Het is weekend!

Come in, Maxim!... This is Minsk
choked under a pillow of clouds.

There’s you: a statue in a heavy coat.
Here all monuments wear coats
not wool, but linden bark coats
with bee fur collars.

In their pockets monuments keep belts.
And under collars monuments have necks.

In winter shadows insulate the walls.
Windows and cracks are plucked with shadows.
In museums on display are coats

and nooses. And water is pickle-juice.

Come in, Maxim, apartment blocks
are wrapped in ammunition staircases,
and window-medals sparkle through the night.

Every building here is a kind of bust,
an elevator ascends like vomit.

Of furniture there is a stump.
Come in, Maxim,
it’s nothing like lie dying by a harbor.

Take a sit on a stump.
Don’t cast a shadow.
Keep the coat on.

Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend!!!!

As when a long forgetfulness lifts suddenly, and what
we'd forgotten—as we look at it squarely, then again
refuse to look—is our own
inconsequence, yes, it was
mostly like that, sex as both an act of defacement and—
as if the two were the same thing—votive offering,
insofar as the leaves
also were a kind of offering, or could
at least be said to be, as they kept falling the way leaves
do: volitionless, from different heights, and in the one direction
Prettig weekend. En be... nice.

Het is weekend. Alles wordt anders.

Vlak voor de ramen staat het boomtheater.
Insecten trekken strepen langs de ruit
en vlinders buit'len om elkanders buit.
Een dikke duif vliegt in de groene krater

van bladeren, een duiker onder water,
en komt er later even oud weer uit.
Het leven, tegen dit decor gestuit,
wordt speeltoneel terwijl ik kijk en staat er.

Ik heb van de natuur nog nooit genoten
als hier op Hoonte in de Achterhoek.
Mariahoeve heet het hoge huis.

Hier krijgt het ogenblik voldoende grootte
en achtergrond, een eeuwig open doek
voor de verbeelding van het paradijs.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Terug naar de onze!

What was the shadow on the sun? and looking up
we saw the sudden headlines heavy under the sky;
they moved, broke ranks, swirled, and now a wave
washed over us, engulfing the Brooklyn restaurant:
The Italians have entered the last Ethiopian city.

Ebbed; and the quiet sunshine on the cutlery
resumed the historic pathway of its life,
the trolley car clanged its bell, the waitress
came with the order, the radio wept again.

When we looked at the cold clock on the wall,
we saw it was the twentieth century.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Hier scheiden onze wegen.

You who have made the ancient road of turf
That my feet might pass over it
Into the level evening—
Make now the ancient road of tears
That my song may pass over it;
Make the ancient road of song
That my ghost may pass over it,
Coming with the new earth.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Dat voelen we.

Happy the lab'rer in his Sunday clothes!
In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn'd hose,
And hat upon his head, to church he goes;
As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws
A glance upon the ample cabbage rose
That, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose,
He envies not the gayest London beaux.
In church he takes his seat among the rows,
Pays to the place the reverence he owes,
Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows,
Lists to the sermon in a softening doze,
And rouses joyous at the welcome close.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Waren we maar hier.

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Met de hond der wanhoop.

De hond ligt zachtjes snikkend in zijn mand;
droef peinst zijn baasje bij een glas genever.
Er hangen duizend boeken aan de wand:
't Geluk was hier bepaald geen gulle gever.

Op straat waaien geluiden van een feest:
een schrille lach; er valt een glas aan scherven.
Maar binnen zingt het wenen van het beest
en zit zijn baas al uren te versterven.

Ik wed nu dat geen sterveling ooit raadt
wie nu die twee zo bitter treuren laat.

Maar stuur toch in: wat aanspraak doet ons goed.
Wij zien uw brief vol wanhoop tegemoet.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Via vrijdag.

Bring me my helmet and spear; bring my old armor
Rusty as gold –
I will have one tilt with a last arrogant giant
Before I am old.

Scuttle about, little millers; look to your windmills,
Look to your laughter!
I often fail to distinguish between two evils
Till a long time after.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Hier. En elders.

Beauty again
presents itself

as if
for the first time.

It begins, "When I
look up,"

and goes on,
"the wet eucalyptus

is tossing, twinkling
like the sea."

It puts words in our mouths.
Similes.

Displaced,
it returns.

It can appear
in human form,

but is most often
elsewhere.

Those paired
circles of light

winking
from a shady branch.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.