Monday, June 13, 2016

Europe: poems in potato bags



[Image from the link below]


Today's rabidly pro-European post is about poems sent in potato sacks from Frisia (Leeuwarden) to Malta (Valletta) and back (a link I saw shared on Facebook by David Bircumshaw).

http://valletta2018.org/news/frisian-poems-arrive-in-malta/

Potato-growing is an important part of both Frisian and Maltese economies. Poems on the theme of potatoes were written in Frisian and Dutch by a bunch of local poets and sent in potato sacks to Valletta; then other poems in Maltese were sent in return.

All the poems (with English translations) are here:

http://bildtseaardappelweken.nl/poetry/2015-2/

Here's a bit of Arjen Hut's "Ierappel Bossa Nova" with English translation by himself ("Potato Bossa Nova"):


“der komt muzyk yn de ierdappels”
(fryske siswize)

hoekstra, westra, wielinga
fertel
watfoar ierappels moatte jim ha?

lady anne?
lady cristl?
lady blanca?

mei in dikke tút haha

foar bellefleur! annabelle …
picobello! michelle …

sis …

“there’s music growing in the potatoes”
(Frisian saying)

hoekstra, westra, wielinga
tell me
which type of potato do you prefer?

lady anne?
lady cristl?
lady blanca?

with a big fat kiss haha

for bellefleur! annabelle …
picobello! michelle …

say …

*

[Check out the features of some Dutch potato varieties here: 


BELLEFLEUR  early maincrop; fresh, rather floury; red

]


*

Here's most of another Frisian poem, by Harmen Wind ("Myn ierde" / "My earth" - English translation by Albertina Soepboer and Sue Smeding):


Beklonken klaai. De fuotfaach fan ‘e himel,
ûntfytmaan oan see, delbêde op sân.
Utstrutsen, keal, wiid iepen as in fâle;
ôfseame flakte yn ‘e skrale wyn. Ald lân.

Dat hjir. Dit dêr. In wrâld mei rûnom kime.
Wat stripen grien, wat rûchte mids it wiet.
Myn boaiem sil him nea oan bloed besibje;
myn gea jout romte oan wat komt en giet.


Moulded clay. The footpath from heaven,
cheated from the sea and placed on the sand,
spread out, barren and wide open as a trap,
roughed up flat in the chapped wind. Old land.

Here and there. A world surrounded by horizon.
With streaks of green, scrub land in the water.
My ground shall never be bound by blood,
my place gives space for what comes and goes.






Here's a bit of one of the Maltese poems, "alfa" ("alpha"), written and translated by Simone Inguanez:.


                                       l-irmied
milwi tnej’ il-wied, qliel u srieġ
bħal meta qalbek – għoddha waqfet, bħal
meta minjafxiex, u ħadd ma semgħek – ħadd
ma lemħek tigdem minkbek ġandra
u titkagħweġ – patata susa, patata
ġlata | xtiewi infern : idejk imekku
fil-ħamrija / idejk jgħarblu / idejk jgħarrxu
/ jdejk jixirfu : farrett xieref – xafra / sa ma
anki wardiet wiċċek għandhom bixra
żengulija



the ashes
bent double in the valley, floods or fires
like when your heart– almost stopped, like
when godknowswhat, but no one heard you – no one
saw you biting your parched elbow
and doubling over – rotten potatoes, frosted
potatoes / hellish winters : your hands rummaging
/ your hands sifting / your hands searching
/ your hands emerging : a hard scar – blade / until
even your cheeks look oblong



*


A nutritionist notes: It's good to reduce the carbs in your diet. Including potatoes. And it's good to reduced cooked oil, too. So eat less chips, but not by eating more bread!

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home

Powered by Blogger

Nature Blog Network