Poems by Mark Boog

I was fortunate to read with Mark Boog, pictured, one of Holland's best younger poets, at the Maastricht International Poetry Nights end of October. Below you will find two of his poems, in the original, and translated, taken from his De encyclopedie van de grote woorden (The Encyclopaedia of Big Words) which won the prestigious VSB Poetry Prize in 2006. Also a novelist, Boog was born in 1970 and is married with children. It will be clear from these poems that, while Boog follows the Dutch poetic tendency to employ a strong, near-surrealist bent in imagery, he forgoes the avoidance of the personal, the playful, and the narrative, opening up Dutch poetry to new tones and directions.

GELUK

Het geluk is overkomelijk. Men plaatst het

in een vitrine en gaat aan het werk.

Wie ernaar vraagt krijgt het te zien,

onder weloverwogen commentaar.

Het is gebruikelijk om ’s avonds achterover

te zitten en het geluk, zoals dat beschaafd

verlicht tentoongesteld staat, te beschouwen.

Men stoot de deelgenoot erover aan.

Die knikt of zegt heel zachtjes: ‘Ja.’

In hoeverre het geluk ons bepaalt

is niet eens een vraag: totaal. Wij zijn niets

dan ons geluk, en het geluk is waar wij zijn.

Slechts tijdens het afnemen van de glasplaat

slaan we soms de ogen neer. De vochtige

doek hangt slap in onze handen. Zo mooi.

HAPPINESS

Happiness is surmountable. One places it

in a glass case and goes to work.

Those who ask are allowed to see it,

accompanied by a balanced commentary.

It is customary to lean back in the evening

and, in the refined light it is

exhibited, consider this happiness.

One gives one’s companion a nudge.

They nod or say quite softly: ‘Yes.’

To what extent this happiness determines us

is not even the question: absolutely. We are nothing

but our happiness, and happiness is where we are.

Only whilst wiping the glass top

we sometimes lower our eyes. The damp cloth

is slack in our hands. So beautiful.

LIEFDE

De lucht ligt als een blok op het land,

onzichtbaar en massief.

Je gaat gekleed in de kleur van je haar,

in je ogen, je passen en je woorden.

Je bent hier en elders. Ik draag je me na

en huiver. Je bent te groot misschien,

of te dichtbij. Je onbereikbaarheid

is onvergeeflijk. Kon ik een vogel zijn −

maar de nauwkeurigheid ontbreekt me

zoals het vertrouwen. Ik kijk naar je

en huiver. Spreek me aan, want ik zwijg,

verdraag mijn wurggreep, verdraag

de onbeholpenheid, verdraag mij, liefde.

LOVE

The sky lies flat on the ground,

invisible and solid.

You are dressed in the colour of your hair,

in your eyes, your steps and your words.

You’re here and elsewhere. I give chase to you

and shudder. You are too tall perhaps,

or too near. Your inapproachability

is unforgivable. If I could be a bird –

but the precision escapes me

as does the trust. I look at you

and shudder. Talk to me, as I’ll keep quiet,

suffer my stranglehold, suffer

the awkwardness, suffer me, love.

poems by Mark Boog, from De encyclopedie van de grote woorden (Cossee, Amsterdam, 2005); translated by Willem Groenewegen. Reprinted with permission of the poet.

IQ AND THE POETS - ARE YOU SMART?

When you open your mouth to speak, are you smart? A funny question from a great song, but also, a good one, when it comes to poets, and poetry. We tend to have a very ambiguous view of intelligence in poetry, one that I'd say is dysfunctional. Basically, it goes like this: once you are safely dead, it no longer matters how smart you were. For instance, Auden was smarter than Yeats , but most would still say Yeats is the finer poet; Eliot is clearly highly intelligent, but how much of Larkin 's work required a high IQ? Meanwhile, poets while alive tend to be celebrated if they are deemed intelligent: Anne Carson, Geoffrey Hill , and Jorie Graham , are all, clearly, very intelligent people, aside from their work as poets. But who reads Marianne Moore now, or Robert Lowell , smart poets? Or, Pound ? How smart could Pound be with his madcap views? Less intelligent poets are often more popular. John Betjeman was not a very smart poet, per se. What do I mean by smart?

"I have crossed oceans of time to find you..."

In terms of great films about, and of, love, we have Vertigo, In The Mood for Love , and Casablanca , Doctor Zhivago , An Officer and a Gentleman , at the apex; as well as odder, more troubling versions, such as Sophie's Choice and Silence of the Lambs . I think my favourite remains Bram Stoker's Dracula , with the great immortal line "I have crossed oceans of time to find you...".

THE SWIFT REPORT 2023

I am writing this post without much enthusiasm, but with a sense of duty. This blog will be 20 years old soon, and though I rarely post here anymore, I owe it some attention. Of course in 2023, "Swift" now means one thing only, Taylor Swift, the billionaire musician. Gone are the days when I was asked if I was related to Jonathan Swift. The pre-eminent cultural Swift is now alive and TIME PERSON OF THE YEAR. There is no point in belabouring the obvious with delay: 2023 was a low-point in the low annals of human history - war, invasion, murder, in too many nations. Hate, division, the collapse of what truth is, exacerbated by advances in AI that may or may not prove apocalyptic, while global warming still seems to threaten the near-future safety of humanity. It's been deeply depressing. The world lost some wonderful poets, actors, musicians, and writers this year, as it often does. Two people I knew and admired greatly, Ian Ferrier and Kevin Higgins, poets and organise

E Y E W E A R, THE BLOG - FREEDOM MEANS BEING UNAFRAID TO WRITE WHAT YOU THINK

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