The Meeting

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The Meeting

You stand, weary of stirring, under
the twirling of the spar line in the night.

The lamplight fanning out in flat flame
as you bend over, reins in your  bright fabric.

You smite your fist, protesting with a wink
this light labor of the oar and fishing line.

I make as if to lend a hand, but you wave it away,
Earnest philosopher, choosing instead this sad September song.

MOETING

De stêd wierre grize strjitten, sûker
twirren oan ’e spoarline, in nacht.

Yn ’e lampebol fan fiere flat: man
wachtsjend foar it reinich bytfabryk.

Ik smiet de fyts oan ’e kant, wankel
en werkende in lûd út in oar ferline.

Hy joech my de hân, sei dat hy it wie:
earste pianospiler, sad septembersong.

                              —  Albertina Soepboer

The prompt was to choose a photograph, then a poem in a foreign language and to write a poem of your own according to what you think it means, influenced by the photograph as well. I chose a poem in Frisan, (the Netherlands) my grandfather’s native language.

NaPoWriMo 2018, Day 5

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About lifelessons

My blog, which started out to be about overcoming grief, quickly grew into a blog about celebrating life. I post daily: poems, photographs, essays or stories. I've lived in countries all around the globe but have finally come to rest in Mexico, where I've lived since 2001. My books may be found on Amazon in Kindle and print format, my art in local Ajijic galleries. Hope to see you at my blog.

9 thoughts on “The Meeting

    1. lifelessons Post author

      This is the translation, April:

      Encounter

      The city hung out its gray streets, sugar
      swirled over the railroad tracks, one night.

      In the light globe of a distant high-rise: man
      waiting in the rain by a sugar-beet refinery.

      I threw down my bicycle, knees trembling,
      and recognized a voice from another past.

      He shook my hand, assured me it was he:
      first pianist in my life, sad September song.

      Liked by 1 person

      Reply

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