Paul Bogaert (Belgium / writes in Dutch)
1968
Born
May 3, 1968, Paul Bogaert studied German philology at the University of Brussels
and at Leuven.
Bogaert’s debut collection of poems, WELCOME
HYGIENE, published in 1996, features verses full of bizarre logic and a
carefully measured mixture of styles and linguistic registers. His restless first-person
narrator is plagued with self-consciousness in the way he analyses himself and
others, creating an alienating effect. Yet beneath this “analysis” and
Bogaert’s dead-pan seriousness there is in all of his poetry a great deal of
humor that reflects back to its Dadaist roots combined with a satiric look at
contemporary advertising and other business uses of language, including the
executive lecture.
The same rousing mental and physical
sensations surface in his second volume Circulaire systemen (Circular
systems, 2002). In this collection Bogaert examines his fascination for all
things that rotate. A closed, circular system generates security, but also
discomfort. In an aloof, pseudo-scientific tone he creates poetic language
machines, in which the ordinary is contrasted with the systematic.
In 2006, his third collection of poems, AUB
(PLEASE), was published. In 2008 Paul Bogaert wrote the National Poetry Day
essay Verwondingen (Injuries), in which he tries to explain the secrets
of poetry by analyzing the Serbian contribution (2007) to the Eurovision Song
Contest.
de Slalom soft (the Slalom soft,
2009) is a long, sparkling, narrative poem, featuring a lifeguard in a
subtropical swimming paradise, personal coaches, drowned bodies and office
workers. It won the Herman de Coninck Prize for best collection 2010.
In just a few years and with only four
collections of poems, Bogaert has proved himself one of the most striking
voices among young Flemish poets.
–Douglas
Messerli with Tom van Voorde
BOOKS
OF POETRY
WELCOME
HYGIENE
(Amsterdam/Antwerpen: Meulenhoff / Manteau, 1996); Circulaire systemen (Amsterdam:
Meulenhoff, 2002); AUB (Amsterdam/Antwerpen: Meulenhoff / Manteau:
2006); de Slalom soft. Gedicht (Amsterdam/Antwerpen: Meulenhoff /
Manteau: 2009)
POETRY
IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION
Edited
by Tom van Voorde, Poets from Flanders: Paul Bogaert (Antwerp: Flemish
Literature Fund, n.d.)
TUCK
ME IN
Tell
me that it’s time, tell me that
I’m
tired, leave all protests unheard,
give
me a flannel, the bear I know’s mine,
show
me my bed, tuck me in,
smell
of soap, tell me how
princesses
always sleep soundly
and
just vanish, don’t go too
far,
cover me up, tuck me in,
leave
me alone, don’t throw sand in
my
eyes, don’t put on any
song,
don’t reconcile me to the night,
do
what I do, tuck me in.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
WELCOME HYGIENE, 1996)
NOT
YOUR BUSINESS
In
this way I want to, beloved,
have
said: it is going to hurt.
I’d
gladly in the dark receive
life
and limb.
Don’t
be afraid. I know the vaulting.
It
is as frightening as where
one
sees it
from
the right perspective. Are you with me?
In
answer to your missive with the enquiry
as
to whether it will take a long time:
think
of the rhythm, dove.
I
know I am too focused
on
myself, this is an ointment,
this
is nitrogen
and
here a leak,
listen,
has to be stopped. Do you follow?
It’s
far beyond normal.
I
am formal: I cannot see you anymore.
I
will bear with resignation what I am, what I know,
what
one would call scars.
In
that way I’ll be: modest and gone in the end.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
WELCOME HYGIENE, 1996)
STAIRS
The
old electric switch,
the
steep steps of cement,
the
coolness too, the smell that is
so
specific to cellars.
More
still, fragile, the bottle of lemonade,
the
spider, immobile, yet bigger than
elsewhere
and the thief perhaps under the stairs.
Most
of all the lack of banister.
You
can compare it with caution.
Why
am I cautious to such a degree?
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
WELCOME HYGIENE, 1996)
WELCOME
HYGIENE
What
you said was undiluted.
And
it proved effective too:
I
can’t see a thing. My head is clean
now
and white. It’s done.
First
I pushed my eyes in
and
tilted my head back.
Then
I filled up the holes
with
eau de javel and white spirit.
That
anything goes is a delusion.
It’s
the air that is tenuous.
Give
me time to come round.
Bury
me where I requested
water
and let me be – out of reach –
of
fish.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
WELCOME HYGIENE, 1996)
NO
HANDS
An
eight-armed carrier holder stretched so tight
that
due to hooks and tension
it
is hazardous to bring your eyes closer
than
you need to see it: this is the image
that
can help you get the hang of what follows.
Don’t
connect any of this with yourself.
They
are my jaws.
Had
I been younger and lived at a point in time other than this,
I
would not have written to you. I’d have advised
keeping
well away, massaging the muscles of your stomach
for
an hour or viewing the motion of your mouth
as
something limited. I would have kissed you right and
left.
I would have impressed
on
you to shun the one with luggage-smelling breath.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
WELCOME HYGIENE, 1996)
When
one places the hand…
When
one places the hand
onto
the kind of rubber
and
feels the knobs
of
a body frame beneath,
then
in escalator time a distance stretches out:
between
the hand that gradually takes a lead
and
the rest of the body in tow.
More
and more in that fashion
till
one lets go of the hand and gets used to forces again
that
are immensely restraining, as to an escape.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
Circulaire systemen, 2002)
It’s
the jerky wheeze from the one who pants…
It’s
the jerky wheeze from the one who pants
makes
him/her pant like that. The lower lip
curls
to what a cerebral lobe
full
of echoes in captivity dictates.
One
pants, pauses and pants
in
a causal connection. Nobody at all
is
bothered by it while the panting lasts.
Later
animals appear:
the
scaredy-cat in the big wheel,
the
fairground pony that relives everything at night.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
Circulaire systemen, 2002)
One
stands at a lock…
One
stands at a lock
that
guarantees mustiness.
Then
one instinctively finds out the trick:
one
tightens certain muscles, betrays
some
hesitation, but then pushes through and clear.
One
feels some pressure in the ear.
A
quite abhorrent overtone.
A
way of thinking not one’s own.
But
one does not disturb a system’s core
when
seeing the beloved in a revolving door.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
Circulaire systemen, 2002)
One
takes a quantity of details…
One
takes a quantity of details
as
if preparing for an operation.
At
once the slaves of eloquence rivet themselves
together.
A shiver makes ready.
How
quickly one feels moved!
How
quickly one becomes dependent!
How
quickly tempted by something that fits!
One
does not see the castle moat.
One
hears a choir, a splendid song.
A
crowd led off into captivity.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
Circulaire systemen, 2002)
Just
as one glimpses cockroaches…
Just
as one glimpses cockroaches
(that
one discovers later in the cake tin too),
one
can react to what the wall clock shows.
Not
to the hours that penetrate the walls
of
homes or offices.
But
to the hours that, spattered off the hands,
now
vanish and are vanished quite,
although
in glitter-packs they
still
cling to the retina.
That
is what the wall clock shows us.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
Circulaire systemen, 2002)
CHARITY
NOW…
Today
nails that scarcely reach the side-skin.
Waiting
enters
the familiar liking, back
I
say, off, leave the bed made.
The
so-called flame-retardant cushioning
in
the back. The priceless misconception
that
you can calm such a slight fever with your lips or
douse
it with fingers.
Later
it will cause a stir:
a
rupture on an x-ray
or
tweezers
in the active intestines.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
AUB, 2006)
SHE
GIVES…
She
gives.
So
she entices me out of the igloo.
So
she chops relaxedly into nonsense.
So
she grapples with she wrests the deadlock.
So
she runs down her target,
the
four-colour fairy,
the
eye-stroking tip-strewing fairy
who
nippingly kneadingly if necessary
in
one movement tracks down inhibitions and licks them up.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
AUB, 2006)
ADDRESS
I
will speak to you within the framework of the night
where
no sleep is possible.
I
will not deny
that
I need you for this and that for this,
to
start with at any rate, I will look you in the eyes.
My
voice will cover you
like
ten blankets or so.
I
will then in your presence talk
about
the plans and actions
that
cannot be squared.
Afterwards
I will procure you the text
of
a ballad, the lyrics of a song,
and
in it – as a catch –
the
dipping of your eyes and all
you
can ask of the pituitary gland.
I
will not deny
that
it is an address, on the contrary.
I
will speak about the pond of ruses
including
among other things:
the
ruse of repetition and the terror of refrain.
That
that is the pond where I fish.
I
will keep things short about the plans and actions
that
cannot be squared.
I
will spellbind you by means of paraphrases
of
the crux of the argument.
I
will not exaggerate with examples,
but
where necessary provide you with the example
and
the images that I find apt:
a
worn plastic folder,
inward-looking
animals, a sheet of carbon paper.
I
will naturally only start after a few seconds,
so
that the least quiver of the voice
is
quelled in advance.
Only
then will I begin,
firm
of voice, suddenly, abruptly, with
an
outline of the problem,
an
outline that immediately strikes the substance,
illuminates
the core and in a flash
reveals
the basis: here where we are
together,
sleeping is inappropriate.
I
will look at your limbs
growing
stiff and feverish both at once.
I
will not pass on what I see
let
alone what I read in your eyes.
I
will count to ten.
I
will not conceal from you the fact
I
wish to influence you
and
that a bullet has been made
of
materials that the body
has
no need of.
That
I wish to see you
living
in a different age.
Details
of the song?
I
will myself not sing it.
I
will accompany you.
I
will speak so monotonously to you
that
you will fade and fall away
and
no longer be yourself.
I
will not spare you.
Then
I will let you be: the star!
I
will let you be the star who wields the microphone
as
an inseparable part of the body,
the
star who closes her heavily dressed-up eyes
and
obeys the slightest finger-snap.
I
will have an abiding memory of you.
I
will tell you
how
hard it is
and
that it can always get harder.
I
will defend rest being good
if
one has something to lie down on.
I
will possibly imagine for you
a
bed,
an
anecdote,
a
dead-end street.
I
will let you be: the prototype.
I
will let you be the prototype of a woman beggar
with
worn-out shoes, that like a prototype
shuffles
from here to there and back again,
stiff
and feverish both at once.
I
will also locate it all, naked, within the framework of later.
I
will capture your attention with images
and
let you hear what can be done
with
carbon paper, a wound and a fizzy pill.
I
will broach the future
and
summarize the pond.
Something
can always happen:
the
tickling cough, a glass that falls, a fart,
a
microphone that whistles, someone who enters
or
exits from a lack of air
as
in an overheated caravan.
I
will also let you be:
1.
an ascetic goat;
2.
a tombola;
(if
the mike whistles, put your hands to your ears)
3.
stiff and feverish both at once.
I
will have a short break for all kinds of suggestions.
Then
I will pick up the thread once more, carry on
from
where I was, shade in each outline, gnaw
the
matter to the bone. I will not desist from
feverishly
finding formulations.
I
will describe each detail of the goat, who like a human
starts
searching her own small house – and is as such annoying –
for
what she has lost, and constantly is much amazed
and
says: ‘that’s just not possible’
and
goes on searching in yet other corners.
I
will place the text in a plastic folder
for
the future.
In
doing so I will imagine you: lying down.
An
interruption, always possible.
I
will drink regularly from a glass.
The
images will be most apt.
And
all the questions welcome.
And
I will make a list of all possessions
and
keep the difference just to myself
between
valuable and valueless.
The
sum of all the stanzas will be for you
and
when you are no longer there, for your near ones,
or,
if there are none, for your near ones’ near ones,
or,
if there are none, for your near ones’ near ones’ near ones,
and
if there are none, that will be typical of the state that you are in then.
I
will confront you with facts,
hard
objects, comparisons and figures
about
entrances and territories,
and
with the cursing goat that in her caravan
is
trashing everything.
I
will stop
at
the moment that you hang upon my lips,
that
I hang upon your lips
after
yet another paraphrase of the crux and an overview
and
a summary of the basic images fished from the bed.
I
will not expect
anyone
to thank me.
When
I finally stop,
when
I move and you fall begging out of sight,
when
I count to ten,
when
you wake up,
when
the day immediately leaps up,
when
the animals talk,
everything
will be forgotten,
first
what’s most stupid.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
AUB, 2006)
__________
“Tuck
Me in,” “Not Your Business,” “Stairs,” “Welcome Hygiene,” and “No Hands”
Reprinted
from WELCOME HYGIENE. ©1996 by Paul Bogaert. Reprinted by permission of
Meulenhoff / Manteau.
“When
one places the hand,” “It’s the jerky wheeze from the one who pants,” “One
stands at a lock,” “One takes a quantity of details,” and “Just as one glimpses
cockroaches”
Reprinted
from Circulaire systemen. ©2002 by Paul Bogaert. Reprinted by permission
of Meulenhoff / Manteau.
“She
gives…,” “Charity now,” and “Address”
Reprinted
from AUB. ©2006 by Paul Bogaert. Reprinted by permission of Meulenhoff /
Manteau.
English
language copyright (c) by John Irons
For
more poems, go here:
https://www.poetryinternational.com/en/poets-poems/poems/poem/103-24434_Thus-appeared
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