by them— the swallows Wat de wind beweegt is slechts door hen geweten— de zwaluwen Full of seeds, I keep in the cup of my hand a garden of flowers Vol zaden, in de kom van mijn handen een bloementuin Ding, dong, ding, dong, ding— the morning glories open, giving peace Ding, dong, ding, dong, ding— de windeklokjes gaan open, vrede brengend The two of us—and the wind undulating the colours of the anemones Wij tweeën—en de wind laten de kleuren golven van de anemonen 12 The scent of lime takes the shape of your body, passing through the night De lindegeur neemt jouw gestalte aan, voorbijgaand in de nacht Among the wild flowers a four-leaf clover— to pick it? to let it? Tussen de wilde bloemen een klavertje-vier— plukken? laten staan? Petals rustling— butterfly arrows in the field stolen by the wind Bloemblaadjes ritselen— vlinderpijlen op het veld geroofd door de wind The sun is melting in the field with poppies— not a breath De zon smelt weg in het veld klaprozen— geen zuchtje Murmur of stars close to silence, captive in dew Gemurmel van sterren op het doodstille af, geketend in dauw Waves of silver— twin moon broken on the desert shore Zilveren golven— de tweelingmaan in stukken op het woestijnstrand Caught in a waterfall, the murmur of spring resounds in mountains Gevangen in een waterval, het gemurmel van de lente weerkaatst op bergen 13 They spread fragrance barely touching them— the chrysanthemums Ze laten geur los al raak je ze amper aan— de chrysanten The darkness among the first flakes of snow— old lace of time Het duister tussen de eerste sneeuwvlokken— oude kant van tijd Snow storm— the rustling of snowflakes in the silence of the night Sneeuwstorm— het geruis van sneeuwvlokken in de nachtstilte The steam of the tea takes the shape of your hand— whistling snowstorm De damp van de thee krijgt de vorm van je hand— huilende sneeuwstorm Ephemeral flowers given by the frost of winter— fragile stained glass Vluchtige bloemen door de wintervorst bezorgd— breekbaar gebrandschilderd glas Only one freesia— alone with the fragrance and my sadness Eén fresia slechts— alleen met de geur en mijn droefenis 14 A Spanish Haiku Poet Juan Carlos Moreno Plaza Juan Carlos was born in Albacete in 1969. Though he started writing haiku only in 2010, his first publication El sonido del agua (The sound of water) has already met with wide acclaim, perhaps because it presented quite a fresh voice in a rather traditionally structured environment. Surprising again that the book appeared just one year after its author had taken his first steps in this field. As an active participant in the international forum El rincón del haiku (The haiku corner) he was also awarded by the university library of Castilla-La Mancha and in an internationally announced competition by the law faculty of Albacete. His credo: "Haiku is a unique opportunity to savour the unrepeatable moments we are offered by nature. The information contained in these short Japanese lines may become as intense as the sun breaking through fog, as penetrating as the gaze of a feral cat. The haiku writer returns to his childhood regaining a view free from his ego and conventionalisms; he is astounded at everything that happens around him.“ Juan Carlos’ approach is strikingly down to earth, close to nature and impressionistic, capturing moments and details one might not usually notice: delicate Japanese glowworms. Juan Carlos werd geboren in Albacete in 1969. Howel hij pas in 2010 haiku's begon te schrijven, werd zijn eerste publicatie El sonido del agua (Geluid van water) al juichend ontvangen, misschien omdat het een nogal nieuw geluid was in een min of meer slechts traditioneel gevormde omgeving. Verrassend alweer dat het boek verscheen nadat de auteur pas een jaar eerder dit terrein had betreden. Als actief deelnemer aan het internationale forum El rincón del haiku (De haikuhoek) werd hij ook bekroond door de universiteitsbibliotheek van Castilla-La Mancha en in een internationaal uitgeroepen wedstrijd door de faculteit rechten van Albacete. Zijn credo: "De haiku is een uitgelezen mogelijkheid om de onherhaalbare momenten te koesteren die de natuur ons biedt. De informatie in deze korte Japanse regeltjes wordt net zo intens als de zon die door de mist breekt, zo indringend als de blik van een wilde kat. De haikudichter wordt weer kind dat, bevrijd van ego en gewoonte, kan kijken; hij laat zich verbazen door al wat om hem heen gebeurt." De aanpak van Juan Carlos is opvallend onomwonden, dicht bij de natuur, impressionistisch, en vangt momenten en details die men gewoonlijk veelal niet opmerkt: subtiele Japanse glimwormpjes. 15 poda de sarmientos: el humo de la hoguera se une a las nubes pruning of grapevines: the smoke from the wood fire combines with the clouds de wingerd snoeien: de rook van het houtvuur gaat op in de wolken noche fría: ilumina el campanario la luna llena cold night: iluminating the belfry the full moon koude nacht: de klokkentoren in het licht van de volle maan río crecido: el hielo cubre el barro de las orillas rising river: ice has covered the mud on both banks wassende rivier: ijs bedekt de modder op de oevers primera nevada: los niños escriben en los parabrisas first snowfall: children are writing on windscreens eerste sneeuw: kinderen schrijven op autoruiten cae aguanieve: se ennegrece la paja de la era … sleety rain: the blackening straw of the barn-floor natte sneeuw: het stro wordt zwart op de schuurvloer 16 tarde de invierno: florecen los geranios junto al aljibe winter afternoon: blooming geraniums beside the cistern winternamiddag: bloeiende geraniums naast de regenput cumbres nevadas: el águila sobrevuela los barbechos snow-capped mountain tops: an eagle's flight over fallow land besneeuwde toppen: de adelaar wiekt over braakland amanecer: la lluvia se une al rocío de la retama daybreak: rain is joining the broom's dew dageraad: regen vergezelt de dauw op de brem viejo olmo: entre sus brotes brilla la medialuna old elm: shining between its sprouts the half moon oude iep: tussen zijn knoppen schijnt de halve maan en el charco la tórtola picotea su propio reflejo in the puddle a dove taking a sip of its own reflection in de plas pikt de duif naar haar eigen weerspiegeling 17 la niña se columpia: el suelo lleno de margaritas little girl on a swing: the ground full of daisies meisje op schommel: de grond vol madeliefjes brotes de chopo: el viejo riachuelo vuelve a correr poplar sprouts: the old stream once again bearing water populierenknoppen: door de oude kreek stroomt weer eens water escampa: los surcos del bancal se llenan de cielo rain over: the furrows of the patch fill with sky na de regen: de voren op het lapje grond staan vol hemel riachuelo de monte: en la punta del junco una libélula mountain torrent: on the tip of the reed a dragon-fly bergriviertje: bovenaan de rietstengel een libelle hormigas con alas: crecen sobre el guindal los nubarrones winged ants: above the morello tree clouds growing bulky gevleugelde mieren: boven de zure kers bollende wolken 18 olor a paja: cazo saltamontes junto a mi padre smell of straw: chasing grasshoppers side by side with dad de geur van stro: sprinkhanen jagen samen met vader sobre la plaza resuenan los chillidos de los vencejos across the plaza resounding shrieks of martins over het plein weerklinken de kreten van gierzwaluwen calor intenso: un gorrión bebe agua del único charco sweltering heat: a sparrow is drinking water from the only puddle schroeiende hitte: een musje nipt water uit de enige plas aroma a jasmín: al entrar al patio el anciano sonríe smell of jasmine: when entering the patio the old man's smile jasmijngeur: de binnenplaats opkomend glimlacht de oude hasta el camino llega el frescor del maizal: tarde de verano up to the path the freshness of the maize field: summer afternoon tot aan het pad reikt de frisheid van het korenveld: zomernamiddag 19 aún brilla el sol en los ojos del mirlo muerto the sun still shining in the eyes of the dead blackbird de zon glinstert nog in de ogen van de dode merel en el cubo trae una parte de mar y berberechos in a bucket a portion of sea and a cockle in een emmer een beetje zee en een kokkel en la mano además de pétalos la luz del alba in her hand besides petals morning light in haar hand naast bloemblaadjes ook ochtendlicht padre e hijo orinando frente a la luna llena father and son urinating facing the full moon vader en zoon waterend tegenover de volle maan la telaraña une el puente de piedra con el espliego a cobweb connects the stone bridge with the lavender het spinnenweb verbindt de stenen brug met de lavendel 20 atardecer: brillan las hojas sobre el cieno del río evening twilight: leaves glistening on the river's slime avondschemer: bladeren glinsteren op het rivierslijk viento de otoño: cae del árbol la lluvia de anoche autumn wind: falling from the tree last night's rain herfstwind: uit de boom druipt de regen van vannacht media mañana: las hojas del plátano caen sobre sus sombras midmorning: the leaves of the plane tumbling down on their shadows halverwege de ochtend: de platanenbladeren vallen op hun schaduwen tarde de niebla: sonido de cencerros en el corral foggy afternoon: the sound of cow-bells in the pen mistige middag: het geluid van koeienbellen binnen de omheining murmullos del río: el musgo en los troncos de la chopera murmuring river: the moss on the tree-trunks of the poplar grove murmelende rivier: het mos op de stammen van het peppelbos 21 Norman Darlington Debris The doorstep is a jumble of debris: clay, straw, twigs. Some moments pass before I notice three baby house martins among the mess, a couple of days old, dead. Up above, almost nothing is left of the nest under the eaves, where the birds rebuild every year. No sign of the parents. siesta— the shattering of a glasshouse pane An almost imperceptible motion—one of the babies is moving. In fact all three are making tiny slow movements, just this side of death. Picking one up, I feel a sharp nip. When I see the beetle, another falls out of the bird's nib. Dozens of them. The babies are being eaten alive. Taking the birds into the bush, I end their lives as quickly as possible, and bury them. Never have I become hardened to mercy-killing. At age eleven, I found a sparrow filleted by a cat, still breathing. I tried to shoot it with a .22 rifle at point blank range, but kept missing. I couldn't sleep that night. The more of this killing you do, the less panic, the smoother the action, but no less heartache. My three-year-old says, "Birdie house broken. Poor birdies," every day for the last two months. Daily I explain that the martins have moved to the nest under our neighbour's eaves, but he repeats, "Birdie house broken. Poor birdies." Martinmas1— so distant the tolling of the bell Martinmas: the feast of Saint Martin on 11 November, traditionally held to be the day when martins migrate. 1 22 Rommel De drempel is een warboel van rommel: klei, stro, takjes. Het duurt even voor ik drie jonge huiszwaluwen tussen de troep opmerk, een paar dagen oud, dood. Recht erboven is bijna niets meer over van het nest onder de dakrand, waar de vogels elk jaar hun nest bouwen. Geen spoor van de ouders. Siesta— de ruit van een kas gaat aan diggelen Een bijna onmerkbare beweging— een van de jongen beweegt zich. In feite maken ze alle drie minieme trage beweginkjes, nog net niet dood. Als ik er een opraap, voel ik een scherpe beet. Dan zie ik de tor en gelijk valt er nog een uit het snaveltje. Tientallen zijn er. De jongen worden levend opgegeten. Ik breng de vogels naar het struikgewas, maak zo snel mogelijk een einde aan hun leven en begraaf hen. Ik ben nooit gehard in het uit het lijden helpen. Toen ik elf was vond ik een mus die door een kat was uitgebeend, maar nog wel ademde. Ik probeerde hem dood te schieten met een .22 geweer van dichtbij, maar miste steeds. Ik kon die nacht niet slapen. Hoe vaker je zo doodt, hoe minder paniek en hoe makkelijker de daad, maar het hartzeer wordt niet minder. Mijn driejarig kind zegt al twee maanden lang elke dag: "Vogelhuisie kapot. Arme vogelties". Elke dag leg ik uit dat de zwaluwen nu een nest hebben onder de dakrand van de buren, maar hij herhaalt weer: "Vogelhuisie kapot. Arme vogelties". Sintmaarten1— zo veraf het luiden van de klok 1 Het feest van Sint-Maarten op 11 november wordt traditioneel beschouwd als de dag waarop zwaluwen wegtrekken. 23 Mothers My mother's mother was the eldest of ten children. Across half a century, I vividly remember the glitter of her eyes and the softness of her cheek. fairy princess in a palace where they mispronounce your name Her mother was Lina Perrenoud, from Neuchâtel in Switzerland, who married my great-grandfather in 1883 at the age of 21 (he was 37) in an Irish port. Their marriage certificate tells us she was a 'governess' and he a 'naval schoolteacher'. They lived out their days farming his family's land, in Ireland's northwest. What circumstances might have conspired to bring them together? Much as I may yearn, some things will remain forever beyond my grasp. last month's moon— the incandescent glow already half forgotten 24 Moeders De moeder van mijn moeder was de oudste van tien kinderen. Na een halve eeuw herinner ik me nog levendig het schitteren van haar ogen en de zachtheid van haar wang. sprookjesprinses in een paleis waar ze je naam verhaspelen Haar moeder was Lina Perrenoud uit Neuchâtel in Zwitserland, die in 1833 op 21jarige leeftijd met mijn overgrootvader trouwde (hij was 37), in een Ierse haven. Hun trouwakte vertelt ons dat zij 'gouvernante' en hij 'onderwijzer op een zeevaartschool' was. In hun latere jaren leefden ze van het land dat zijn familie bezat in het noordwesten van Ierland. Welke omstandigheden zouden er hebben samengespannen om hen tot elkaar te brengen? Hoezeer ik ook hunker, sommige dingen zullen wel altijd ongrijpbaar blijven. voorbije maan— de sprankelende gloed alweer half vergeten 25 Getting there Tombouctou, Timbuctoo, Ti-n Buktu, however spelt it is a figure of remoteness. In some ways the place is now more remote than ever. The River Niger used to flow here, that anomaly which rises so close to the ocean, yet sets an absurd course into the depths of the Sahara desert. Nature is fickle, and as the river changed its course over the centuries, it left Timbuktu stranded among the shifting dunes, its raison d'être as a trading post lost forever. I set out from Mopti in an old 4x4 flatbed. The driver is tall and very dark, a Mandinka from Mali's forested South. He says he does the trip to Timbuktu every week, and persuades me to pay extra to sit in the cabin with him. When we stop for a break I see the wisdom of my decision - the dozen other passengers, an assortment of fine-featured Fulani cowherds, and pale-skinned Moors in flowing robes, are caked in sand and dust from head to toe. After some miles the track peters out. The driver seems confident but I see no hint of a way, no tyre tracks, nothing. Hours later, I realise we have been driving in a big circle. We stop and a heated argument ensues between the driver and one passenger, each insistently pointing in opposite directions. The other passengers look from one to the other intently but in silence. When we set off again, the driver is less chatty. We drive on and on through a landscape formed by the wind over the course of millennia, with rocky outcrops sandblasted smooth, patches of mean scrub the only vegetation, and not a sign of animal life. It seems clear that if we get lost here death is likely. The sun beats down relentlessly and its hot breath pours in through gaps around the door. My tension slowly ebbs with the acceptance that I have no control over my fate. During the hours that follow, the driver's face is inscrutable, and he remains taciturn as we bump across the trackless waste. Finally, with the sun setting behind us, the mudbrick city walls of Timbuktu appear purple-brown on the horizon. camels jostle to the gush of water drawn from deep beneath the dunes 26 Er naar toe Tombouctou, Timbuctoo, Ti-n Buktu, hoe je het ook spelt, het blijft een iets van Verweggistan. In sommige opzichten ligt die plaats nu zelfs verder weg dan ooit. De Niger placht hier te stromen, die tegenstrijdigheid die zo dicht bij de oceaan begint, maar een belachelijke loop neemt, diep de Sahara in. De natuur is grillig en toen de rivier in de loop der eeuwen een andere bedding koos, liet hij Timbuktu aangespoeld achter tussen de stuifduinen, zijn bestaansgrond als handelspost voor altijd verloren. Ik vertrek uit Mopti in een oude 4x4 dieplader. De bestuurder is lang en erg donker, een Mandinka uit het beboste zuiden van Mali. Hij zegt dat hij de rit naar Timboektoe wekelijks maakt en overreedt mij om tegen extra betaling bij hem in de cabine te komen. Als we voor een pauze stoppen zie ik hoe verstandig dat was—de ruim tien andere passagiers, een groep Fulani koeienherders met fijnbesneden gelaatstrekken en licht gekleurde Moren in golvende gewaden, zitten van top tot teen onder een dikke laag zand en stof . Na een aantal kilometers wordt de weg steeds vager. De chauffeur lijkt zelfverzekerd, maar ik zie geen spoor van een weg, geen bandensporen, niets. Uren later besef ik dat we hebben rondgereden in een grote cirkel. We stoppen en een verhitte discussie ontstaat tussen de bestuurder en een passagier, die elk nadrukkelijk in tegengestelde richtingen wijzen. De andere passagiers kijken aandachtig maar zwijgend van de een naar de ander. Als we weer vertrekken is de bestuurder minder spraakzaam. We rijden alsmaar verder door een landschap dat in duizenden jaren door de wind is gevormd, met glad gezandstraalde rotspartijen, met hier en daar wat weerbarstige struiken, zonder een spoor van dierenleven. Het is wel duidelijk dat als we hier verdwalen de dood waarschijnlijk is. De zon brandt meedogenloos en zijn hete adem dringt binnen door openingen rond de deur. Mijn spanning ebt langzaam weg met het aanvaarden dat ik mijn eigen lot niet meer in handen heb. Tijdens de uren die volgen is het gezicht van de bestuurder ondoorgrondelijk en hij blijft zwijgen als we over het woeste, wegloze land hobbelen. Uiteindelijk, met de ondergaande zon in de rug, verschijnen de kleistenen stadsmuren van Timboektoe paarsbruin aan de horizon. kamelen staan te dringen bij water, met emmers geput diep van onder de duinen 27 Pecking order The river buoys me up, in a pirogue—a cutout canoe—gently punted fore and aft. It carries me through a landscape of high dunes. The River Niger rises in the swamps of Guinea - the White Man's Grave. Turning its back on the Atlantic it arcs far up into the Sahara. scented breeze— candle wax dribbles into the hot bath At sunset we all disembark. On the riverbank, we cook a little rice with the catch of the day. It is eaten from a communal bowl, with the right hand only—the left is unclean, toilet paper an unheard-of luxury. Someone brews up in a tiny teapot—green gunpowder tea with lots of sugar. This produces one sweet glass, passed from mouth to mouth. As a white man, I'm right down the pecking order with my Bororo herdsman friend, and there is little left for us to share. Hunger is my sleeping partner. shooting star— spider and cockroach wrestle by my pillow 28 Pikorde De rivier montert me op, in een pirogue—een boomstamkano—voorin en achterin met vaarbomen voortgeduwd. Hij voert me door een landschap met hoge duinen. De rivier de Niger welt op in de moerassen van Guinea—het Graf van de Blanke. Dan wendt hij zich af van de Atlantische Oceaan en buigt zich ver de Sahara in. geurige bries— kaarsvet druipt in de hete bad Bij zonsondergang stappen we allemaal uit. Op de rivieroever koken we wat rijst met wat we die dag hebben gevangen. We eten uit een gemeenschappelijke schaal, met alleen de rechterhand —de linker is onrein, toiletpapier is een ongekende luxe. Iemand brouwt iets in een kleine theepot—groene gunpowder thee1 met veel suiker. Dit levert een glas zoet heet vocht op, dat van mond tot mond gaat. Als blanke zit ik helemaal onderaan de pikorde met mijn vriend de Bororo herder, en er blijft voor ons weinig te delen over. Met honger als bedgenoot breng ik de nacht door. vallende ster— spin en kakkerlak worstelen naast mijn kussen 1 Gunpowder (buskruit): soort groene thee. 29 Adrian Bouter (Netherlands) late herfst— in een vervallen huis het opgezet konijn late autumn— in the ruins of a house the stuffed rabbit hoe het ook eindigt... een stippellijn van vogels gericht naar de zon however it ends... a dotted line of birds bending to the sun Bill Cooper (USA) opening notes of the brass quintet cold slices of grapefruit de beginnoten van het koperblazerskwintet koude partjes grapefruit Carmen Sterba (USA) Perseid shower— tiny green apples dot the lawn Perseïdenzwerm— groene appeltjes bespikkelen het gazon jam session my homegrown guitarists jam session mijn zelfgekweekte guitaarspelers 30 Gary Hotham (USA) almost midnight snow filling the dark around us zowat middernacht sneeuw vult het duister om ons heen under old starlight fireflies interpret the night onder oud sterrenlicht vuurvliegjes vertolken de nacht bronze standing up to the cold the war memorial brons dat de kou weerstaat oorlogsmonument Richard Stevenson (Canada) retired— dirt under my fingernails at last! pensioen— onder mijn nagels eindelijk vuil! weeping birch— such a cheerleader in the wind treurbeuk— wat een cheerleader in de wind 31 De geur van haiku In 2008 publiceerde 't schrijverke de Nederlandstalige bundel Eerste recital, met als ondertitel Haiku's waar music in zit, en in 2013 The Scent of Music, met als ondertitel Haiku with a touch of music. Beiden bevatten een kleine selectie van haiku's uit de verzameling 'muziekhaiku's' die Marlène Buitelaar in de loop van een aantal jaren bijeen had gebracht. Bij het samenstellen en analyseren van die collectie van duizenden haiku's, kwam ze tot een thematische driedeling. In een haiku is sprake van muziek zonder dat muziek het (hoofd)onderwerp is (muziek als decor), of er is sprake van andere geluiden die met muziek worden vergeleken (muziek als metafoor) of het wezen van de muziek wordt geïnterpreteerd (muziek als onderwerp). Opvallend was nu dat naar Marlène's schatting, 95% van alle haar bekende muziekhaiku's tot een van de twee eerste categorieën behoorden en dus dat slechts 5% de muziek zelf als onderwerp had. Na publicatie van beide bundels richtte zij haar aandacht op wat ze noemde 'geurhaiku's'. Ook daarvan legde ze een grote verzameling aan, geput uit alle tot haar beschikking staande haikuliteratuur (en dat waren kasten vol!). Haar intrigeerde het meest de vraag: in hoeverre slagen haikudichters erin een geursensatie op te roepen zonder die te benoemen, zonder zelfs het woord geur of een equivalent daarvan te gebruiken? En eerlijk gezegd, dat viel niet mee. Net als bij de 'muziekhaiku's' wordt de essentie slechts in enkele procenten van de gevonden haiku's opgeroepen. Het is meestal een kwestie van benoemen—wat overigens echt wel geslaagde haiku's oplevert. Zoals niet alle geurhaiku's die niet benoemen maar oproepen ijzersterke haiku's zijn. Tot een publicatie over geurhaiku's kwam het helaas niet. Althans, tot nu toe. Want hieronder volgt allereerst een keuze uit de haiku's waarin geur niet wordt genoemd, maar wel gesuggereerd. En vervolgens een selectie van haiku's waarin het woord geur of een equivalent de haiku tot 'geurhaiku' bestempelt. Uiteraard kozen we alleen haiku's die we zelf geslaagd vinden. Links altijd het origineel, rechts de vertaling. The Scent of Haiku In 2008 't schrijverke published the Dutch-language volume Eerste recital (First Recital), subtitled Haiku waar muziek in zit (Haiku with music in them), and in 2013 32 The Scent of Music, subtitled Haiku with a touch of music. Both present a small selection of haiku from the 'music haiku' collection Marlène Buitelaar had brought together over several years. While compiling and analyzing that collection of thousands of haiku, she arrived at a tripartite thematic classification. A haiku mentions music without music being its (main) subject (music as décor), or it mentions other sounds, which are compared to music (music as metaphor), or the essence of music is being interpreted (music as subject). What struck Marlène was that in her estimation 95% of all music haiku known to her belonged to one of the two former categories and hence that only 5% had music as such for its subject. After the publication of both volumes she switched her attention to haiku that, so to speak, focussed on the human olfactory organ: 'scent haiku', as she named them. Of those she also compiled a large collection, taken from all haiku literature at her disposal (which were book chests full!). The question that intrigued her most while doing that was this: to what extent do haiku poets manage to evoke an olfactory sensation without naming it, without even using the word scent or an equivalent? And to be honest: that turned out to be disappointing. Just as it was with music haiku, only in a few percent of the collected haiku the essence of (a) scent is evoked. Mostly it's a matter of telling, not showing—which however still does give us succesful haiku. Just as not all scent haiku that don't name but do evoke are cast-iron haiku. Unfortunately a publication on scent haiku never materialized. At least, not until now. For what follows is at first a selection of haiku, not mentioning (a) scent, but suggesting it. And next is a selection of haiku in which the word scent or one of its equivalents denominates the haiku as a scent haiku. Of course, we only selected haiku that in our view qualify as succesful haiku. On the left-hand side always the original, on the right-hand side the translation. Hartveroverend, Hartveroverend ben je als kaneelkoekjes. Entrancing. That's what you are, entrancing like cinammon cookies. W.J. van der Molen Drie hyacinthen In één paarse plastic pot beheersen het huis. Three hyacinths in a purple plastic pot dominate the house. Piet Schneider 33 Bij elke windvlaag sliert het eten van hiernaast door mijn achtertuin. With every gust of wind next door's meal is spread across my garden. Simon Buschman Haar liefdesbriefjes ontvangt hij per e-mail, ongeparfumeerd. Her love letters he gets them by e-mail, unperfumed. Walter Vereertbrugghen Na zo lange tijd hangt tussen grauwe stenen het zilte van toen... After such a long time floating between grey stones the saltiness of the old days… Gaby Bleijenbergh de zuidenwind brengt een vleugje seringen van de buurvrouw the southern wind brings a whiff of the neighbor's lilacs Marianne Kiauta vanuit het duister kondigt zijn smeulende sigaar vaders komst aan. out of the darkness his smouldering cigar announces dad's arrival Lia Barbiers my father greeting me at the airport wine on his breath op het vliegveld begroet me mijn vader wijn in zijn adem Jeffrey Stillman mint crushed I wheel the barrow into lavender geplette munt ik rij de kruiwagen de lavendel in Cristopher Herold 34 open window I turn down the radio to smell the rain open venster ik zet de radio zachter om de regen te ruiken Eve Luckring piano practice through an open window the lilac pianoles door het open raam de sering Raymond Roseliep All day shoveling sheep manure the mind clear at last Heel de dag schapenmest scheppen eindelijk een lege geest James Tipton Late august I bring him the garden in my shirt Eind augustus ik bring hem de tuin in mijn bloes Alexis Rotella Father's day somewhere in the crematorium there is a rose Vaderdag ergens in het crematorium moet een roos staan John Parsons in from the cold to the rumour of hyacinths vanuit de kou naar binnen naar de praatjes van hyacinten Maureen Berry De volgende haiku’s impliceren begrippen als geur en ruiken niet , maar noemen ze expliciet. The following haiku do not imply notions such as scent and smelling, but explicitly mention them. 35 In het voorbijgaan streel ik de rozemarijn. Hij antwoordt met geur. While passing I stroke the rosemary. It responds by scent. Wanda Reumer Avond in de tuin— bij de tjempakaboom geurt het verleden Evening in the garden— near the champak tree the past scents Gerrit Wassing De boomgaard is kaal. Maar de appelgeur is in huis komen wonen. Bare is the orchard. But the scent of apples has come to live in the house. Clara Timmermans de geur van vernis lang na opa’s dood zijn atelier treurt the scent of varnish long after grandpa’s death his studio mourns Geert Verbeke met de geur van gier ritselt de wind zich een weg door de rijpe mais smelling of dung the wind rustles its way through the ripe corn Max Verhart voor de zon opkomt de geur van de kou before the sun rises the scent of the cold Wim Lofvers zonder reserve en ongeremd geuren de rozen er op los without reserve and uninhibited the roses smell away Bas van Iersel 36 Eerste lentedag— naar de laatste winterprei geuren mijn klompen. First day of spring— the last of the winter leeks scent my clogs. Willy Cuvelier wakker worden met vinkengezang— en koffie ruiken waking up with the song of finches— smelling coffee LuCien Hostie voor het oog zomer maar de herfst al te ruiken een smal niemandsland summer to the eye but smelling fall already a narrow no man’s land Inge Lievaart never sunlit this alley—stench of lost hopes nooit een zonnestraaltje deze steeg—stank van verloren hoop George Swede fragrant breeze— one hundred year old pine in the wood chipper geurig briesje— een honderd jaar oude pijnboom in de versnipperaar Bruce H. Feingold a shower darkens— in the summer bookstore the smell of new novels een plensbui verdonkert— in de zomerboekhandel geuren nieuwe romans Burnell Lippy Just in from the rain my wet shaggy dog smells like fifty dry ones! Net binnen uit de bui ruikt mijn ruige natte hond als vijftig droge! James W. Hackett 37 nose-deep in the peonies' scent the bee and I neusdiep in de geur van pioenen de bij en ik Carole MacRury on the elevator just me and a stranger's perfume in de lift enkel ik en het geurtje van een onbekende Dorothy McLaughlin the bonfire is out only fumes of evening remain het vuurtje is uit alleen avondgeuren blijven hangen Antonella Fi;ippi old graves by starlight footsteps release a scent of thyme oude graven voetstappen verlossen de geur van tijm Ellen Compton our couch so fragrant with love I cover it with pillows onze sofa zo geurrijk van de liefde bedek ik met kussens Andrea Grillo map check the dog runs about from smell to smell op de kaart kijken de hond rent rond van geurtje naar geurtje David Cobb candle shop— the April sale of discontinued scents kaarsenwinkel— de voorjaarsuitverkoop van afgedankte geuren John Stevenson 38 somewhere in the night a petal fell but not its fragrance ergens in de nacht is een bloemblaadje gevallen maar niet zijn geur Charles J. Scanzello mixed in with the instructions her perfume vermengd met de aanwijzingen haar parfum Tom Clausen moving again— the dizzying smell of a permanent marker nog eens verhuizen— de verwarrende geur van een watervaste merkstift Peter Yovu 39 40 Max Verhart To Be Where You Are First day boat from Bangladesh— roaring over the fish market bridge line 4 to Moscow boat hermit— watching passers-by watching me ‘twixt fish market and meat house the fig droops and yellows over the water stopped clock in as far as time exists it doesn't In the corridor under Bord'eau (the restaurant where once the fish auction was) youngsters loiter. They talk and smoke, but you know neither subject nor substance. They practice visual rhyme though. For one of the mural paintings in that corridor depicts the smoking of a cigarette, either with or without some other stuff mixed into it. On the terrace above that corridor some shrubs in pots are sitting. Behind these a man has taken position to stealthily take a snapshot of me. So what one does is look that guy up there attentively in the eye for a moment. Self-recognition: he might as well have been sitting here and it could have been me up there. 41 Even though the clock has stopped, time is visible through the low door to the small forecastle. For time is the bow slowly gliding back and forth against the background of the Big Meat House’s stepped gables. Ghent-Bang II next to the water jug the ladle hangs First night The haiku was written many years ago: waking up from one reality into another For that's the way it is: when you are dreaming, the only existing reality is the dream. In that reality I had been in the water. Before that a toy doll had been standing at the window on the forecastle, looking in. Then an assailant appeared on board and in alarm I had rung the handbell. The next moment all that was behind me and I was on my way home, drenched to the bone, remembering that after ringing that bell I had jumped into the water—until through that memory the shimmering notion surfaced that I was dreaming. When you dream you are dreaming, you’re waking up. Rain pattered on the roof and I had to pee urgently. That was the other reality. Nothing to worry about. doll’s eyes— fear peeks in disguised as a dream 42 Second day wringing out the cloth— on board it’s always nine o'clock exactly Early this month for a few days I hosted a guest from Romania in my house. He teaches art and art history in his hometown, but is also internationally known as a haiku poet and a haiga painter. "Your living room," he said, "is so big it can contain the whole apartment Mihaela and I live in." The boat which now hosts me for a few days and nights has an inside surface of about eight square meters, I am told. That, I guess, is about two-thirds of the guest room in my apartment. However, in many parts of the world whole families have to make do with not much more or even less. And the meal service does not service them twice a day, like it does here. predecessor’s legacy two small wads of toilet paper night noise stoppers A subject I thought I would have to expand upon is the dictatorship of the economy. And the overuse of the planet. But what in the end is the latter but just another of the countless guises in which the dictatorship of the economy presents itself? Nothing. So all right, let’s talk about the dictatorship of the economy. But short. Very short. The philosophy of to have dominates the philosophy of to be to the extent that the dictatorship of the economy overpowers all and everything else. And hardly anybody seems to have any problem with it. That short then. It might well be afternoon by now, yet it’s still nine o’clock. On top of the Dutch gable of the house next to the Gras bridge a blue heron perched. Immediately he was besieged for some time by a flock of gulls, whom he repelled with flapping wings, stretching himself high on his legs. The seagulls gave up. And now the heron too is gone. It’s five minutes later and still nine o’clock. 43 44 two ducks and a canal boat so much attention I don’t know if the boat has a name, let alone what name. But it is MADE IN BANGLADESH, as is carved into it. As well as: MAKE BY RATAM AND SUDAM 2007. But that’s not exactly what it says, for the the M in RATAM misses its right leg, like an I with a small V stuck to the top. RATAIV ? You can make up stories on that. For example about a father in the wetlands of Bangladesh, teaching his son to build boats, like he himself was taught by his father. Of course everything goes wrong at first, or you would have no story. Or about two brothers, who keep hampering each other any way they can, until... Or about two competitors who are condemned to cooperate on the construction of this boat. Which does not prevent one of them mutilating the name of the other... But you might as well leave all fantasy behind and try to find out who those shipbuilders were and exactly what happened. And finally you can even just let it be as it is, without further pestering your mind: RATAM AND SUDAM, with an unfinished M in the first name. Or could that IV be a deformed N? RATAN? MAKE BY, that undeniably is what it also says. And since it’s carved in the wood, you can’t just erase that. I really thought all the time that that clock had stopped at nine o'clock, but that was a sort of mirror image perception: it was actually stuck on three o’clock. So I tried to adapt the text to the clock. But it made something in the text squirm and I could not put my finger on exactly what it was. So then I adapted the clock to what I had written and put it at nine o’clock. And now that is how I want to have found it. Wind the clock, that would have been another possibility. come have a look behind my eyelids such a beautiful purple 45 The unjust distribution of wealth, perhaps that’s also an issue I should expand on? But then: why? For there are only two kinds of people: those who know and those who, admittedly, also know, but ... The former don’t need to be and the latter don’t want to be convinced that things should change. They would have done better to put an optimist here. What is the match between an optimist and a pessimist? This: either one sees himself as a realist. And the other as inveterate. In the meantime the youth club under Bord'eau is at it again. This time there’s a thumping bass noise too. It is nine o’clock and, in this case, supposedly late in the afternoon. It's gotten cold and with a few interruptions rain fell all day long. As predicted, water seeped in at the door. Yet occasionally I still stood or sat on the forecastle. To watch and be watched. There’s a view of two bridges over the river Leie, a stretch of street behind a tiny park, the meat house and the quay alongside, the gallery next to Bord'eau, the restaurant itself, the Leie and canal touring boats. And from all these directions you can be watched—and you are being watched. Okay, so you take the pose of someone imperturbable. Hat on, for yes, that rain. But to suggest there’s not a grain of vanity involved ... What else? That heron of course. Tourists on the bridges. For most of them Ghent is the background for the pictures they take turns to shoot of one another. Trams thundering by on the eastern bridge, the Small Fish Market—including line 4 to Moscow again. Every time it sounds as if a thunderstorm is starting. But once you get used to it, you no longer notice. On the western bridge, the Gras Bridge, people walk or ride bicycles. No motorized traffic there. Maple and other leaves on the gray-green water: autumn floating by. A young woman and a young man who, rain or no rain, were arguing for a long time on the quay alongside the Meat House. Or rather, she was more arguing with him than he was with her. An elderly man, who came and sat down on a surely still wet bench on that same quay, to smoke a cigarette and feed the pigeons. The roofers on the house next to the Beer House, just across the Fish Market Bridge. I could have projected my fear of heights on them, but I didn’t. 46 And all of that successively in the course of the day at nine o'clock exactly. All in all, my slippers have become wet and my feet cold. Those slippers by the way also begin to fall apart. such luxury! pretending for three days to be poor Under Bord'eau silence has returned. The meal service, in the person of Ip Man, brought the message that I will have visitors this evening. At eight o'clock. Which doesn’t mean much, for the clock on board has no notion of a time like that. The attendees. And their gifts. Luc Humblet. Was the tour guide in 2010 for an international group of haiku poets gathered in Ghent. Runs a health food store with his wife. Was boat dweller in 2009, like I am now. Wrote a book about that. Brought a beehive shaped candle. Griet Delanghe. Is involved, I believe, in one of the other activities that, like this boat project, takes place under the collective title Belmundo. Gave me a book about the poet André Demedts. Michelle Delanghe. Sister of Griet, without further particulars. Gave me a noose. A noose? Isn’t that offensive? No. For it memorizes a moment in Ghent’s history and symbolizes the pride of the town. Ip Man. Taxi skipper and project boss. Brought tea for all of us. Max Verhart. Temporary boat dweller. Read out loud to the others some of his own work, written on board. tired tongues the guests leave the warmth lingers 47 48 Second night No dream has permeated the waking reality. Yet as usual my bladder made me wake up a few times. Which makes you leave the cabin. Okay, let's expose the sanitary procedures on board. Of course the primary goal of being here is to broaden one’s mind, or something like that, yet digestion and metabolism will take their usual course. Under the small forecastle deck there is a space that is accessible by lifting one or more deck planks. Down there are two buckets: one for waste water and the other for defecating. Among other things on the tiny deck there’s a piss-pot. To urinate one takes that into the cabin and empties one’s bladder in it, for who wants to attract attention by doing that outdoors? Next you lift a specific plank of the deck and empty the pot into the waste water bucket. Since that bucket has a funnel-shaped lid with a hole in the middle, the emptying out of the pot is a piece of cake. After that one puts the flush contraption into operation. This consists of a large earthen jar filled with water and the ladle hanging from a Phillips screw next to it. There’s a saucer as a lid for the jar. Take the saucer off the jar, draw a ladle of water to flush the piss-pot with and then pour that water too into the waste water bucket. Saucer back on the water jug, ladle back on the screw, plank back into place, and hi ho, to bring up some German: Pipi ist ja auch wieder gemacht. Yep, that made me get out of my bed a few times. Good opportunity to also check if the oil lamp, which at night hangs at the prow, was still burning. It wasn’t. I probably had not filled it up sufficiently. And so in the middle of the cold night on the small deck a man in his pajamas fills up that lamp, lights it again and hangs it back. There’s no denying it, the mind sure makes its demands! To spend a penny is one thing, to do one’s business is quite another. The facility for that is the other bucket, which is sit-proof. However, before sitting down on it, one hangs a plastic bag in it. After finishing the job, one ties the bag closed and puts the bucket back under the deck. C'est tout—certainly the Flemish will not blame a Dutchman for using a French expression?! That relief bag of course is made of biologically degradable plastic, exactly as you would expect from Viadagio. Sounding a dissonant note in that regard, by the way, are the two coat hooks on board: goat legs! And not the kind of goat legs one buys at the confectioner. 49 Third day A church bell just struck nine o’clock. How kind to agree with that stopped alarm clock on board! It’s strange though that I haven’t heard any church bells before. Too much other noise on other days? Today is Saturday, a day starting at a slower pace than the ordinary workdays, probably? clouds of breath the first gables catching sunlight Right now there are photos being taken of me, perhaps to be displayed or published. It’s the meal service, which by the way also takes care of the disposal of all waste products, that now takes on the role of a photographer who seems to see pictures in me. And gee and gosh, on the quay alongside the meat house someone else was photographing the photographer. His wife was looking on. women's quadruple sculls again rain falls on the spinach seed bags The visit last night. Why did I do this? To figure out why I did do this. But that's a fancy answer. By way of another answer I read a few pieces with my first impressions. Including the one about the fear disguised as a dream. Muttered some about the dictatorship of the economy and my inability to really write something about that. And what about spirituality? Ah yeah—the tat twam asi feeling. But it was cozy. And the temperature got nicely warm. And they brought presents. Regarding the dictatorship of the economy: it does not ask how to better divide the cake, but merely requires the cake to grow and keep on growing. And so to have has priority over to be, making ecology the catamite of the greed-ridden. While I am writing this, a group of tourists passes over the gallery close to where the boat is moored. 50 "Can I ask you something?" "Of course you can!" "What is the purpose of you and that boat here?" "Well, what can I say ... It has to do with the philosophy of to have dominating the philosophy of to be." "Aha. And this is your personal initiative? " "No no, I'm participating in a project by others." "Also, meine Damen und Herren, das Boot hier handelt sich um eine Art Philosophy. Und hinter mir sehen sie ... " Undsoweiter. Oops. This makes me feel quite priggish. But the sun has emerged again and that makes up for a lot. The guide on a passing tour boat explains to his five passengers that here an artist is slaving away at a text. "Wasn’t it cold last night?" one of his female passengers asks the writer. "Oh no, under my duvet, I was cozy and warm," I answer truthfully. Or did she want to be asked to come and keep me warm ...? slight swell hidden behind the meat house the sun already shines his camera clicks the hunchback takes me home the here and now on the cabin boarding my shadow with hat I haven’t heard a church bell for quite a while. The last time must have been at ten o'clock, though I did not count the strokes then. By now it will be afternoon. On the bridges on both sides of the boat passers-by come and go in hordes. Also more small and large tourist boats than yesterday pass—though the rain kept me mostly inside then. Weekend tourism. 51 52 Now the sky is clear again and the sun has appeared over the meat house. For almost all of today I am sitting on the forecastle and looking about, being looked at and making notes. Only my shadow remains inside, because the sun is behind me and the door to the hut in front of me is wide open. The air is still cold, yet I can feel the sun anyway. But my winter coat and the long scarf my love knitted for me are certainly not superfluous. I ‘m afraid I’m going to like it here. With cold feet, though. tour boats the skippers and I we salute my shadow and I inseparable as long as the sun shines Another conversation. Dialogue with one of two Dutch men. "What’s that, covering the roof?" "Spinach seed bags." "Spinach seed bags?" "Yes. I only discovered that after one day on board." I lift one of the bags a little and read out loud: "Spinatsamen. Spinach seed ". And I translate: "Not perishable until December 2013." "So you’ll be dry for some time yet!" I confirm that it is dry inside, as my first night aboard has proven, explain that the two boats—another one, without a cabin, is now also moored here—are made in Bangladesh, and that I will stay here uninterruptedly from Thursday till Sunday as one of six successive occupants. I call myself boat hermit, albeit for only four days. I also manage better than this morning with that group of Germans to explain what it is about: to detach yourself completely from all day-to-day worries and duties, empty your mind and open up to the here and now within yourself and around you. They then wish me a good stay. I wish them an pleasant day. 53 sparkling sun leaves floating by and another canal boat These notes are acquiring the character of a long haibun. Report of a Trip Without Relocation. The previous working title, Boat Hermit, can be crossed out. (Travel Report of a Found Hat was another option.) gusts of wind azalea leaves in the piss-pot a kiss on the bridge the boat hermit looks at it with a cup of tea What one can conclude is that in a few days one’s life pattern takes on a whole new routine. You get reprogrammed, as it were, by these radically different conditions. Or rather, you reprogram yourself. At first it’s uncomfortable to be watched like this. Then there are two possible strategies: to get inside and stay there or to cast off that strangeness. Part of the latter strategy is: to look back, raise your hand, show—or feel— no embarrassment whatsoever. That photographer behind those potted shrubs, who surreptitiously took a picture of me, sure felt the same kind of embarrassment as his photographed subject. When I am now being photographed I raise my hand in a salute. And I am similarly saluted in return. Or I receive a smile. Or both. So who’s still talking about embarrassment? "Do not enter in conversations too much," I was told. "For that detracts from what this is about." Which is: to turn in upon yourself. Or something like that. To wrap up in the here and now. But the woman who asks: "Can I take a picture?", isn’t she doing that precisely and exactly in the here and now? And the man in the house next to Bord'eau, who opens the window and interestedly and cheerfully calls out at me to ask something, 54 does or doesn't he too approach me in inevitably the one and only moment that is always right here: the now? Those experiences are just as much happening to me by me being right here right now, as seeing the gulls, quietly sitting on the ridge of the meat house at one moment and sweeping over my head against a background of clouds. screeching loudly, at another. One’s mindfulness increases. You notice details that exist and deserve to be noticed just as much as the imposing meat house, the historic gables and other sights worth seeing. And lo and behold: since getting on board until this moment—the afternoon will already be well on its way—I have presumably written more haiku than I did in all of the year before. That of course is a quantitative conclusion. It does not say anything in the least about quality. But it does say something. Past and future are both temporary. Only the now is eternal. Oh well, one has to come up with something on this boat. The roofing material does not just consist of spinach seed sacks, for in any case there is also a plantain seed sack among them. A full sack should weigh 25 kilos. Further print on it states: "Store in dark, cool and dry places." Well, of course those seeds need to be kept dry and so the first thing to do is put them in a waterproof sack. Which hence is also quite suitable as roofing material on a temporary accommodation. 'Everybody famous' it said on a tram that's gone by already squeezebox players on the bridge sudden music underneath the usual From the passing cruise boats sometimes snippets of the guide’s story can be caught. Thus you learn that the boat you 're sitting on will remain here till November 15th, while another guide explains that there's a 'writer' on board and yet another skipper reports that there is a permanent residency of consecutive boat dwellers. 55 56 So, being the current resident himself, you too get to hear the whole story in fragments and in various languages. How encouraging to experience that one’s presence has such a profound significance... From time to time one person or another throws something into, I suppose, one of the harmonica cases of the two young ladies playing music on the Fish Market Bridge. A few address them. Then a so-called beer bike with ten or twelve bragging folks on it passes the duo. Then a police car with blue flashing light. sudden applause the harmonica ladies clap to get warm banners over the boat seven steps he had to climb the lion on the meat house kid at hand under his other arm a plastic goat What the current circumstances easily allow is to be where you are. But aren't you always right where you are? No, you often are absolutely not where you are. And I sometimes think that some people never are there, where they are located. Right or wrong, that's what I sometimes think. Okay, the sun has disappeared behind the house with the gable where the heron fight took place. The cold wind now has the place all to itself and I crawled into the cabin. Cleaned up what had to be cleaned up, lit the four tea lights in the lanterns, partly also for heating, and, why not, even an incense stick for ambience. All of this with the scarf still around my neck though. The lamp on the bow: well filled up, lit and hung next to the forecastle. If one does that at ease, it works best. Like almost everything. 57 I straightened myself up once more for a moment, and sure enough, there across the water and notwithstanding the dusk, I recognized the meal service, liaison officer, skipper and Viadagio chief Ip Man, busy once more with his camera, like he was this morning and this afternoon. That is going to be a complete wedding shoot. Without a bride though... I am here as a writer, allegedly. But at age sixty-eight I find that I missed my real calling. I should have become a 'covergirl', as it turns out now… Tonight we will be given back the hour that we had to give up earlier this year, in March I think. Each year again I am relieved to reach that moment again, for I’d hate to have lived one hour too short. Decision to be made: either set back the stationary clock one hour or not? doing the dishes over the meat house the moon now rises A clear sky. The night promises to be very cold. Frost maybe? Well, under the duvet my own warmth will be enough not to be bothered. Once I get up it might turn out badly. The cabin is not part of the boat as Ratam (Ratan?) and Sudam delivered it. It was a later temporary addition. For the first time in 2009 for Gent-Bang I (the I of course has been added since the present 'recurrence' came about). That year for the first time four people lived a short voluntary hermit’s life on the boat. An imaginative observer will recognize in the shape of the now rebuilt cabin a big fish. As a consequence everybody noticing that will be reminded of the biblical Jonah in the belly of the whale. The belly of this whale is lined on the inside with tin foil, no doubt to keep the warmth in as much as possible. Unlike a real whale, which after all is not a fish but a mammal, this one has a skin covered with scales, which of course are not really scales but spinach seed, plantain seed and who knows still other seed sacks. The whale’s ribs—we’re now back on the inside—are made of timber, between which the tin foil is applied. There is also a spine made of short bars between the ribs, the bars staggering in relation to each other, so they could be screwed to the ribs without much difficulty. The rib cage is up to 5’9” high. And for someone like me, over 6’3” tall, that is not, let’s say, optimal. But then, the real Jonah surely had more reason to complain. 58 tea warmers the play of light and shadow in tin foil On the 'gangways', normally intended as seats, the necessary household items are now arranged: some crockery, cutlery, three of the four candle lanterns (the fourth hanging down), two small storage cabinets, an orchid in a pot (Phalaenopsis—what else?), a few blankets, the stationary clock. Between the two 'gangways' is the floor with a mat at the entrance, then a low platform (probably to stay dry under all circumstances), on which the roll-up mattress is sitting. On the floor also a breakfast-in-bed tray with folding legs. At the rear a window with a curtain. There, too, there is storage space for bags and other things that are not being used for a while. Up front, between the jaws of the whale, is the small door to the small deck, where the piss-pot and water jug sit, but also flowering plants. Including azaleas. The rolled-up mattress, in combination with the pillow I brought myself, serves during daytime as the back of a floor seat, with the duvet that’s part of the set-up to sit down on. On the storage cabinets some pictures. But these are no part of the set-up, for I brought them myself: my children, grandchildren and my love to be around me! While evening has turned into night, the current Jonah is still wearing that scarf. Thus it’s still quite tolerable in the whale’s belly. Third and last night For no apparent reason sleep will not come. Ip would come to pick up the empty thermos flasks and other returns, but he did not know at what time he’d arrive. And of course neither did I, because there's only a stationary clock here and the church bells are silent. So I had told him I would go to sleep when I felt like it, leaving behind on the forecastle the things he could take away. If I was asleep he just had to pick them up. And so I had rolled out the mattress, laid out my pillow and duvet on it, put on my pajamas, blew out the candles and laid myself down to rest. Images. Thoughts. But no transition to another reality. 59 60 And hence, after a while, I did hear Ip, quietly, not to wake me up. But he couldn’t wake me, because I was awake already and so I announced my presence. "Then I like to come inside with you for a moment," he said. What apparently had been his intention anyway, for he brought (half) a bottle of wine and two glasses. And so we drank to the renewed cooperation and we reminisced on the haiku week two years ago, recalling friends and acquaintances who were among the participants. "Don’t you miss Marlène," he inquired. "No," I said, "because she is here with me. Probably, " I added, "she actually is more with me these days than I am with her." After Ip's departure I crawled back into bed, unable to catch sleep or sleep unable to catch me. Meanwhile, the waste water bucket is still sitting on the forecastle, almost full to the brim. It would be better to hold my pee until the bucket is emptied again tomorrow, but I can’t make it that long. So I happen to actually invent an ancient Chinese proverb that says: "As long as the piss-pot is not full, it can take some more." voices in the night the moon high above Ghent as well as deep below Meanwhile, it must already be past midnight, but not yet enough to be an hour earlier again. ‘Third time lucky’ is said to be maritime law, and since I’m on a boat a third bedtime can’t fail to result in a justifiable sleep. 61 Fourth and final day the golden galleon captures the first light smokestacks smoking My day starts at about the same time as yesterday: I can make that up from the way the sunlight falls on the facades, especially on the facade on which that heron landed yesterday. But on the other side of the Gras bridge that gilded wind vane tried to cut a dash with the first rays of sun. It’s funny that two of the three chimneys that blew smoke into the air a moment ago have now ceased to do so. decorative clouds— illuminated from below an airplane Again, there is only one chimney emitting smoke now, but yet another one than a moment ago. Except for the trams the city remains quiet. An occasional passer-by, that’s all. On the embankment on the other side a cooing gull, a young one and a coot. A noisy flight of gulls skims over the water and is gone again. But even if it’s as late as yesterday at this time, it nevertheless is one hour earlier! As far as maritime law goes: it clearly does not apply here. Sleep came only after several sanitary actions of varying nature. It was quite turbulent outdoors and later on there was a constantly repeated soft but inevitable deep humming of indeterminate origin. "You gained a lot of energy here," Ip said last night. Absolutely true. A little too much perhaps. My ticker for instance was going noticeably faster. a fish’s splash uncle herring and nephew black head are gulling about 62 The gulls attacking that heron the day before yesterday probably considered him an usurper A gull has been sitting on top of that gable as if it were his throne for quite some time. look and look and look you’ll never get to know this place by heart chiming bells— on the back of a girl a cello passes By now people are continuously passing by, but not to the extent you might say it’s busy. I’m sitting on the deck with my legs in the cabin, hot water and coffee at hand, but the filter bags are inside. Winter coat, scarf, hat. At the stroke of ten, as just could be heard. I ‘m not going to say whether I got any the wiser these days, and if so how much. It's still too early for that. Let's say that such a boat trip without relocation triggers something in you that may or may not end today with disembarking. You can ask yourself what that trip would do even more to you if it was to be continued longer. You can ask yourself that. But why should you, if you booked for the four days and three nights that will be concluded today? Today’s first pedestrians just passed by over the gallery here and then the first tour boat with passengers already sailed by. The skipper and I, we saluted each other. Time to get a filter bag for a third cup of coffee. Plantain seed sacks. Why should one sow plantain? Another question: why do people photograph cityscapes using a flash? funky boots a flotilla of ducks chattering by Later today a new Jonah will enter the mouth of the whale for a full week. Not someone I know, like my predecessor and the successor of my successor. 63 64 There’s another photo shoot awaiting me: interior shots in the cabin. Probably this afternoon, just before I disembark and my luggage and waste products will be removed. I intend not to sail back with the lot, but to go ashore right here and anyway to walk one lap around what for a few days was the center of the world to me. The same lap as I walked before boarding. And yet, although the lap is the same, the walk now will be completely different. I did not set back the stopped clock one hour. For now remains now, no matter what time it is. One day later A thought I uttered yesterday in company in the Panda restaurant, before the ride back home: "It’s a question whether I will switch back again into my old life pattern just as easy as I switched to the life of a boat hermit. A different and actually much more interesting question is whether I want to switch back. I’m not going to answer that one now. It's something I can only predict afterwards. " Ghent / Den Bosch 25-29 November 2012 65 66 Max Verhart The Tat Twam Asi Feeling even before the reeds have straightened themselves they bend again This haiku, written more than a quarter of a century ago, was published in 19811. The three lines simply register how the gusty wind over the water makes the reeds along the banks bend over and over again, without allowing them to completely straighten up for even a moment. That's all. It was something I noticed years before I heard of haiku and it was only written down after I learned about that type of poem. Even before the reeds / have straightened themselves / they bend again. The 5-7-5 pattern was still very much the norm at the time, but this was (in Dutch) a 4-6-4 poem. Making it 5-7-5 was weakening it. Only much later the idea arose that the image of the reed never straightening entirely, could be viewed as a metaphor—for life itself, if you will. But such thoughts always only come afterwards. But when interpreting afterwards what you wrote yourself, you’re not doing that as the author, but rather as just another reader, whose interpretation is not a priori more interesting than that of any other reader. But that's not the issue here. So what is? This question: what makes a seemingly insignificant observation so significant that one writes a haiku about it? In a way, there is no other answer than the haiku itself. But to give it another try anyway: something is being observed and something is observing—and the one without the other is nothing or does not even exist without the other: one creates what one observes what one observes creates one The increased awareness that makes us perceive something seemingly insignificant as highly significant therefore is a situation in which the observed and the observer create one another. That of course is not a scientific truth, but it certainly can be considered to be an existential truth: to stay put for a moment to look at some clouds to be with what is2 67 The idea of an observer on the one hand, and something being observed on the other seems to be dualistic. But, if one creates the other, neither exists by itself, and both are merely two aspects of what in fact is a unity. So what seems to be dualistic is ultimately monistic. Hence one can say that a haiku describes an existential experience: you yourself are as much part of all that is, as all that is, is part of yourself. It’s experienced at times much more emphatically than usual: it’s recognized in the reeds incessantly bending in the wind, detected in clouds floating across the sky, sensed in the realization that sparrows breathe too and in countless other situations and moments. And in whatever way you actually phrase such an experience, however much you keep yourself out of the picture you create, it's your experience in your words. In a way you are describing merely yourself. Yes, in that respect each successful haiku also is a self-portrait: what you say is what you are This monistic perception of reality is of course nothing new. In fact, such a philosophy is thousands of years old. Frankly, my wording "you yourself are as much part of all that is, as all that is is part of yourself " differs not essentially from what in Brahmanism is called adwaita. I think I can translate this Sanskrit word, even though I don’t have any command of that language. Sanskrit is an Indo-European language and in many still spoken Indo-European languages, including English, we still have the prefix a- in words such as amoral, atypical and agnostic, where it acts as a denial. So the a in adwaita does mean: not. In -dwai we recognize our Dutch twee (and English two). Finally I understand the ta in Sanskrit as a suffix that matches the Dutch -te or -heid (English –ness). In Italian, another Indo-European language, -ta in that sense still exists! Hence, adwaita can be literally translated as not-two-ness3. And sure enough, exactly that is the meaning of this word in Brahmanism, which was a prevailing philosophy about three thousand years ago in India. Key concepts in this ideology are the concepts of Brahman and atman4. Brahman originally simply meant prayer, but the meaning has evolved into sacred knowledge and finally referred to a creative principle, from which the world in all its overwhelming variety of phenomena emanates. One should not, however, understand Brahman as God, but as an original constant, beyond creation. Brahman is sometimes translated as world soul. Atman originally meant breath. The etymological connection between these two words is still recognizable in the German word atmen (to breathe), in which the 68 word atman even almost literally returns! But just as prayer (Brahman) evolved into world soul, breath (atman) evolved into essence or self. This should not be understood as something like spirit or soul, but as our deepest core, devoid of corporeal shell and psyche. So those are the two key concepts: Brahman and atman. But you can’t be fooled into thinking that this is a dualistic philosophy, especially not since the core notion adwaita, or not-two-ness, has been explained. And yes indeed, in this philosophy Brahman is identical to atman: Brahman = atman. This is expressed in the famous phrasing: tat twas asi. It is you.5 Does that not remind strongly of the perception of observer and observed being two aspects of one and the same thing? Tat twam asi: you are part of everything and everything is part of you. What you say is what you are. I breathe the same air as those sparrows6 You don’t have to be a Brahmanist to be able to sense this ideology. It's just one way in which reality can be experienced—not constantly, but sometimes. At some of those moments I sometimes literally think: "Brahman is noticeably present here." But he/she/it always is, I just do not experience it all the time. But whenever that tat twam asi feeling makes itself felt, the unspeakable can perhaps sometimes be indicated in a meager construction of words, seeking to evoke the experience of being: even before the reeds have straightened themselves they bend again Notes 1 2 3 4 Vuursteen VIII-4, winter 1988. Max Verhart: Zijn met wat is (To Be With What Is). Parasol Series, Sint-Denijs-Westrem (Belgium) 1993. Adwaita is the pseudonym of the Dutch poet J.A. Der Mouw (1863 - 1919), who held a Brahmanistic philosophy of life. He could put that in an ironic perspective, as witnessed by a line from his (posthumously published) volume Brahman I: "I am Brahman. But we're without a maid.”. My understanding of this matter primarily stems from Hans Joachim Störig's Geschiedenis van de filosofie (History of Philsophy), published by Het Spectrum, Utrecht 1962. 69 5 6 The Dutch author Harry Mulisch paraphrases this expression in his novel De diamant (The Diamond , 1954). In one scene the people of ancient India are calling their king (in Sanskrit) a skinny bag of bones. 'Tat twam asi,' the king screams back in the same language. Which, says Mulisch, means: "That’s what you are". Max Verhart: een beetje adem/some breath. Het Hoge Woord, Bakhuizen (Netherlands) 1999. Noot voor Nederlandstalige lezers Voor Nederlandstalige lezers die het Engels onvoldoende machtig zijn is op aanvraag een Nederlandstalige pdf-versie versie van beide voorgaande teksten beschikbaar (max.verhart@hetnet.nl). (For Dutch language readers with an insufficient command of the English language, a Dutch language pdf-version of both preceding texts is available on request (max.verhart@hetnet.nl). 70 (Afbeelding achterkant omslag) De bekendste, beroemdste en meest vertaalde haibun ooit geschreven is zonder twijfel Basho's Oku-no Hosomichi, het verslag van de lange reis die hij in 1689 maakte. Het verslag over de 2400 kilometer lange voetreis werd gepubliceerd in 1694, het jaar van zijn dood. Sindsdien zijn er talloze edities van verschenen en werd het vertaald in vele talen. Een gangbare Nederlandse titel is De smalle weg naar het verre noorden. Eén bijzondere editie van twintig van de haiku's, die een wezenlijk onderdeel van de haibun vormen, is de reeks van veertig postzegels uitgegeven door de Japanse posterijen in de jaren 1987-1989. Er verschenen tien emissies van telkens twee paartjes postzegels in de waarden van aanvankelijk 60, later 62 yen. Elk paartje was gewijd aan één haiku, met op de ene zegel een gekalligraffeerde tekst en op de andere een illustratie. De Japan Stamp Publicity Association zorgde voor toelichtende informatie, met vertaling van de gedichten, in het Engels en Frans. Een reeks juweeltjes voor de schatkamer, die van de haikuliefhebber, de postzegelverzamelaar of de kunstkenner… (Image on the back cover) The best known, most famous and most often translated haibun ever written is undoubtedly Basho's Oku-no Hosomichi, the account of the long journey he made in 1689. The account of the 1500-mile journey on foot was published in 1694, the year of his death. Since then numerous editions have been published and it has been translated into many languages. A usual English title is The Narrow Road to the Deep North. One particular edition of twenty haiku, which are an essential part of the haibun, is the set of forty stamps issued by the Japanese postal service in the years 1987-1989. Ten issues of two pairs of stamps in the values of initially 60 and later 62 yen were produced. Each pair was dedicated to one haiku, with a calligraphy of the poem on the one stamp, and an illustration on the other. The Japan Stamp Publicity Association supplied information, including translations of the poems, in both English and French. A series of small gems for the treasury: be it the haiku lover's, the stamp collector's or the art connoisseur's ... 71 DICHTERS/POETS ðurña Vukelić-Rožić * Tiha glazba – Silent Music. Ivanić Grad 2015, ISBN 978-953-57651-4-1 * Ćiji je ovo planet? – Whose is this Planet? Ivanić Grad 2015, ISBN 978-953-57651-6-5 English translations by the author. Dutch translations by the Whirligig staff, except ‘bitter morning’, translated by Frans Terryn. Ecaterina Zazu Neagoe * Florile Vântului – The Flowers of the Wind – Les fleurs du vent, Constanza (Ex Ponto), 2012. ISBN 978-606-598-200-0. English translations by the author. Dutch translations by the Whirligig staff. Juan Carlos Moreno Plaza *El sonido del agua, Albacete, haibooks QVE, 2011. ISBN 978-84-15127-48-2. English translations by Klaus-Dieter Wirth. Dutch translations by the Whirligig staff. GEDICHTEN/POEMS All poems previously unpublished, except Carmen Sterba’s Perseid shower, which was published in The Heron’s Nest, 2011. REGIO/REGION Barbiers: Twee halve harten; Berry: Blithe Spirit 19/2; Bleijenbergh: Kortheidshalve I-91; Buschman: Haar blauwe vulpen; Clausen: frogpond 31/3; Cobb: Blithe Spirit 19/3; Compton: frogpond 33/1; Cuvelier: Een traan van hars; Feingold: Sunrise on the lodge; Filippi: Autumn Rose; Grillo: Modern Haiku 41/2; Hackett: The zen haiku; Herold: a path in the garden; Hostie: Parfum zweeft voorbij; van Iersel: Tweeënvijftig weerberichten; Kiauta: Vuursteen 93/94; Lievaart: Ribbels in het zand; Lippy: Cor van den Heuvel/Haiku Anthology 1999; Lofvers: SOMS; Luckring: a new resonance 6; McLaughlin: frogpond 33/3; MacRury: In the Company of Crows; van der Molen: wegwijzers naar nergens; Parsons: Modern Haiku 40/2; Reumer: Haiku - een vroege pluk; Roseliep: Cor van den Heuvel/Haiku Anthology 1999; Rotella: Cor van den Heuvel/Haiku Anthology 1986; Scanzello: Modern Haiku 39/3; Schneider: Texel 5-7-5; Stevenson: Modern Haiku 40/3; Stillman: Brussels Sprout IV/3-4; Swede: Joy in me still; Timmermans: De seizoenen van de appel (ed. Mesotten); Tipton: Blithe Spirit 2009; Verbeke: Kokoro; Verhart: zijn met wat is; Vereertbrugghen: aan het woord 2003; Wassing: Het lange luisteren; Yovu: Red Moon Anthology 10. 72 NORMAN DARLINGTON: * Mothers: World Haiku Review : 2007. * Getting there: Simply Haiku v2n2 : 2004. * Debris: Hermitage v1n1 : 2004. * Pecking order: Honourable Mention in the Nobuyuki Yuasa International Haibun Competition 2004. Dutch translations: Max Verhart. MAX VERHART: TO BE WHERE YOU ARE, Original Dutch title Zijn waar je bent; first published in 2012 by Viadagio VZW, Ghent (Belgium) as part of the book Ontmoet de schoonheid. Reprinted in 2014 by 't schrijverke, Den Bosch (Netherlands) as a separate volume. To be where you are werd onder de titel Zijn waar je bent voor het eerst gepubliceerd in 2012 door Viadagio VZW, Gent (België) als onderdeel van het boek Ontmoet de schoonheid. Herdrukt als afzonderlijke titel in 2014 door 't schrijverke, Den Bosch On the back cover of the 't schrijverke edition it said: "How it was to spend a few days as a boat hermit at the heart of Ghent? Well, a short but extremely fascinating experience. A lot of fun, really. Total dehurrification, detached from all self-imposed and other duties, no telephone, no computer or internet, no radio nor TV, no book, no magazine… So you look about a lot— outward and inward—and let all kind of things sink in. And you make notes. Those notes turned into a manuscript of over 5000 words, including some thirty haiku. Consider it as a long haibun-though that was not a premeditated purpose, for there wasn't any. Op de uitgave van 't schrijverke stond op de achterkant: "Hoe het was om als bootkluizenaar enige dagen in het hartje van Gent te verblijven? Wel, een korte maar buitengewoon boeiende ervaring. Enorm leuk eigenlijk. Totale onthaasting, los van alle al dan niet zelf opgelegde verplichtingen, geen telefoon, geen computer of internet, geen radio of tv, geen boek, geen tijdschrift... Je kijkt dus veel rond— naar buiten en naar binnen—en laat van alles op je inwerken. En je maakt aantekeningen. Dat werd een manuscript van ruim 5000 woorden, waaronder een dertigtal haiku. Zie het als een lange haibun - hoewel dat geen vooropgezet plan was, want dat was er niet." Max Verhart: The Tat Twam Asi Feeling Adaptation of The Tat Twam Asi Experience, a paper read on June 28th 2009 at the Second Italian Haiku Conference in Turin and published in Modern Haiku 41.3 (Fall 2010). The paper itself was based on the article Wat je zegt ben je zelf (What you say is what you are), published in the Dutch journal for short poetry Kortheidshalve (To Be Short) VI-1, October 1996 Bewerking van De Tat Twam Asi Ervaring, een lezing die op 28 Juni 2009 werd gegeven op de Tweede Italiaanse Conferentie in Turijn en in Modern Haiku 41.3 (herfst 2010) werd gepubliceerd. De lezing zelf was gebaseerd op het artikel Wat je zegt ben je zelf, gepubliceerd in het Nederlandse tijdschrift voor korte poëzie Kortheidshalve VI-1 van oktober 1996 73 Barbiers, Lia Bashō, Matsuo Berry, Maureen Bleijenbergh, Gaby Bouter, Adrian Buschman, Simon Clausen, Tom Cobb, David Compton, Ellen Cooper, Bill Cuvelier, Willy Darlington, Norman Feingold, Bruce H. Filippi, Antonella Grillo, Andrea Hackett, James W. Herold, Christopher Hostie, LuCien Hotham, Gary Iersel, Bas van Kiauta, Marianne Lievaart, Inge Lippy, Burnell Lofvers, Wim Luckring, Eve 34 71 35 34 30 34 39 38 38 30 37 22-29 37 38 38 37 34 37 31 36 34 37 37 36 35 McLaughlin, Dorothy MacRury, Carole Molen, W.J. van der Moreno Plaza, Juan Carlos Neagoe, Ecaterina Zazu Parsons, John Reumer, Wanda Roseliep, Raymond Rotella, Alexis Scanzello, Charles J. Schneider, Piet Sterba, Carmen Stevenson, John Stevenson, Richard Stillman, Jeffrey Swede, George Timmermans, Clara Tipton, James Verbeke, Geert Verhart, Max Vereertbrugghen, Walter Vukelić-Rožić, ðurña Wassing, Gerrit Yovu, Peter 74 38 38 33 15-21 11-14 35 36 35 35 39 33 30 30 38 31 34 37 36 35 36 36, 40, 67 34 6-10 36 39
