Michael Longley

De Ierse dichter Michael Longley werd geboren op 27 juli 1939 in Belfast. Zie ook alle tags voor Michael Longley op dit blog.

 

The Boxers

We were combatants from the start. Our dad
Bought us boxing gloves when we were ten —
Champions like Euryalus, say, or Epeius
Of wooden-horse fame: ‘I am the greatest!’
‘Nobody’s going to knock me down!’ Listen,
Peter, to the commentary — gruesome teeth-­
Grinding, sweat splattering their arms and legs,
Huge fists in ox-­hide thongs slugging it out,
Then the knock-­out blow to Euryalus’s chin —
Hoisting him with an uppercut — like a fish

That arches out of weed-­tangled shallows
And collapses back into hazy water,
Sea wind sending shock-­waves up the beach —
The winner gives the loser a helping hand
And his seconds support him across the ring
On dragging feet, head lolling to one side,
Blood clots et cetera et cetera…
I’ll tie your gloves. Shall we fight again?

 

The Linen Industry

Pulling up flax after the blue flowers have fallen
And laying our handfuls in the peaty water
To rot those grasses to the bone, or building stooks
That recall the skirts of an invisible dancer,

We become a part of the linen industry
And follow its processes to the grubby town
Where fields are compacted into window-boxes
And there is little room among the big machines.

But even in our attic under the skylight
We make love on a bleach green, the whole meadow
Draped with material turning white in the sun
As though snow reluctant to melt were our attire.

What’s passion but a battering of stubborn stalks,
Then a gentle combing out of fibres like hair
And a weaving of these into christening robes,
Into garments for a marriage or funeral?

Since it’s like a bereavement once the labour’s done
To find ourselves last workers in a dying trade,
Let flax be our matchmaker, our undertaker,
The provider of sheets for whatever the bed –

And be shy of your breasts in the presence of death,
Say that you look more beautiful in linen
Wearing white petticoats, the bow on your bodice
A butterfly attending the embroidered flowers.

 

The Feet

You showed me my twin’s feet when he was dead,
Your sailor-husband’s feet, your engineer’s – how
Cold they felt, how handsome ankle and toe,
Bone-shapes out of our gloomy womb-tangle –
A god’s immortal feet, I’ll dare to think,
When we scatter his ashes in the North Sea
Off the windy pier at Whitburn Village –
Poseidon, say, who drives his chariot’s bronze-
Hoofed horses so headlong over the waves
All the sea-creatures know who it must be

And the sea parts with a kind of happiness
And the axle doesn’t even get wet.

 

Tuinieren in Cardoso

Wilde bloemen worden onkruid
In deze kleine driehoekige
Garfagnana-tuin
Waar ik robertskruid uittrek,
Wolfsmelk, muur-verslindende
Valeriaan, knoflookachtige
Daslook, dode netels.
Hoe zit het met oregano?
Niet hoger dan hondenpis,
Die de waternavel beschermt.

De schuilplaats van de hagedis?
Ik heb de wilde vijgenboom teruggesnoeid,
Zijn wortels onder de casa
Die tegen onze waterleidingen drukken,
Met slaperige slakken als enige vrucht.
Van acacia – zonder bijen,
Onverlicht – verbindt zich een seksuele
Zwaarmoedigheid met mij
En vijf oude vrouwen – de laatste
In het dorp die de

Pinksterrozenkrans zingen hier
Naast bij het heiligdom van San Rocco.
Ik laat herderstasje voor ze achter
Zaaddozen – kleine hartjes –
Lepelvormige bloemblaadjes op stekels.

 

Vertaald door Frans Roumen

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 27^e juli ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2020 en eveneens mijn blog van 27 juli 2018 en ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2017 en ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2011 deel 2.