Peter
Holvoet-Hanssen (Belgium / writes in Dutch)
1960
Born in Antwerp in 1960, Peter Holvoet-Hanssen worked as a caretaker of marine mammals in the Antwerp zoo and as a counselor in a shelter for homeless people before his famous poetry debut of 1998, the collection of poems, Dwangbuis van Houdini (Houdini's Straitjacket). That book won the Flemish debutant prize of 1999.
His heavily theatrical performances of his work, often for children and with his wife Noëlla Elpers, engage his readers with accessible humor and emotional expression that, at times, seems at odds with the adventurous explorations of his work. Yet the whole, often including musical accompaniment and props, take the work to a more emotional level.
In 2008 we won the Flemish Culture Prize for Poetry and in 2010 he won the Paul Snoek Poetry Prize.
Holvoet-Hanssen has also written fiction,
De vliegende monnik (The Flying Monk, 2005) and has translated Rimbaud
and others from the French. His most recent poetry collection is Navagio,
published in 2008.
BOOKS
OF POETRY
Dwangbuis
van Houdini
(Amsterdam: Prometheus, 1998); Strombolicchio (Amsterdam: Bert Bakker,
1999); Santander (Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 2001); Spinalonga
(Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 2005); Navagio (Amsterdam: Prometheus, 2008); De
reis naar Inframundo, bloemlezing en dichtbundel (2011); Antwerpen/Oostende,
stads- en zeegedichten (2012); Gedichten voor de kleine reus, ouverture (2016);
Renga. Gehavende stad (with several
others) (2017); Naar Nergens door dichterscollectief "Vrijhaven" (2018);
Blauwboek. Gedichten voor de grote reuzin, poëzietestament (2018); De
wolkendragers, 'totaalboek' (2020); De windvangers door "Vrijhaven
(2021); Libretto. Lied- en muziekdoosgedichten (2022)
POEMS
IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION
Poets
from Flanders: Peter Holvoet-Hanssen, ed. by Tom Van de Voorde (Antwerp:
Flemish Literature Fund, n.d.)
Roza
and the Moon
The
moon is a boy and yet he’s cute
he
peeps from under the clouds
but
I sleep under the sheets.
He
sings at an impossible hour:
‘Nought
are the stars, nought is the moon
it’s
off to bed the stars must soon
but
it’s time to wax for Jack ’o Light Moon.’
He
mangles in a loud voice:
‘Kirk,
you’re no Adonis thinking
he’s
at the centre of things.
Spock,
your rusty starship
isn’t
leaving anywhere at 25.00 hours
for
the moon of Manakoora.’
Dim-witted
owlets and rabbits
start
the mousy-hair rocket
stew
the piggy with the longest snout
for
the moon is in the clouds, lies
asleep
in my bed of roses.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
Dwangbuis van Houdini, 1998)
Song
for the Dead
Upsadaisy.
From hobby-horse to hearse over the cobblestones.
It
drizzled when grandmother was buried.
In
September her daughter scrubs the grave though no one
ever
comes by. My knees are ruined, she muses. So many
wasted
years. If I ever get Alzheimer’s, give me a jab. Or:
poor
old granny was afraid the rabbits would nibble at her toes
in
the cemetery. When my time comes, I’m going to let myself be
cremated.
Mr Death’s a gourmet underground.
In
the mist above the graves: a little room at her house. Grey
dove
stares at the tube, doesn’t recognise her. ‘I only get twenty
degrees
and the TV guide offers only lousy programmes. You’re
not
sleeping with that man from downstairs, are you? How could you? He’s
a
thief, I hide my money.’
The
smell of burning potato leaves. Mum says goodbye
to
the swans. The skies are heavy, the mud sucks. Arthritis
in
the shoulder. Quickly back to the house.
A
radio drama in the living room. Nobody listens.
The
hit parade. Anti-wrinkle cream. And a rosary in the drawer.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
Dwangbuis van Houdini, 1998)
The
Curdling Reverence of Captain Grapplehook
I
break myself down, build myself up.
Tack
aback and then flip-flop.
Foam
at the chops.
Keelhaul
and heave ho.
‘Sailor?’
‘What
d’you want, Hook?’
‘Avanti.
From lava to spumanti.
West
becomes east.’
Other
suns, other planets.
Mortals
that know of no stopping, brave the high
wave,
learn from keeling
survive
an ordeal by fire with senses reeling
when
rounding Fire Island.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
Strombolicchio. Uit de Smidse van Vulcanus, 1999)
Solferino
It
rose up from the very ocean floor
till
the ice cap melted and cracked over Europe, it flew
along
the hugest horror to the weakest wail
from
the 25,000 throats of Béziers
standing
by the Cathars, dancing over funeral pyres
on
a Flamethrower with a bayonet
with
the 15-inch-howitzers hacking on the cold
above
Brandhoek, Ypres, Hellblast Corner, no-man's-land
sank
alongside G. E. Ellison, lancer, the last to fall
mixed
in carnal knowledge and then took root
in
forgotten graves—Solferino, time after time
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
Santander. Ontboezemingen in het Vossenvel, 2001)
The
Princess in the Glass Mirror
1
In
every stage of life is given
A
warning voice, it speaks from Heaven
Two
thousand mice slept in two thousand matchboxes.
King
Rat in his air balloon coloured everything in his flight: a
Friesian
cow became a Belgian flag, mooed in shock until
it
rained frogs. But still there fell no pennies from heaven.
A
lamppost that waved and betrayed a young couple to death. After
25
minutes the girl was reanimated. A white dove that
flew
against your window the night she departed this life. Did she call
on
the emergency frequency? The dove on the roof stared at you. Don’t ask
why.
Coincidence or no coincidence: that wavelength. Inflation everywhere.
Brain-dead.
Death
leads life in randomly snipped-off courses.
In
youth it whispers as a friend.
Is
she still alive, pearl-fisherman?
She
is still alive.
2
In
joy and grief, in ease and care,
In
every age, prepare, prepare.
Reynard,
you’d amicably asked the rat to leave.
Two
weeks later he lay on the lawn. You tattered and torn.
’99
frogs took a horse to Paris.’ You saw a raven fly
to
the other side of the world to make it dark.
Ice
on fire. Mouse in trap. What song haunted your head?
Come,
father, come on home with me.
Her
pony mourns and dances to the thunder. Silverplate green.
Around
her starry bed the family flattened like the clouds.
The
magic lantern has been put out.
Mother
stays strong, continues talking to her daughter.
Somewhere
she can hear me still, she thinks.
Is
she dead, child on the pier?
Dead
she is.
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
Santander. Ontboezemingen in het Vossenvel, 2001)
V
Country (Irish V Poem)
Cloud
formations are on the move in constantly changing shapes
look,
a dog stretches out its paws and now stands upright
with
their shadows the phantoms crawl up the hills
and
wet the patchwork quilt, my love, until the sun colours the mountains
mauve
like my head, stampeding and balding as the rocks
into
which the sea burns holes – only the gulls can still see me
maybe
also Fergus who was foaming from laughter even
a
long while after John Joe with the wild roses went to roost
stones
can’t die his daughter said they just get
older
while the swallows show me their white small bellies and the
dolphin
in our bay waves her tail at me – with the V
of
disavowing in the water above the vanished houses, the V
of
the deserted village past the V-shaped traffic signs
in
the V-valley where I will find you: I bring the virgin fire of
your
song into virtual safety, invisible to the hunters of the night
A
donkey cuddles a sheep and a ox yawns in a meadow
amongst
the rabbits – it is like snow and sun all at once where your
hideout
is, with the waves that I can hear even though I can only
see
them one by one in feverish dreams, with the cliffs where it rains upwards,
drops
that dry before they can fall on my V-veined feet
I
go on looking for you: under a patch of fog, under a rainbow
cloudless
becomes crowdless, you glisten between two peaks
you
flash between the opposing poles of life, singing for the
victims
of the famine, fodder for the dogs, fodder
for
death – like a mangy terrier in the middle of the track
I
attack a car for here the roles are reversed
you
crash into a farmer, pay the cow and wires in the sky
are
for the rooks – a V gate keeps livestock out; there
you
sit by the well studying the harebells, you fly up
Void
of division you fiddle above the V cleft, you warble
hey
Paddy, I’m taking the piss, come vanish with me
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
Spinalonga, 2005)
Gravewriter
death
causes living and being mad pain
deeply
sagging chair of wisdom
swallowed
key of heaven
must
engrave this statue deserted
hello
my lily under the thorns
draw
aside the curtains will you
smother
glowing coals of doubt
fear
from Kandahar gain wings
I
kiss your neck, thank this peaceful
moment,
see how your waking
eyes
light up: gleam of a lake
unseen
even by yourself, like
shards
of Kabul a mirror
that
ripples—capers
from
Lipari nothing to beat them
you
sleepily say picked millions
of
crocus stamens—a scent
of
saffron; the sun rises, the
kettle
shrieks, I bring you coffee
by
the buddleia, blood as wine
fetched
a toddler from the rubble, ay
death
when living and mad with pain
—Translated
from the Dutch by John Irons
(from
Navagio, 2008)
PERMISSIONS
"Roza
and the Moon" and "Song for the Dead"
Reprinted
from Dwangbuis van Houdini (Amsterdam: Prometheus, 1998). Copyright
©1998 by Peter Holvoet-Hanssen. English language translation copyright ©by John
Irons.
"The
Curdling Reverence of Captain Grapplehood"
Reprinted
from Strombolicchio (Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 1999). Copyright ©1999 by
Peter Holvoet-Hanssen. English language translation copyright ©by John Irons.
"Solferino"
and "The Princess in the Glass Mirror"
Reprinted
from Santander (Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 2001). Copyright ©2001 by Peter
Holvoet-Hanssen. English language translation copyright ©by John Irons.
"V
Country (Irish V Poem)"
Reprinted
from Spinalonga (Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 2005). Copyright ©2005 by Peter
Holvoet-Hanssen. English language translation copyright ©by John Irons.
"Gravewriter"
Reprinted
from Navagio (Amsterdam: Prometheus, 2008). Copyright ©2008 by Peter
Holvoet-Hanssen. English language translation copyright ©by John Irons.
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