17th - 22nd October 2013

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Astrid Lampe

 

Astrid Lampe

Astrid Lampe (b. 1955, Tilburg, the Netherlands)has published eight collections of poetry. Her most recent collection is Sorrow with Pets Twice she has been nominated for the prestigious VSB Poetry Award.

In her prizewinning collection Spuit je RALkleur (Squirt your RALcolour, 2005) the poet imagines that the modular space of a multi-functional portacabin can serve to protect one against homesickness: it becomes a universal emblem for shelter.

Astrid Lampe, sometimes hailed Hollandĺ─˘s most ominous language free fighter, likes to give her collections thought-provoking titles such as, for instance: The Memes of Lara, Kĺ─˘nex studies and Lil (Sigh). She is keen to emphasize how closely poetry is linked to the visual and performing arts. For artists living in our rapidly globalizing world, which is so dominated by the media, it is probably best to ĺ─˛cultivateĺ─˘ flexible states of mind, to become as agile as monkeys. In fact as far as poetry societies are concerned, a touch of the secular would probably do no harm.

www.astridlampe.nl

 

 

Hollands Diep

 

mijn vertaalprofessor denkt dat mijn zinnen kraantjes zijn
ik zwijg expres in alle talen
naar waarheid naakt zegt hij
poëzie stroomt

hij knalt er een Hollandse lucht boven
en de rokken van mijn moedertaal
bollen op gaan breeduit staan
mengen warm met koud
vangen de luchtstroom

een soort luilekkerland van Brussels kant
illegaal te verpatsen

drift drijft de zoom uit mijn bloes

nu in een roes mijn prof
een lint van lokstof door het sop jaagt
de koe naar open veld leidt
waar al mijn diertjes wateren

we stromen over

zo twee druppels water mijn grote liefde
aan de grote rivierarm afgevangen -
heimelijk, in de harde straal van mannentaal
aan mijn bezopen hemel opgehangen
klimt de zon


 
 

Hollands Diep

 

my translation professor thinks my sentences are small taps
I am deliberately silent in all languages
naked as truth he says
poetry flows

he hurls above it a Dutch sky
and the skirts of my mother tongue
billow up sprawl out
mix warm and cold
catch the air current

a kind of land of plenty of Brussels lace
to flog illegally

force forces the seam out of my blouse

now in a daze my prof
chases a lure thread through the suds
leads the cow to the open field
where all my little animals pass water

we flow over

thus two drops of water my big love
snatched from the huge river arm -
secretly, in the rigid jet of manly language
hung up on my drunken heaven
climbs the sun


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