Where literature meets poetry : my low land

This morning I rose early and heard ‘le Grand Jacques’ on the radio. This reminded me of my childhood, when my father was listening to Brel’s songs. I rose early this morning and found a poem, I would like to share with you, on the lovely blog of Palimpsestes :

Mijn vlakke land

Wanneer de Noordzee koppig breekt aan hoge duinen
En witte vlokken schuim uiteenslaan op de kruinen
Wanneer de norse vloed beukt aan het zwart basalt
En over dijk en duin de grijze nevel valt
Wanneer bij eb het strand woest is als een woestijn
En natte westenwinden gieren van venijn
Dan vecht mijn land, mijn vlakke land

Wanneer de regen daalt op straten, pleinen, perken
Op dak en torenspits van hemelhoge kerken
Die in dit vlakke land de enige bergen zijn
Wanneer onder de wolken mensen dwergen zijn
Wanneer de dagen gaan in domme regelmaat
En bolle oostenwind het land nog vlakker slaat
Dan wacht mijn land, mijn vlakke land

Wanneer de lage lucht vlak over ‘t water scheert
Wanneer de lage lucht ons nederigheid leert
Wanneer de lage lucht er grijs als leisteen is
Wanneer de lage lucht er vaal als keileem is
Wanneer de noordenwind de vlakte vierendeelt
Wanneer de noordenwind er onze adem steelt
Dan kraakt mijn land, mijn vlakke land

Wanneer de Schelde blinkt in zuidelijke zon
En elke Vlaamse vrouw flaneert in zon-japon
Wanneer de eerste spin zijn lentewebben weeft
Of dampende het veld in juli-zonlicht beeft
Wanneer de zuidenwind er schatert door het graan
Wanneer de zuidenwind er jubelt langs de baan
Dan juicht mijn land, mijn vlakke land

Ernst van Altena

My low land

If the stubborn North Sea keeps bashing into high dunes
And the white sea foam falls apart on disappearing waves
If the cold hearted flood bangs on the black basalt
And dikes and churches get covered in grey mist
If during ebb the beach is rough like a desert
And wet winds from the west are screaming with agony
That’s when my land fights, my low land fights.

If the rain strikes down on streets, squares and parks
On roofs and towers of heavenly high churches
Which are the only mountains in this land
If humans are midgets under vast skies
If days go by expected ways
And vast winds from the east flattens the land even more
That’s when my land waits, my low land waits.

If low skies form over the water
If low skies teach us to be humble
If low skies are grey like stone
If low skies are pale like stone
If winds from the north tear this land in four
If winds from the north steal our breath
That’s when my land cracks, my low land cracks.

If rivers glisten in the sun
And every woman looks her best in summer clothes
If the first spider makes its spring webs
Or damp fields shiver in July’s sunlight
If the wind from south rolls through the grain
If the wind from south laughs along it’s tracks
That’s when my land rejoices, my low land rejoices

Soreto

I think this poetry meets perfectly well the following prose of Michael Jenkins. It really takes me back to my childhood’s living place in Flanders.

« In the extreme northern part of France lies the plain of Flanders, a great fertile expanse rolling inland from the sea until it meets a chain of conical hills which, strung out like necklace of beads, run north over the frontier to Belgium and southwards in the direction of Picardy. The plain is liberally dotted with prosperous-looking farms, whose thatched roofs and brick walls merge easily into the landscape while villages with massive church towers look down from the hills over woods and carefully husbanded fields. The magnificent skies remind you that if you are in France this is at the same time the Low Countries. »

Michael Jenkins – A House in Flanders