Sculpting and poetry are closely related artistic ways of expression. Both disciplines strive for the compaction of ideas, concepts, views, thoughts. In the end, the condensed form is different, but the intentions are similar. The sculptor is a material poet, the poet is a sculptor with words.
Collected Poems
by Jos Letschert
(English)
Ruthless self-portrait
I am visiting
myself tonight,
not so inspiring
at first sight,
an empty glass
and little light.
I secretly check
my watch to see,
whether I stayed
long enough
to flee.
Longing
On the border
between sea
and sand, it is
hard to make
a choice.
Always longing
for the other side.
While I'm dreaming,
I want to wake up,
when I'm awake,
I try to sleep.
Sand in September
Sand, nothing but sand
and water, your steps
are drowning, like my
reluctant thoughts.
Sea comes and goes.
The hem of your calf-length
dress colors dark pink,
due to the foam of waves
washing your feet, before
they withdraw, as enamored,
nevertheless shy adolescents.
A secret garden
Sometimes, before the evening
falls, we walk on also fallen leaves
and thoughtless winding paths
under the old wood of a secret
garden. Nobody knows how to
get there, you don't either.
It's a questionable garden,
not carefully planted in advance.
There are bushes without leaves,
but that is the season’s fault.
Coincidence is gardener there
and visitors are not expected.
Whoever strolls around on a
late and darkening evening,
becomes inevitably part of
that ongoing mystery.
Watering words
Planted a hawthorn hedge,
moved some rhododendrons,
put a boxwood in a jar, tied
up the roses.
Intervened here and there,
in the small order of this life.
Made dirty hands, deleted
weeds, bundled thoughts,
watered words.
Stripes and scratches
Between stripes
and scratches, colors
lighten up, forms are
flying away, images
adrift.
I fight what I capture,
I don’t want to give up
what I let go.
A lot needs to be added,
to make clear, what I
leave out.
Impromptu
White paint like
fresh snow, spilled
on flattened grass,
on apostate leaves
on bare stone,
or simply lost in a
puddle of water,
in smoldering fire:
underground.
An unprecedented
pattern, disorderly
moments developing
improvisational - from
the moment itself –
habitable thoughts
with a tender structure:
upperground.
Drawing
Wandering between
appearances and
considerations, I
choose long, thin
and short lines, stripes
and planes. No point
at all.
Getting lost in flat
paper landscapes,
I am creating space
and other falsifications,
sometimes jumping,
often in a slow way,
step by step.
I sprinkle food for
trackers and meaning
hiding scratches for
handwriting explainers.
Much needs to be
added to make clear
what I leave out.
Yesterday's snow
In yesterday's snow,
when thaw sets in,
you can find fragments
of presumed lost thoughts.
Verities
If it is true,
for how long,
or how much
and for whom?
If it is true,
it is mostly
too beautiful
to be true, or
only holding for
one or two still
unbiased moments,
then it is already
different again,
is it not true?
Incongruous
Not a word
put on paper,
no thought
organized.
Left the void.
Just some gloss
at not yet written
phrases. Meaning
does not always
fits and is often
incongruous.
Nothing is easy
Inventing a word
for an incongruous
poem, articulate
the sentence and
representing a
concept, taking
a picture today
of what doesn't
happen until
tomorrow, remind
you of something
that has not yet
been, or: rid luck
from coincidence.
Nothing is easy.
Ease does not
serve man. Giving
up doesn't pay.
Much is worth it.
Too complicated
How far away can
you be, if you're close?
Can you imagine a
distance, how long
does a game last?
What is the plural
of singular? When
is something finished,
or will it only then
begin?
Simplicity cannot be
dictated, such as: too
complicated, Mr. Schubert,
we don't like complexity.
Where are you now?
I can't play you, I can’t
follow your traveling,
I'd rather have you
around me, especially
when you're gone,
yes then, especially
when you're gone,
with all these notes
on your score.
Inspiration
A brief sparking,
insanity for a while.
A heart on the run.
Eyes, lost in each
other, frivolously
cheated. Happiness
to hell.
Short moments,
so attractive for
poetry.
Moments
Cherish your
moments of
happiness.
Insure yourself
of warmth for
chilly hours.
A bird flies
beyond. The
phone rings.
The newspaper
is coming.Tea
water boils.
I love you
today, not
more special
as tomorrow,
I suppose,
but more than
yesterday, or
as I can tell
you now.
Period rooms
Those who go for a walk
in the evening in old Dutch
inner cities, see in passing
sometimes, in the twilight
of shaded lamps, due to
unclosed windows and
among the greenery of
houseplants, in decent
flowerpots, still glimpses
of long-lost period rooms.
Domestic intimacy, actually
hidden, but at the same time
so open, is guarded casually
through stylish doors, canal
green, nearly black and with
a copper button. Hand-painted
- at eye level - a name or number
in a jaunty, but chic font.
The walker passes respectfully,
slowing down the steps for a
moment. His gaze enters the
room: looking, accidentally,
longing? He doesn't see me.
The walker has already passed.
I can still hear his steps. They
sound as in an impromptu
by Schubert.
Quay
A black-tinted, salt-weathered
pole, clamped at the quay,
in addition to an iron ladder,
no further than half-way down,
with bows to help the reaching
hands. An edge of concrete,
painted bright orange: this is
where the land ends, the sea
begins.
How high should the tide be,
for a wandering skipper?
Does he know the hour, the
right time? What moves him
to lay here, leave his vessel to
scrape the paint on the land
with his boots?
How low can ebb be,
to leave the land from the
last step to take the plunge
to the wood of the boat?
Does he know the moment,
or does he trust coincidence,
like the lines in the sand,
seemingly without ground?
Sea at Sylt
Sea, only sea,
no wave dares
to raise a head.
Expectant I am,
like a swarm of gulls
behind a fishing cutter.
What are you thinking,
you ask, what am I
thinking, I think, high
on the dune between
Kampen and List.
If you ask me,
I don't know,
if you don't ask me,
I know.
Broken
What is left if
there is nothing left,
unreasonable space
maybe, remains of a
membrane, vibration
of broken connection
perhaps, or the lack of
wonder.
Talking movements
I see you talking,
from a distance,
with here and there
interruptions, that
means: I see the
dislocation of talking
movements, they
come and go, blowing,
pulsating, sometimes
salty, tolerable from
time to time, shooting
too, nevertheless, finally
slowly absconding in a
pointless sea.
Shutter speed
What has been
is not gone,
even if you
cannot touch
it anymore,
it touches
you always.
Memories
become more
beautiful in the
long run, after
the closing
of time.
Lost
As long as you
don't know
where to go to,
you haven’t lost
the way yet.
If you know where
to go to, but not
exactly how to come
there, well, then
you’re lost.
Like a leaf falls
More or less dancing,
swaying actually -
or better: hesitating.
Wanted to tell you
about it, but I didn't
know precisely where
or when it has begun.
I only looked then
how inescapable
even a dancing leaf
yet falls.
As though
As if it wasn’t
always like this,
we've read and
laughed,
I remember
what you did
not told me,
I forgot what
you said to me.
Through the
window-pane
we looked at
each other and
to the things that
vain and tumbling
mirrored in the
glass,
as if it was not
always so, but
it wasn’t.
Aging
Less knowing,
more assuming,
no longer believing,
maybe hoping,
doubting actually,
and much more
intuitive than ever
before.
The older the more
impatient, there is
not so much time
left.
Alibi for flying a kite
We used to make kites,
in former days, well, my
dad made kites for me, that
means: I wasn't supposed
to touch anything, only when
the kite was launched, what
is quite a process. At first
the rope had to be attached,
not knotted, but with two
matches through the loop of
the rig. Then running, my father,
I mean. Often the tail was too
heavy, or too light, then we
had to take paper off, or adding
more. Then running again. If he
stood, the kite, I could hold the
rope for a while. Well, my father
was holding the bobbin, a piece
of wood with two sticks making
it easier to wind and to unwind
the rope. So, I was allowed to
touch the line for a while, feeling
the tension, the kite fighting
against the wind, the rope in a
long bow, from our hands to the
air. Sometimes we’d send
messages, well, my father did,
pieces of paper, torn till the
middle, slid around the wire,
as high as possible, until the
wind took over.
After a while, the kite was
taken down, meter by meter,
rolling up the rope. Sometimes
a kite got lost, due to a gust of
wind, a decline carried out too
sharply, or a rope break.
Unfortunately, of course, but
also beautiful, then we could
make a new kite, well, my father
of course, I mean, for me, as
an alibi.
With different eyes
I wish your attention,
your perceptiveness,
so that you know that
I'll be there, so that you
perceive all what I do
and that you hear
what I will say to you.
It's me, just look at me,
your attention is the core
of my existence. Who am I
as no one notices me?
If you really look at me,
then you might see me,
and maybe this time
with different eyes.
Building a boat
Four years I was, or
something like that,
just in kindergarten.
I built with blocks a
boat, together with
- I forgot his name -
and those nuns there,
they understood at
least that we could not
break down the thing
at the late afternoon.
My grandfather is a
plumber, I said to
- I forgot his name -
he can make everything,
he will make a rudder for
us, then we sail tomorrow.
I really believed that we
could sail, I was very
convinced of that. So much
faith I have lost in later
life, but that we could sail
with this self-built ship, I
do believe that till today.
The last Indian
There were still horses
grazing in the ‘Horse Meadow’.
My grandfather walked with
big steps through the wet grass,
with double steps I went next
to him.
He cut branches from a tree
and from his pocket he took
a rope. The largest branch
was bent into a bow, others
where pointed to arrows.
Suddenly I was an Indian and
Grandpa became chief, with
a ‘Court Jester’ in his head,
I mean his favorite brand cigars.
The remaining rope was tied around
my hair, with a duck feather in it.
Now there are houses in the
‘Horse Meadow’, you don’t see
horses anymore. Once I was happy
there and the last Indian.
Equestrian statues
The overbearing attitude
of people to be on the
back of a horse. Proud
animal with fragile legs.
The graceful line is now
disrupted by the rider’s
counterform, laying
weights on the bridge,
that most vulnerable
place.
I like most sculpture of
Marino Marini, especially
his riders. Unintentionally
I suppose, he shows us
how misplaced a human
looks like on a horse’s back.
Even clumsy. It’s not going
well for long too. His later
horses throw off their riders,
at least, they try very hard
to do so. It may be called a
"Miracolo" that the riders can
cling to the opposing horse
for so long.
Beyond doubt
If you tell me
that you don't know,
it doesn't mean that
you don't know it.
Probably you know,
but not sufficient
enough to decide
already that it is
worthwhile enough
to hold it in words.
Landing
Before landing the
eyes closed, still
uncertain, expectant,
hesitant, that kind of
things.
There may be a
rejection, without a
reasonable explanation,
like feathers bound on
a stick, a bird's head,
a dead sparrow, or another
totem or fetish for initiates.
The morning doesn't seem
to be habitable, like a long
time ago abandoned paper
wasp's nest, broken by
searching crows. The water
is offshore. Nothing indicates
a happy ending. I arrived
to get lost again.
Penates
That's enough,
I'm going to my
penates now.
There's no now
and then, at most
a handful desire,
melancholy,
nostalgia,
and more of
that kind of
sentimental
things.
I invited no one,
but all they pass.
We exchange
volatile thoughts.
Collateral damage
Maybe something like
that, or something else?
That's how it is. I'm sure.
Say something too, you,
crawling through mud,
bigoting with mown
feathers and a godforsaken
password, paralyzed hands,
grabbing magician, slipping
king's daughter, I liked you
more than you liked me,
I thought, but that was
after the storm and the
screeching of chainsaws
in fallen trees. I suspect
the fear of birds. They
don’t care at all.
Bad company
You don't know them,
they on the other hand,
know you, and on a day
so black as a piano,
nevertheless still with
some music in it, it is
Swodderstocking who
collects the Havelar,
while the unreliable
Labberlot ruins in the
meantime the faded
residues of unnecessary
allure, under the biased
eye of freaky Onevar,
that useless leak field.
Streetdogs, cherubim,
thieves, factotums,
chicaning companions
in a taunting life.
Immeasurable
Immeasurable:
the highest
step of happiness.
Penny counters,
barterers, failed
magicians, ruthless
crooks,
hurry, but don't
stumble already
on the first sport,
against all odds,
or knowing
better.
Postcard
I have sent
you something,
it's a postcard:
a square with
trees, a church
with tower, a
monument with
forgotten names.
The air is so bright
blue that it must be
colored afterwards,
or it is deep in France
and always summer.
I have written
something on the
backside, I suppose
it's about love,
like: I am here now,
you are there, if
you were here,
I am sure I would
stay there.
Far, far away
I didn't believe you,
as you said: I leave you,
thought it was only
your mood for a moment
of time.
I had no idea
that it could be more
than a fancy and fleeting
announcement, between
a biscuit and maybe a cup
of your usual tea.
Far, far away,
far, far away,
far, far away.
She is far, far away,
leaving me here now
with maximal thoughts
in my head and with
minimal words
in my mouth.
Far, far away,
far, far away,
far far away.
I didn't believe you,
as you said: I leave you,
thought it was only
your mood for a moment
of time.
Far, far away,
far, far away,
far far away.
Decembersong
The wariness of snow,
it falls, but it cannot be
taken for granted,
hesitantly, more or less
restrained, as a white
flaky particle decelerator
for a new still-life,
fragile and perishable.
Prospects are blurry,
the insight still open,
questions have been
lost in the multitude
of answers.
It is December again
and inside vulnerable
enchanted glass birds
are singing exuberant
inaudible, a nostalgic
song - for those who
can or want to hear it -
about wonder, connexion
and desire.
Outside swirls snow:
some slight wingbeats.
Maybe a dove, a sparrow,
or a black crow? What
else could it be in this
late month? Although:
on lower bushes there
are hanging just spun
swirling mists of moon-
white tinsel, and from
the cheeks of wind the
same melody is blowing
gently but unmistakable,
that old Decembersong.
Glowing backlight
December again, and
anew the final day of this
damp cold month, with
timidly, reserved
airy colors.
A touch of glassy blue,
a wipe of pigeon-grey,
wilted whites, windswept
blacks, against an early
evening twilight, and if it
– royal error – does not
snow again, but raining
cats and dogs, you will see
in the glimmer of old
fashioned streetlamps an
uplighting pavement of
hesitating soaking wet
dutch gold.
There hasn’t to be said
so much, but unsaid does
not mean that it goes
without saying, or as a matter
of course. Hidden inner city,
between your walls we go
through our finest dusky hours.
Tomorrow morning everything
is apparently the same,
nevertheless undeniable too,
in a different glowing backlight.
Perspective
Decemberland, packed
in swirling mists, a glimpse
of afternoon light, colored
pigeon gray, much depth
too, as a painter would do,
with atmospheric perspective,
wings, or vanishing points for
imaginary lines, making
everything smaller on the way
to an uncertain horizon.
A raven is flying by,
messenger of lost gods: their
signs are not heard anymore,
not to mention understood.
There's much to hold tight
in future, but also to leave,
considering, as a photographer
would do, searching for light on
fragile fragments. Tomorrow
will be another day, with fresh
snow perhaps. Early birds will
be the first to write on it, or
you and me.
Palimpsest
The year almost
written to an end,
on old parchment,
waiting to be
scraped for a
new beginning
on residues of ink,
scratches and a
single crack, like
on ice, abraded
by sharp feet
of skaters, writing
their accidental
signs in a not yet
really understood
language, like on
photos, layered by
double exposure,
as a kind of
memory, mixed up
with prospect, and
where, what has
already been,
prepares the way
for what is
coming yet,
but different.
Non finito
It's already
dark before
night falls,
the town is
dressed in
gray, fields
are glazed
and hazy is
the winterwood.
Few accents,
like birds
against
the sky.
No song to hear,
nothing sings
by itself.
There's a lot
you'd rather
forget, but also
things you never
want to lose,
like repressed or
dearly cherished
memories. They
follow you and
change as time
goes by. What’s
finished has lost
its future. Nothing
is final. Everything
moves.
Around you
You have a lot
around you:
thoughts fly in
and out, words
too. You pick up
what you find,
as reminder, or
a usable foretoken.
So much around
you, from all sides,
as in a still life by
Braque.
Long journey
And if you go,
please one more kiss,
it's such a long journey
and I can't go with you.
It's a journey you didn't
choose yourself, you don't
even know where you are
going to and if you need
to take something with
you, like a coat, a bag,
a hat, or something else.
Please one more kiss before
you go, it's such a long journey.
No god is waiting there for you,
you are about to leave your god,
right now.
Shine and gloria
Night gave birth to
the brothers sleep
and death.
My crib is lined
with silk and hang
with tulle. I'm almost
immobile, wrapped like
a mummy on a too
early deathbed, waiting
for a new morning.
Twenty-five thousand
times it went well so
far and I served the day,
saving in the meantime
silverware and wings,
illusions and other ladies
in-court, and much more
shine and gloria.
Against better judgment
and endless-seeming time,
while nothing stays, neither
thing nor dream. The blink
of an eye, maybe, or a poem.
Well, a poem, perhaps, for a
short moment, until one gets
rid of it.
Reflection time
Misplaced: flowers on
windows, children caught
in desolate schools, walked
dogs, elated but on a leash.
In dawn and dusk the light is
young or old, tar and brittle,
promising too, like sticky dough
for rolls to be baked.
Time was not linear and
imagination still my friend.
I am so young, maybe a
hundred lives, to be counted
on the fingers of ten hands,
or five feet and five hands,
clear in any case. I often
thought about that, before I
was born, remembering
the road I have to go.
After the Ice Age
Until it stops,
before then
you don't think
about it, much
is forgotten in
the long run.
No explanatory
reason, no moment
remembered either,
to what I could never
resist, but no longer
do now, like: ice
skating on frozen
lakes, as in a
congealed still life,
on a way from
nowhere to nothing.
Interface
Under the mask
hides another
borrowed face
and some more
below. Layered
probabilities,
- appearing and
disappearing -
even though they
are tied with ribbons
against an annoying
loss, meanwhile
speaking in many
languages, which
they don't master.
Ancestors
A child am I
of many parents,
stacking predecessors
in and on my head,
carrying them along,
as penates, fetish,
burden sometimes,
in hope of reluctant
blessing.
Most of them are
strange and far to me.
I am going back in mind,
cherishing signs, crossing
borders, asking birds,
defeating shadows, raging
emptiness beyond, to an
uncertain destination.
Mythological poems
Playing ball Menelaos
Envied by all suitors,
run off with desirable
Helena. For a while it
goes well, but it is not
always easy to be
Menelaos. That damned
dominate brother, that
Paris parasite, that
adulterous wife,
pretending to be a phantom
or the shadow of a cloud.
Finally, the Elysian fields,
nectar and ambrosia for
ever, and a lot of eternal
boredom, of course.
Laertes
You don't have
to prove yourself
time over time.
Your views
are covered by
a gossamer veil
of humility - only
your memories
keep you going
on, and maybe
a small trace
of hope.
Birds fly on
and off in their
shadows on the
wall, food for
dreamers and
eager prophets.
Penelope's considerations
after Odysseus' return
Restless wanderer,
I can hardly see the
difference between
my dark dreams and
those of ivory. What
do you want to tell me
during this long night,
struggling with your
memories, trying to
recast your past in
order to handle an
obscure future?
Can you free yourself
from what you're chasing,
or does it remain the
everlasting burden on your
shoulder that you will never
shed? And what will be our
prospect, if there is one?
Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe
I booked a flight to Ithaca,
long time ago since I was there,
I booked a flight to Ithaca,
it took me some time to dare.
I booked a flight to Ithaca,
wonder if she is still there,
I booked a flight to Ithaca,
hoping that you still care.
Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe
Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe
Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe
I am still remembering your tears,
maybe that you remind my fears,
fate was finally my destiny,
I had to leave you in uncertainty.
Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe
Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe
Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe
Now I've booked a flight to Ithaca,
long time ago since I was there,
I've booked a flight to Ithaca,
hoping that you still care.
Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe
Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe
Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe
Andromache's complaint
Hektor, elegant hero,
you beat Patroclos,
brother-in-arms of
Achilles, who will
never forgive you.
Your wife and mother
of a futureless son,
weeps and laments
at the prospect of
their pernicious
fate.
Homer, however
- the industrious
collector of atrocious
stories – rubs his
hands, satisfied,
looking back at
all that trouble.
Prometheus
You – forward thinker –
steal, with glow on your
cheeks, the holy fire
of the gods, for the sake
of civilization.
Everything has its price,
and you know yours.
Zeus breaks with you
and Hephaestos chains
you on a rock, where
an eagle picks out your
liver, again and again,
until Heracles frees you
from this sad fate.
You're still warning your
brother Epimetheus, for
temptation of divine gifts.
Nevertheless - the incorrigible
hindsight thinker - marries
beautiful Pandora, with her
pernicious jar, that she
– Proto-Eva – cannot resist
for long, to misery of people.
Kalchas: questionable seer
Maybe I didn't really want
to see what is, or what will
come. I do not know the
language of lost traces, and I
see only afterwards the faded
signs on flaking walls, omen
of translucent birds. They didn’t
prevent me from recommending
that atoning sacrifice. Poor
divination, Iphigeneia is always
on my mind.
I am wirelessly connected
to false notes on my staff:
a password, ever sent to me,
is for my memory too
long. I am sitting on the
worn cushion of a rolling
chair, on my way to an
abyss that I will achieve
foresight, laughing until
I choke.
I drop time as a useless
instrument, I embrace
chaos, I renounce duration,
repeating doesn't exist.
Finally I recognize a glimpse
of an ungodly existence.
Alkinoos
to Odysseus
I did not find
your ship on
my beaches
where you
washed ashore,
no wreckage,
no goods and
chattels, no ties
at all. Your past
consists exclusively
of yourself. Your
stories come slowly.
They resemble the
epic songs of passing
singers, about love
and war, passion
and suffering,
recurring betrayal.
I'll take you home,
vagabond.
Ithaka delayed
Odysseus' lamentation
I can hardly be further
away, reaching with
rigging and mast to
unmistakable signals
from Ithaka, where
I left you.
Trapped in the web
of fatal sisters, they
torn - without
compassion – the
fragile wires of my
faded provenance.
In rags of mist and a
soft moon, my lamentation
seems really hard to sing,
I do not master fado,
blues, or other elegies.
I should resist the
beckoning of tender,
feathered Sirens,
to sail finally home.
Anodos - Kathodos
After months of meagreness
earth opens up, timid
and early, preparing
for the divine.
But, cyclical fate,
of what begins the end
is already said ahead, slow
transforms the new spring
in languid excess.
Hidden from decadent
sun glow, autumn is
waiting - with freakish
shrill strokes - on the
room summer is leaving,
created to be worn out.
Inclement wind and rough
rain allocate the days now,
until it winter pleases to
descend - like Persephone,
Demeter’s daughter:
tributary to Hades,
year over year.
Trojan
First hack: lady
kidnapped, not
entirely against
her will.
Last hack: game
over, because of
a treacherous horse,
meanwhile: a lot
pawns wasted.
Fingers of dawn,
groping the burnt
remains of a fortress
that seemed so
impregnable.
Trojan woman
I could easily have
run into you, just
around a corner, or
at the marketplace,
outside the city walls
of Troy. Only coincidence
got in our way, and a
trifle like fourteen
centuries. You said
goodbye before I
could arrive.
Due to time, we have
been separated from
each other, your possible
faces are anchored in my
mind, they continuously
change, like stories I'm
telling about you.
Possible faces
Multiple variety,
light and darkness,
sculptors of your face
- it changes while I'm
watching - I see you
often, your silhouette,
your looks, not steady
enough to describe, yet
recognizable, occasionally.
Trojan woman, I never
knew you, but that doesn't
prevent me from seeing
your possible faces.
Hektor’s last fight
Daylight has not yet
completely disappeared
on the lower fields before
the closed gates of my
lofty town.
The beast is coming
soon, I am his prey.
The child cries: "Daddy,
daddy!" and I curse my
hubris. People stare as
petrified from high walls,
to a king foretold, who
will never be one. The
ruthless hunter drives
me three times around
the ramparts, until I face
him in despair.
If I will fall, hope and last
dreams do also die, of those
I love and leave too soon.
White crows
Wandering in strange
places, neither knowing
future nor the past, not
looking forward to both,
messengers of foolish gods,
who do what you better
leave. Nothing human
is strange to them.
White crows, they
only tell, against all
knowledge. They are
blackened, although
guilty to nothing.