Dichter fan Fryslân
Poet of Fryslân
Dichter van Fryslân
a quick note, scribbled
en route, on the train,
travelling from faraway, or am I sick
on the sofa and delirious?
who knows, who knows
yes, fantasising I’m on my way to you
(but not a clue where you might be)
under a blanket as if it’s November
breathing fever out of both nostrils
night races past the windows
grey squalls wheeze and hawk, man,
a head full of mist and not sure of anything
but doubting’s allowed!
doubting’s allowed because otherwise blood splatters from the rooftops
because the simple slogans of omniscient alphas
have led us to the brink so often
because it might free up some space for poems and stories,
because listening’s a dirty job, because telling stories is tough
doubting’s allowed because it preys on our minds anyway
who’s got the gall to tell us now, straight out
don’t make a fuss – just act normal?
nothing is normal here, nothing is ordinary
not the shell on the beach
not the sea that brought the shells
not the wind that made the waves
because the churches of the true faiths
have no more to say about truth
than you and I
this quick note, while the light disappears
as surely as this language in which I write:
sitting in the compartment
are two women and a young man
separated from each other
with screens to scroll and swipe
in front of their eyes
do they see me, fever dreaming on the sofa?
blow my nose, take a tablet
night coughs past the windows
am I on the right track?
it’s not that I write because I know so much
in my poems about truth
the words creak
and I doubt the voices on the web, the voices
in my head and the voice from the speaker that says
‘the next stop is
Utopia – please remember
to alight on the left’
the other left!’
because Aggie said so
because Wisława said so
because Etgar says so!
on the columns page of struggling newspapers
in the tangles of dominance
in my cooling heart and overstimulated, prickly head
in the dull firework explosions up past Dokkum
in the darkness of the mud flats
in the rain splashing on the alleys of this sparkling city
one person’s shitty weather
is another’s cuddling season
at night when my bed is on the coast
and there’s a bustling in the air
when I fly with the animals
and pray without god
when the wind shows the way
and a child at bedtime
silently counts the earth
let the unknown in so that all our delicate connections
don’t come between us
three frisians go to the doctor’s
the barman asks: what’s your pleasure?
the first frisian says
stars don’t exist
the devil sticks them on the night
to make fun of us
the second frisian says
stars don’t exist
our lord puts them in the sky
to test our faith
the third frisian says
a piece of this puzzle is missing
I think, but
I say, who knows
Translation: David Colmer
The Poet of Fryslân writes six to ten poems a year, and knows how to reach and tie to an audience with his poetry. The poems are highly preferred in the Frisian language or in a Frisian regional language.
The Poet of Fryslân acts as a poetic ambassador and takes care of Fryslân’s poetic representation in a modern and inviting manner. Inside and outside the province. Preferably inspired by actual events or special moments that occur in our province. The Poet of Fryslân knows, in a contemporary and accessible way, how to present current and social themes in poetry.
The Poet of Fryslân is expected to perform a number of times a year on yet to be determined occasions.
Arjan Hut (Drachten, 1976) grew up in Surhuisterveen and published his first poetry book ‘Nachtswimmers’ in 2004. He was previously poet laureate of Leeuwarden and was appointed Wâld poet of the municipality of Achtkarspelen in 2019 for two years. Hut is editor of ‘de Moanne’, teaches poetry at the Skriuwersfakskoalle and the Schrijversvakschool and produces a podcast called ‘Net Ferkeard’ in collaboration with Gabriëlle Terpstra. He would like to know exactly what happened to JFK, loves books, films, samba jazz and hard rock. He is married, has two children and a cat. His most recent, sixth poetry book, was published in 2023, called: ‘Ien tel de ierde stil’.