Scarlet

She doubted the wisdom of

writing poems that blamed

what clearly didn't exist

but in the minds of neighbours

those she would greet on the way

to the shops not to get marked out

as a suspicious character

that wouldn't do the town any good.

Instead she would walk the hill

breathe the cool air of an early morning

greet the hares and wonder about

the shape of yonder mountain

where it was whispered gods once dwelt

before the invention of this phantom

that made one think in black and white

that caused her to dress in the colour of death

leaving no room for her dreams:

poems drenched in bitterness.

It just left her weary with memories

she wasn't supposed to have.

©Kees Klok

Thessaloniki, October 2009

Photo: Kees Klok

In loving memory

Stella Timonidou-Klok, July 26, 1946 - December 26, 2007

Thermá (Samothráki)

The harbour’s just a jetty

lined with rocks,

                         an air

brushing the lampposts

and shingle.

Over it looms the massive mountain,

the seat of Poseidon

when people still made sacrifices,

                         loved,

innocent of sin

and bearded men in robes

                          smelling of incense,

the sad blessings of the Lord.

The Springs that go back to those days

modestly suggest healing

where praying fails.

                          Plane trees

offer Thermá refuge on the slopes of mount Saos

peopled

                          by girls in Indian silk,

by the retired in search of longer life.

Resting in the music

                          of old idols,

reading the words

of the ancient poets

we wallow in the harmonies of crickets.

This is how to make the world stand still,

the way it does in winter

                          when almost everyone

awaits the summer on the mainland,

when sometimes snow

slides down the cracking roofs

and the mountains of Thrace stand out

clearly in steely, pre-human light.

Beyond the jetty

not even an abandoned dinghy

for anyone who’d risk the crossing;

                         as people once

must have drifted ashore

on something

that inspired a faith in this far island,

urged on by a dream, a vision

                         or the fear of gods,

those creations of the half-unconscious mind

that weighed down the earth

with an undamped power

still smouldering

                         in all our life-imaginings.

Poseidon

on his sharp-upreaching throne

uncomfortably presides

over a handful of houses, the Springs,

                          the church

that sets its bells against the music,

making us drift away

to days that in our minds reshape themselves,

                          reshape themselves again :

the road down to the harbour

a straight line

in this landscape of mountain

and primeval tree.

Original title: Loutrá (Samothráki)

From: Kees Klok, In dit laagland. Gedichten, Wagner & Van Santen, 2005.

Re-written in English by the author and Susan Wicks.

Fake

This is not what it looks like. The photograph was taken in 1975 in Newton-le-Willows just before or after (I can't remember, only in November that year I began my diary) one of my cousins graduated at Hull University. It was too tempting not to try if the gown would fit me. Wearing a gown on your graduation ceremony was unheard of in Dutch universities, at least in those days. I never wore one although I gained two bachelor's degrees and two master's. My last master I got at Utrecht University with the Dutch historian Maarten van Rossem, who became famous in the USA taking part in the last presidential election campaign with the slogan 'Van Rossem for President.'

Dressed for the occasion

Summer 1976, somewhere in Tunisia. I was dying for a beer but coca cola was the only thing available at the small roadside cafe where we stopped on our way to the Salt Lakes. Probably the last stop before we went into the desert. At a certain point we would have to continue by camel. I already dressed for the occasion. Fortunately the drink was served in it's original bottle. I wanted to wash my hands. I discovered what was probably the most filthy toilet in the eastern hemisphere. It made me skip lunch. I was one of the few that didn't go down with the trots next day. A few hours down the road, on the edge of the desert, we slept in the Sahara Hotel. A circle of bedouin tents inside a low wall with a gateway. In a small wooden cabin in the middle was a toilet, only one and French style but compared to the previous one more or less usable. Next to it a shower without water. It was around forty degrees Celsius that afternoon, but in the cooling evening the place was peaceful and quiet. It was a relieve to be away from the bustle of Sousse where it was impossible to navigate the souk without constantly being pulled into shops and having to face impossibly impudent shopkeepers insisting you buy or else. We had to stay another night to enable the sick to recover. The Salt Lakes were amazing. If it was only for the desert I would have revisited the country, but unorthodox ideas about hygienics and the mercantile spirit of the people kept me at the opposite shore of the Mediterranean.

Lost passions

Lupius and Stella in front of bookshop 't Ramschat in Dordrecht, a place where slightly damaged books are sold cheaply. One of the things the three of us shared was a passion for books and a passion for reading. Stella and I also shared a passion for poetry. The photo must have been taken shortly before Lupius would retire from his job in Utrecht to start writing the book he'd been talking about for years. Spring 2007, I guess. Stella had already written most of the poems that would be published in her book Eindeloze nachten/ατελείωτες νύχτες (Unending nights) that was published by Liverse in Dutch and by University Studio Press in Greek in 2008, shortly after she died. Lupius died early 2010 without finishing his book. 

Costa d' Oro

Saturday, September 8, 2007. The three of us went for a drink at Visser's, as we usually do on Saturdays. My good friend Thijs, my cousin Brian, over from England for a short holiday, and me. At around half past seven Stella came round to pick us up for a meal at Costa d' Oro the Italian restaurant in Dordrecht. The photo is one of the many taken over the years from the very first days of the restaurant. During the seventies and well into the eighties the founder, Giovanni Balistreri, was running the business. He died much too young. His portrait is on the wall, a man in his forties though at the time we used to call him 'good old Balistreri.' We were all secretly in love with his eldest daughter Rosa, who runs the business now. Poet Jan Eijkelboom was a regular with his wife and children. Poet Peter M. v.d. Linden worked as a chef for a while. He published a poem about it in the liber amicorum presented to Jan Eijkelboom on his eightieth birthday. The photo was taken at the last evening ever Stella was in Costa d' Oro. Two weeks later the cancer of which she would die on Boxing Day that year manifested itself.