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.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 
Well done. I really enjoyed this exercise.
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Thanks, V.J.
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I’ve tried to understand the Frysian, even though I know the language is different from Dutch. I do believe I understood some of it 🙂 Lovely blog post, both poems.
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Thanks, Angela.
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No idea what the original meant, but that is a sweet little boat 🙂
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Ohh, well done! Not an easy challenge, this. I combined mine with doors (A very short poem but a wicked mural, as I said.)
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Very well done.
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What a clever idea. How do you find ou how close you are.
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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.
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