poet / dichter;

 You pinked my skies
greened my meadows
and bloomed my daisies freshly

"the white shores glistening"

If ever you were to seek me
don't look where farm gates show the birds gone
jays don't fly when I go by, much rather they'd softly croack

Aye, If ever you were to seek me, and it be on such sunny day
don't wait where cows linger at a pond's side
nor lay with the donkeys in the shade
neither at chaffinches rose bush', nor in the butor's reeds
these were my pictures; by then I'd be without any
I'd now timelessly wait; then be without impression
just "bha 'n triagh-bhàn 'na brionnagan"
Now I can be staring at streamlets
time comes that I happily wither with the troud.
And you nor I would know where that could lead me
if not to the "the white shores glistening"

Aye, if ever you were to seek me, have no fear for my lonelyness
I have loved places for the change they made in me
never for what my longing might make them into
the hollow road mainly for the puddle in the gushing rain
dark nights foremost for the owls and the frog's trails
sheep for the foxes they are said to atract
And light
the light for "bha 'n triagh-bhàn 'na brionnagan"

So if ever you were to seek me, and I know it to be on summery days
go for the fields wehere the Soay roo
and let the rocks pluck them
Aye, and winds may play with those tufts of wool
they may clad on"the white shores glistening"

"bha 'n triagh-bhàn 'na brionnagan"
with a million colours of butterfly wings
at first drops of water make a dull dark in the warmest grey
then ever thinner sands tickle under the dearest pebble
slowly moisterizing
and with every wet kiss deeper colour comes on to the skin
unfolding luscious drawn patterns in mosses
and with the coming tide the kisses could not be wetter with
clouds of wet spores that make

"the white shores glistening"

last version: July 2012

F a i r ­ W e a t h e r ­ C h a r m

when from the sap green lights on silvery, slender chests
barren boulders protrude Aurora's pinky spread
& dapper between the toes the salty waters splash
there's that fair chance you'd see Ben Nevis in the flesh

 S I N N E B E T S J O E N I N G

as út it sopgrien ljocht, op sulv'ren smelle siden
it bare stiente brekt, Aurora 't moarnsrea spriedt
tusken de kliene teannen 't sâlte wetter spat
ferriist derjinsen ast it trefst Ben Nevis in syn hear en fear

oersetting Jantsje Post

Z I N S B E G O O C H E L I N G

wanneer van sapgroen licht op zilveren, ranke borsten
kale keien komen in het rozig ochtendgloren
en tussen fiere tepels het zoute water spat
loop je een mooie kans Ben Nevis te zien verrijzen

spotvertaling Oep Elbers

T H E ­ J O N G L E U R

I am the jongleur
"What is't ye lack"
tithes in my pedde
are: mirth and frolics,
mere prancing and trotting
fingers of timbesteres
Eh ­ what you could spend me? ­
Bacon and tansy beaten with egg
a puppet dancing to my dulcimer's tune
Now, throw me a coin
pass me the spices
flavour the lamb's-wool
in the wassail-bowl

T R E A D I N G ­ T H E ­ T O W ­ P A T H

blustering winds play humming tops
what makes the seas is heaven overhead

­Sanguinis motum circularem eo pacto nominare licet
quo Aristoteles aerem et pluviam circularem superiorum motum aemulari dixit.
Terra enim madida a sole calefacta evaporat,vapores sursum elati condensantur, condensati in pluvias rursum descendunt, terram madefaciunt et hoc pacto fiunt hic generationes et similiter tempestatum ac meteorum ortus a solis circulari motu, accessu et recessu.­*

so, dog 's happy
and lee side of the golden reeds
soft twittering larks for winter's wreaths

*(William Harvey; from: 'De Motu Cordis Et Sanguinis Circulatione.')

een hond snuift jaagpad
in luwten achter gouden rietsudden
sjilpende leeuweriken als winterse guirlandes

an extremely hot and hazy day,
when Venus passed between the earth and the sun

This is such solemn silence:
the emptiness of blue forget-me-nots.
After the solid concert of the night, frogs have gone under,
and sparrows left the fields for trees in which but wren is active.
­ Not even bumblebees. ­
The dragonflies keep to the rushes in all this hazy space
where solely, when passing the field's gates, redshanks are frantic.
An all pathetic squeaking bull once more
leaves manliness to manikins.
In Venus' veils there is but swans'

wings

singing.

June the 8th. 2004

A C H T ­ J U N I ­ 2 0 0 4

een zeer hete en heiige dag,
Venus passeert tussen aarde en zon

Dit is geweide stilte:
de leegte van vergeet-me-nietjes.
Na hun zo serieuze musiceren in de nacht, zijn kikkers weggedoken,
zoals de mussen uit het veld de boom bevolken, waarin alleen een winterkoning nog beweegt ­ geen teken zelfs van hommels.
De waterjuffers rusten rustig tussen russen op dit wat heiige moment,
waarop alleen, wanneer we door de hekken gaan, grutto's als gekken krijsen.
't Pathetisch gillen van een stier laat aan zijn manlijkheid wel veel te wensen over.
In Venus' nevelen rest slechts nog zwanenzang.

soms, na de merke

hier hoort de stilte soms het zoemen van een bij
boven wat zaad van zwanenbloemen
als na luidruchtig kwaken 's-ochtends vroeg de kikker zwijgt

beschutte kanten van de sloot gedeeld met scharrelende snippen

soms ook is het zo heet hier dat zelfs de hommel stil valt ­ en
waterjuffers rusten op bewegingloze bladeren van riet

soms

zeker

meestal niet

 F O R E S T E M ­ S I L V A M *

This seventh dawn the heavy fogs are gleefully dispersed
impenetrable fog seemed to bring Boreas' sulphureous taste
and glimpses of oblivion in pointing dogs
the pregnant days Eos spend on tat and torque
to toss it at the excitement of her son's first breath
­ let there be white! ­
soap-stone and solemnity
submission to hail and snow
hardly a view but on pale ghosts of ice shelves in the lower sound
all quiet in south-slope's bramble bush
tit nor sparrow in the lull
the world left to the hounds and the badly shaven
living on snipe, on walnut glis glis and dovecot's provisions
with an increase of the blizzard
The veil is rent, and startled sheep run off like sugared doughnuts

* "the outside woods", the sense is generally taken to refer to "the woods lying outside the walls of a park, those that are not fenced in", from Latin foris, "outside"; literally, "out of doors", from a lost noun fora, related to foris "door", and altered from fura.
-Excerpts from The Barnhart Dictionary of Etymology,
Robert K. Barnhart, Editor; The H.W. Wilson Company, 1988.

Forest originally meant "the forest depending on the king's court of justice". Middle Latin forestis derives from Latin forum, "pubic place", used in its Middle Latin sense "court of justice".
-A Comprehensive Etymological Dictionary of the English Language,
by Ernest Klein, Elsevier Publishing Company, New York, 1966.

een jachthond snuift vergetelheid
- er zij wit!
zeepsteen en ceremonieel
ootmoed voor sneeuw en hagel
in zeeëngten verglijdt het zicht op zwevende geestschotsen
en stilte heerst in de grauwe braambos op de zuid-helling
mees noch mus
alles uitgeleverd aan schrikhonden en stoppelbaarden
die leven op snip, muskusrat en duivenkot

Rabbits at Elder crown court
the moor's inner circle gathers
on phosphurescenced sandlot

between rush-bearing peats in persisting rains
an owl's even more persistent moaning

In de tuinen van kroondomein Elder
komt de moerkring van konijnen
op fosforescerend zandstof bijeen

tussen veenbies in hardnekkige regens
de nog hardnekkiger klacht van een uil

vert. Oep Elbers

P I S C I C U L U S *

An orchestrina of tits tweedling in the death of snow
some coffee time - the earliest of spring
coming in creamy patches - shades of dissolution

White fish in a lent rite of lateral line and caudal fin skimming
a few meager sunbeams buzz such crowd
the haunted silversides jumping redolent of the joy of breathing
sweetmeat with milky white bubbles

* Little Fish, "whitefish", like roach - Rutilus rutilus

P I S C I C U L U S

Een pijporkest blaast bellen in dooiende sneeuw
koffieconcert - in deze vroegste lente
die in romige scheuten komt - voorboden van verval

Witvis slaat in zijdelingse reidans de staartvinnen tot schuim
een enkele bleke zonnestraal scheert de orgie
vergeestelijkte lendenen pompen van pure levenslust
borstplaat met melkwitte bellen

vert. Oep Elbers

het mag dan makkelijk klinken, toch wens ik je dat leven
met liefde en geluk
en bovenal de kracht om dat te delen
dit alles:
de namiddagzon die
herfstig appelen omspeelt: twee rode, één puur gouden - tussen
roodgele hazelaar en hoogslanke berk
stille, laat-winterse dingen, binnenkort

vert. Oep Elbers

D A W N

the night served
ploughing done
dark fields left
the open furrows glistening
and from autumnal lips
moisture evaporates into a
lustrous silk brocade

D A G E R A A D

de nacht vervuld
het ploegen gedaan
donkere akkers achtergelaten
de open voren glimmen
en van herfstlippen
verdampt vocht tot
glinsterend brokaat

vert. Oep Elbers

forty days since Easter
sloth shapes my garden
with necessary neglect
ditching put off for stolen hours
in years there hardly was a day for hedging
untouched the willow
ash happily overgrown with blushing holly
habouring my long-eared owl

The 'holly' has after long consideration replaced the first draught's 'ivy'.
I know this particular way of growing of the holly to be unnoticed by most.
We 'know' holly as something of a heavily leaved, and tough tree, whilst young holly on the contrary is frivolous undergrowth.

veertig dagen zijn voorbij sinds Pasen
en laksheid kneedt de vormen in mijn tuin
door onvermijdbare nalatigheid geholpen
weer wordt het hekkelen vooruitgeschoven
en jaren reeds blijven de hagen ongemoeid
geen hand slaat aan de wilgen
een jonge hulst zwiert tierig door de essen
waartussen daags een hoornuil zijn roestplek vindt

Vierzig Tage vergangen seit Ostern
Nichtstun formt meinen Garten
mit unvermeidlicher Nachlässigkeit
Wieder das Umgraben verschoben
seit Jahren die Hecken nicht geschnitten
unberührt bleiben die Weiden
Esche wohlich überwuchert mit Efeu
mein Ohreneule findet dort eine Bleibe

übersetzt von Monika Götze und Hans ten Doornkaat

B U L G A R I A , 2 0 0 5

athwart the increasing silence a sea battle drags on
scratches in warm walls
of a common belief
in Nessebur she feeds me the Danube's tarkhoi
as preserved in crocks from Sinopia
on Varna's coast we loose last lines in emptied jars with
stubborn old wines repossessed from the wrecks we used to sail
and whilst we wander between a thousand of Burgas' icons
twice a thousand miles
in some two thousand years of accumulated, cultured din
spread out between those present
she makes my home

 B U L G A R I J E , 2 0 0 5

dwars op toenemende stilte krast een zeeslag voort
in warme wanden
van gezamenlijk geloof
in Nessebur eet ik met haar donau-tarkhoi
gelegd in kruiken uit Sinopia
en drink op Varna's kusten wijnen uit amfora's van de wrakken

terwijl wij dwalen in Burgas' duizental ikonen
na drie maal duizend kilometers
en net zovele jaren beschavings-geroezemoes
van wie me nog omringen
brengt zij me thuis

 K L A V E R
witte klaver

wat van een mens te verwachten
waar God de klaver schiep te vier
en schoonheid is te drieën

SULLEN IS A DAY'S CALL,

on foot in Austria.

For the loss of this, the pale gloss, this silence,
and this solitude,
I dread the day.
Its all demanding focus on detail haunts the incomprehensible
solidity of night.
"First there was dark";
with the fears of mankind came the need for lesser entities.
I cannot think of much that's more effective to bring silence
to a brain than a rambling hedgehog.
An old one coughing, or siblings whining
in a mid-September night, first autumnal drizzle smothering crispy steps on
summer-draught's leaves.
I am one to go with owl and dromedary.
The diminishing moon a cradle that totters
uphill while I do,
that is, when nights are young.
Yet, now this 'young' referres to dawn.
Mars gone, an alabaster bowl is emptied ­ tossed-away and fading over yesterday's fields.
The embrace of a warm hill-side may bring me sleep.
The season's 'Sturm' brings a peaceful slumber,
Bachs' song to see fish home.
A quiet stream now between the shadowy pool and
the springs
to which I'm headed, when once again
I walk the massive darkness
Just, do not try to single out the individual sounds.
One is but here to enjoy the sinfonietta.

Startling new silhouettes with a new moon:
come 'Wild-alps' , gone transparent skies.
A trillion stars to go by, when not on the Milky Way.
An elfin black bowl with timid silver rim,
only so many nips;
cut gitt.
Faith, as in instinct, paves the way
between the ruthless quiets
of dusk with mirror's silvery glow on fresh-cold banks
and slippery stones, that make surrounding woods
even more solid, more un-impenetrable.
Between the towering fir, roaring gushes spit drops
that shiny flare on soaked felt shoes.
Then, frivolous Brussels lace, a hundred Gaudi churches.
A wee bit later blue spots between assumption's toes,
honey buzzards hovering to pay tribute to a morn'.
Until the dear come out to drink, a pale dove-grey horizon is
in distant space, many a march.

Sullen is a day's call.
Again the rivers swell.
A purple barrique emptied.
Such is the time for sleep as all is hostile.
Each living soul hides from the crack of dawn.
Blanketing warmth smothers the voice of the beasts,
under clouds of laborious insects.

 M I D D E C E M B E R

changeling on thin ice
between today's fiery red-purply sun
and that pale translucent fullness of this, last night's, moon
devil on two sticks

steel blades hardly touch the pellicle
where, of the heavenly wheel
my shadow makes a spoke
but then, poor thing, the pond is not nearly large enough

canals don't even show the moment

that craving for 'the real thing ­ tomorrow'
apparently to much to have asked for
and taken from 'it is my pen that makes the lines'
the weather must have changed

for all maids named Florry

despite the rumble there's not too much of me
standomi un giorna à la fenestra
a distant odyssey through thick, black, curly hair
this may sound simple, yet
I wish you life, and love, and happiness
and most of all the strength to share this - all
an afternoon's sun that plays on autumnal apples
two silvery-white shades of purest gold - two hazy red,
between ginger hazel, and tall and slender birches
amidst white, late wintry things
cast antlers mouthed and chewed on along the snowy path
in a shadowy soft drizzle
remains of an églomised panel in broken tabernacle
awaiting new life ­ velvety, soft blood-filled bone tissue
sensitive to the extreme ­ not muted after Coventry
or Ambarawa
I must read the book of names: Eleanor, Mary, Jane
and Florry ­ amongst red hair flaws in legs are scarce
weak noses fail amidst the lustrous auburn
I see it catch some of a last summer's sun before reclining on our couch
from gazing at that window pain
your face the wooded hills, your skin with rabbit's hairs
dry from an unfair wind.
that day we hardly spoke

 silk screen print: 'The Sonnets" (70 x 100) This is the one and only silk screen print left from a series of prints (silk screens like this one, and relief prints, much like those with the name "Love Opaque", all the same size) that went missing just before an exhibition. The prints had no signature.

David Coke in the catalogue 'Fiori die Toscane' of the solo exhibition with works of J. Visser in 1985:
>- It was an unusual entry for an unusual man. I am to close to him to write in an academic sense about his work, shared experiences may cause wrong interpretations - something we must be wary of when attempting to describe his complex artistic personality - for Joop is never what he at first glance appears to be.
Over the last few years his work has naturally changed, as it must under the onslaught of varying stimuli, yet underneath these surface changes, quality undimmed, the ethos of the artist shines through. The core remains intact, modified sometimes yet wider in statement, constantly reaching for deeper understanding. Joop is unusual in that rather than flinching from contact with new moral and emotional challenges, he faces them directly and makes use of them. His pictures often prophesy changes in his own convictions. He once said that "sadness and grief is something my work has gained", then it is the richer for that. - <

 A F T E R ­ H E D G E H O G ­ T I M E

the early morning of Mai 7th. 2003

in heavy odours of a morning's breath
Urchin slips into cover
last stars spot our fulfillment
stork over rape
I am the sun; I'm red
when all is yellow; veils are drawn
Mercury in orbit passes
blackened in hot and shameless kissing

N I G H T ­ U N D E R ­ S N O W D O N

loud, acrid stars
beast and bird in vibrant hunt
boulder hills, all trees, pitch black
I like the dark to be intense
the calm in my head: the mountain-slope's silver

 L A N S P R I S A D O *

and a neighbour's friendly respect for privacy after a 9 meter fall from a rooftop in need for repair.

dapper and, so the word is: "from his atoms
big proportions of electrons are believed to have been lost"
I, for the nut I am
flying?
short lived!
Between the roots of a Jasmine one is sure to find something of a foot
the distant dwarf's: "Everything all right, neighbour" sounds dim

I am glad to be left here to crawl after my nuts
Wych Hazel ­ the Virginica ­ does the soothing

* One who has only two-pence in his pocket.
Also a lance, or deputy corporal; that is,
one doing the duty without the pay of a corporal. Formerly a lancier, or horseman, who being dismounted by the death of his horse, served in the foot, by the title of lansprisado, or lancepesato, a broken lance.
From the 1811 "Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue", Francis Grose.

P S I N T H O S

psinthos - delight / apsinthos (absinth, eng.) -­ displeasure, bitterness
A SQUIREEN'S HOME AND GARDEN (Psinthos/Petaloudes, Greece)

It is not the p'tits palaces that I live in:
It is so much rather where I come to life,
As it is with Anthocharis Cardamines on
­ Cardamine Pratensis Caroline Linneaus
or in Arabis Hirsuta of Giovanna Antonia Scopoli

I may, as it were, not have much hunger to alleviate;
but there's always this covetous toungue to serve,
As Impatiens Sultani Hooker's filliae wait
­ on Macroglossum Stellatarum -
0r a fresh heap of horse-shit serves Apatura Iris

So I stay where a richness of flesh adorns the tables;
near my Arum Italicum Phyllis Miller;
& join Psychoda Phalaenoids in their hosts of hundreds;
that love and caress, care to tickle and fill 'r.

 (The Latin names of plants and insects have been slightly and traditionally changed in order to fit in to the concept of the poem, the easy to find proper names should bring the reader to the whats and hows of the lifes these living creature live, thus making their appropriate appearence in the text.

Joseph John Visser view from his window;

J E R V A U L X

Drowsiness in the afternoon when writing, through tea, in the loft over the stables of The Old Hall
(The North-Yorkshire counting enriched by Susan Webb, Astrid House, Swinton)

yan, tan tethera
neighbour's campanile
a wandering sound
yan, tyaan, tether, mether
yahn, tean, teadera, maedere, pip
bell-wether in the sheep-dip
yahn, tarn, tether, mether, mimp
haites, saites, hovera, covera, dik
and I, drowsy, in the loft overlooking the paddock
yarnadugs, tarnadugs, teaderadik, maederadik
know tup from ewe by bleat
buom
lamb creeps locked
yanamimphit ­ tea
taynamimphit
herbs from the abbey for the Wensleydale
herbs to the pub for the Coverham cheeses
a lawn-mower stopped whining
yan, tan, tethera
useless clippings
yan, tan, tethera, pimp, sethera, lethera
Yorkshire fog
"soft hairy and pink -
striped at the base of the stem"
tyaneboon, tetheramimphit
mether de bumper or metheramimphit
gunagun
milady's voice: "yoo-hoo, Joopy - ; drinkypoos?!"

L O N G ­ K E E P I N G ­ C H E S S H I R E
one that I only had a nibble from in your kitchen

Where 'Master of the Woods' makes the curd,
with the taste of the sea ever near,
you made our trot into a becoming flow.
Since, in every crowd,
I know you billing my ruff feathers
when we are dancing in the lek.
In the rumble of a ship's engine,
over thunderstorms and rough seas
I hear that homely hum:
"O, whare live ye, me bonie lass."*
with the Ayrshires out on saline soil
with Bird Cherries after Saint Barnabas
"whare, O whare live ye!"*
The dasher plays the churn, and you sing:
'Where Master of the Woods makes the curd,
with the taste of the sea ever near'.

(* line from "My Collier Laddie" by Robert Burns)

D U S K

between the blushes the drowsy lady smiles
her rich armour, heirloom, hastily undone
bronze plates on well-worn leather, gold buckled
harbergeon's most likely use, before supper, is for fishing
pauldron lingering, tasset thrown: shining silverside
rich proof of recent hugging

S C H E M E R

bedekt geblost glimlacht de slaperige dame
haastig het rijk versierd familieharnas afgeworpen
bronzen platen op dun, gesleten leer met gouden gespen
een malienkolder, voor het souper; handig om mee te vissen
bungelend schouderstuk, afgeworpen dijstuk: bloot
een glanzende heup
met de tekenen van het zojuist voorbije vrijen

 On Europe's Coasts.

in the aftermath of turmoil some take refuge. their traveling is beyond attrition.

"The flowers of the forest are a' wede away"*, and these waves need a ruddy oar.
That evening we were the last to lower sail in the harbour of Szosopol, and see no light.
Iron-stone waters have made us late this autumn night that blows protecting fig-leaves
comforting leaves that in our summer's sunny morns drank drizzles,
and now into the soothing of the night are changing white.