Salute to Remco Campert – NRC

for Remco

too much is expected of poetry

things of interest and feelings, revolution

among other things, that and preferably more

but a good poem does not need so much

at least not visible, does little more

then excite an image that lay in your ready

a tiny thought that was already there

(so you thought) and you thought the poem

started spinning on its own

familiar like a hieroglyphic cat

a good poem is often said afterwards

that it is as if it has always been there

it lives untouched by the maker

sooner or later repel that maker

as 120 liters of lemonade

only paper takes a long breath

only letter lemonade lives

I saw the very last body

empty, saw the very-very last

be transferred into his comrades

in lucebert, schierbeek, claus, pernath

stocking pants, comerij, coulter

their bodies came without glasses or cigarettes

rage in you, a soft one

collect in the very last

now poetry really becomes an act

now without brakeco, without more

never your frog wide smile again

while squinting both eyes

calm, understanding

a conversation in itself, never again

at your permanent place in the retarding bay window

beloved cabin of ash and wine

of late sunlight and deborah

it’s the earth letting go of your sleeve

but rest assured – everything exists

everything sews and everything still drinks

as before, don’t worry

your war is still here, your muttering

is chiseled, also the note

of 25 guilders that you ever found

by writing it down for us

we own a tomb

full of living, summery words

without your voice, but just as shy

as brilliantly indelible as the figure

of the girl once at the tram stop

everything runs on its own now

everything works, frail giant – so bye

campert is finished, round and complete

without blood and without maker

but he lives

Ramsey Nasri

bend

The poet is dead. There goes a procession of words,

slow, along water, along riparian reeds. there flapping wings

books, make a little glide

around the towers of the city.

The poet is dead. Jazz sounds there, not even too rowdy,

not even too printed. People come out of the houses with

creeds left behind, with broken, transgressed,

beautifully patched up rules for happiness.

The poet is dead. The beloved, worst quarrelsome,

the listener, lover, the father. He drank and

disappeared, turned and loved.

In the distance a river flows from the sea to the mountains

and is silent poetry. In a haze of melancholy we are

so many lives ahead, so many lives great.

There goes a wonderful procession of words.

The dear poet is dead.

Esther Naomi Perquin