Maatstaf. Jaargang 30

[p. 87]

Pleuke Boyce Zes gedichten

Frog-country

When I was young there were frogs everywhere;
my country was nicknamed ‘frog-country’.
My father had a small piece of land, good enough -
he could hire another peasant for wages.
Van Nes was his name, he hated his low status.
Whenever he came across a frog he would
slice its legs off,
a slug he would cut in half -
there were lots of frogs and slugs then.
In spring the frogs would croak endlessly,
slugs we'd find in our Sunday cauliflower;
that would be that for my father,
and for us also.
What a bad housewife my mother was!
I can still hear her say:
‘Baker, four loaves.’
‘Milkman, three litres.’

[p. 88]

II

 

At twelve my mother tried to teach me

 

how to wash cupboards, walls and windows.

 

She wasn't much good at it herself,

 

or so I gathered from my aunts.

 

We had a maid, who was lazy,

 

why not?

 

She only got five guilders a week,

 

waiting to get married.

 

A bad influence,

 

interested in ‘pop-music’

 

just like me.

 

In the afternoon my mother would sew.

 

Once an ex-farmhand came back for a visit -

 

he'd gotten on in the world,

 

a foreman now, building a sky-scraper.

 

The radio was on,

 

some classical music announced:

 

‘Allegro, Adagio, Andante.’

 

‘Whenever I hear those words,’

 

the foreman spoke, ‘I turn the radio off.’

 

My mother had never really thought about it,

 

it was all ‘music-on-the-radio’ to her.

 

She thought the foreman had interesting ideas.

 

I was sitting at the table with them,

 

thirsting for knowledge.

[p. 89]

III

 

Up early

 

in summer, to weed the garden,

 

all day long.

 

At 12 o'clock we'd fall asleep,

 

my brother and I,

 

between the cabbages and beets.

 

Later we'd tell stories,

 

outwit each other in names of

 

capitals,

 

historical dates.

 

So boring those long lanes of vegetables!

 

Luckily my brother is clever

 

and I can weed fast if I must -

 

our task always gets done.

[p. 90]

Memories of Bleskensgraaf

Sometimes on holidays -
Easter, Whitsun, the queen's birthday -
our parents would load us all
on the back of the flatbed,
and we'd drive to the river
and rent a boat.

My father would be at the oars,
my mother would play the harmonica.
Pretty soon we'd be stuck in

the reeds.

Rowing wasn't as easy as it looked.
All afternoon we'd spend in those reeds.

Getting out of them,

drifting back.

We would all have a turn, try it.
The river was quite wide
and led to even wider waterways,
but we would always find ourselves close
to the shore. In the end we would have
a picnic.

And afterwards visit some relatives
who lived along the river.

Then back home in the truck.

[p. 91]

Our old neighbour

Our neighbour in Holland,
a spinster of 70,
suffered eye-damage
during the flood of '53.
Her younger sister, who lived with her,
was never the same again.

They seldom let us into their house,
it wasn't always convenient.
Their brother would dig over the garden
in spring, but never plant anything.
The sister passed away unnoticed;
it was weeks before we heard about it.

Now that we've moved away
to a foreign country,
we receive letters and poems:
‘Friendship is a gift to cherish.’
‘You'll always be in my heart...’

[p. 92]

Writing a letter to my brother

Dear brother, I sit up evenings, nights,
trying to contact you.
How lucky we got on so well
when we were young.
I feel ashamed about the letters I send you
from this faraway place.
The most important things that have
happened to me, over the last ten years,
I have been too shy to mention.
Our upbringing continues.

I'm always writing to you.

I hope you are well.

Strange we should be so far apart,
when once we were close:
talking freely till late into the night;
trying to decipher our futures
from a cracked ceiling.