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Gedichten (poems in Dutch)
All poems from: Jij bent mijn mooiste landschap (You are my finest landscape):
Boekje open
Hoe ga ik open als een boek?
Ik wil mezelf eens lezen,
bladeren en kijken
hoeveel pagina's ik tel.
Of ik een sprookje ben
of meer een studieboek.
Zou ik mij kopen?
Lenen bij de bieb?
Alleen stiekem lezen
hoe ik afloop en zachtjes
terugzetten in de kast?
Ontroerd
is met een
lepeltje
Het is niet ver dat ik kan gaan.
Met de fiets niet verder dan tot
om zes uur thuis. En als ik weg
mag in de avond, dan tot aan
negen uur precies. Pas over een jaar
of drie mag ik misschien wijder weg
dan de arm van mijn moeder lang is,
van de stoep af naar de stad, bij
het raam weg van waarachter zij mij
bespiedt, opdat mij door de wereld
geen leed wordt aangedaan. O, ik durf
niet te zeggen dat ik naar buiten wil
omdat het tijd is dat iemand mij aan-
doet. Dat iemand mij vindt. Mooi. Om
te beginnen. Dat iemand mij mooi vindt
om te beginnen. Dat iemand mij begint.
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Four poems in English
In 1995 Begin een torentje van niks (Begin a silly little tower) won the literary award for best children's and adolescents book of the year. It was for the first and only time in the 45 years the prize exists, that the award went to a collection of poems by a single poet. 8 Poems from Begin een torentje van niks were translated by Paul Vincent. The full translation is available via 
the site of the Foundation for the Production and Translation of Dutch Literature or e-mail.
Asleep, this father. I get to know him, skirting
the strongest and the best. So quiet and helpless
on the sofa, whacked, knackered, finally spent.
His thumb where it had stopped between
the pages of the book he was reading.
What line hung too heavy on his eyelashes?
My creeping round him and turning off the lights
is protection; movement and noise are the foe.
i do not kiss him. I put no blanket over him.
I care for him meanwhile. I sit on a chair,
watch him, keep watch, love him.
Quiet. He is mine. This dear little father's asleep.
translation: Paul Vincent
Begin a silly little tower is about a boy growing up without a father. A father who was a building contracter, when he was alive, and died when his son was almost eight.
My father went. No one had given permission,
said he could go. But he got in the car, crashed
into a flight of two steps and had a heart attack,
or had a heart attack and crashed and went.
We children were not alarmed that he had gone.
Fathers go off to build a bridge, a tower or a house.
Fathers build far away. Fathers come home again one day
to kiss their wives, to serve out saved-up punishments,
to take the children who have won the contest for nicest child
of the week on their laps. Fathers die, that's just how
it is. They lay themselves down in a box, are dressed
in unworn pyjamas and don't listen to what I say:
Daddy, I can write a word! He looks at me and I hear:
Is that alle? Start by building a modest bridge, attempt
the smallest of houses, begin a silly little tower, find
out how it's done, then we'll see if it's any good yet.
This, Dad, is the bridge that I have built. It rests
on five piers. I learned to do such things in time. I built
this tower word by word, laid this poem stone by stone,
in twenty lines wrote a little house for us to live in.
translation: Paul Vincent
Life goes on and on and on...
In the year now after me you come by
and time stands still to catch you
in the moment, this short livelong:
to see you
and breathless realising that you exist;
I only presumed.
Notice,
know that I exist too. I force you
with my look to acknowledge it.
Look at me. Or lower your eyes,
sure, look
away if you want. Avoiding me
is also proof that you've seen me.
translation: Ted van Lieshout
Closing poem:
You sleep so close to death. I must go into
the dark and hear you breathe, see your chest
still gently moving up and down, scared
as I am of losing you to waking up no more.
The more I love you, the further away I must go
so as not to break you. But when you sleep I return,
sit with you, quiet, ready to strangle you awake
if you dare miss any air or choke on a breath.
translation: Paul Vincent
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