De baai
(Op myn jierdei)
Hoe helder is, lykas no, it wetter by eb.
Broazeljende stikken wite mergel stekke út en blinke,
de boaten lizze drûch, it pealwurk drûch as lúsjefers.
It wetter yn de baai, dat earder opsûcht
as dat it opsûgd wurdt, makket neat wiet,
de kleur fan in sa leech mooglik draaide gasflam.
Kinst rûke hoe’t it yn gas oergiet; wiest Baudelaire,
dan heardest it lichtwol oergean yn marimbamuzyk.
De lytse okerbrune baggermole oan de ein fan de steger
spilet de drûge claves al, perfekt op de twadde tel.
De fûgels binne oergrut. Pelikanen stoarte
harren yn dit frjemde gas, ûnnedich hurd
liket my, as pikhouwielen,
komme mar inkeldris mei wat toanbers boppe
en fleane grappich earmtakjend fuort.
Swart-wite fregatfûgels sweve
op ûnwaarnimbere termyk
en iepenje de sturten as skjirren yn de bochten
of spanne se as foarkbonken, oant se trilje.
De smoarge spûnsboaten, folpript mei pikheakken
en fiskspearen as mikadostokjes en opgnist
mei pompons fan spûnzen, komme aloan binnen
mei de tsjinstige hâlding fan retrievers.
Der rint in freding fan hinnegaas lâns de steger
dêr’t, glinsterich as lytse ploechizers,
de blaugrize haaiesturten te drûgjen hongen wurde
foar ferkeap oan Sineeske restaurants.
Guon wite boatsjes lizze noch tsjin elkoar loege
of lizze op ’e side, troch de lêste swiere stoarm
lek slein en noch net burgen, as dat al ea bart,
as iepenskuorde, ûnbeantwurde brieven.
De baai leit siedde mei âlde korrespondinsjes.
De baggermole docht klik, klik,
en hellet in drippende bekfol mergel nei boppen.
Al dy sloarderige drokte giet mar troch,
freeslik mar fleurich.
The Bight
(On my birthday)
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn’t wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
Ut A Cold Spring, 1955
