Coincidence does not exist. Not in my book! Yesterday, a couple came to see me, on the street that is my present home, to have a chat about this and about that. And chat we did, about lots of things, which led to them inviting me to sleep in their flat. Just like that! These are Dutch people on vacation, leaving tonight to go back to their home in Holland.
Agnes and Rick are their names and lovely people they are. Friends for life, on a whim of Kismet… Rick read to me a poem, written for Agnes by her father, who is a renowned poet in the Netherlands, called Willem Adelaar, aka The Street Poet, according to his daughter. I’ll take her word for it, as will you, I imagine. Is it coincidence that an internet friend called Kathleen dubbed me The Street Poet two days ago? I think not. Although, I hasten to add, I’m far from being on the same level as her father.
The poem Rick read to me is called “Iets.” or “Something.” in English and I’m sorry to say that I can not find it at the minute, but I shall meet them again later today and I’ll ask for the address, on the web and post it here or somewhere else, but on Ralphie‘s Portal, with permission of the poet’s daughter. I did ask!
But, for our Dutch readers, here is the link to the newest blog of this fine man:
Do go and have a read. You will not be disappointed.
Hearing this poem, released me from a prison I did not know I was in. A jail of constraining stanzas of counted out syllables and ends that MUST rhyme and it set me free. In honour of Mister Adelaar I wrote a new poem, called “Spiralling!” (click to go there), to be posted just after this one. I thank my stars for having put this couple on a collision course with me and them for their generosity!
Here is the poem Rick read to me:
Loose translation of the poem “Iets” by Willem Adelaar.
From my daughter
When I ask her
What she is going to make.
Brimming with confidence
Not wildly looking for a name
But calmly leaves that what she has made definitionless
The name will follow of its own accord,
After the shape:
Three pieces of wood
Put together with some nails
And even if no name is added to that
Which came into being
First and foremost it has to be there
First and foremost it has to be created
Does it exist any less without a name?
Does the nameless not exist?
She lets her hand do the talking
Her hand names the loose pieces
Into a shape.
The thing can be read in space
And carries the name
Of the maker