No glimpse of a slow flowing Amstel.

No splattering applause at the winter circus

Carré.

No view of a snow-covered square

with an illuminated Christmas tree

or landscape with icy mountains,

an endless sea.

No glimpse of the St. Thomas hospital,

the parliament buildings,

and London’s Big Ben.

Today no people in old churches

who are listening to our

songs.

I look across our garden,

the old church,

from behind my desk.

While getting older I don’t

forget recent images

as quickly as when

I was en route to who knows where again. 

I stare at the bare apple trees,

images flow through my mind,

glacier, waterfalls, herds of Iceland horses, solidified lava,

restaurants, hotels, shops,

people, as the saying goes,  from all corners of the earth. 

Voices, sounds,

silence

before the first song.

Flowers, the kissing of hands.

Before falling asleep my thoughts go, just for a moment,

out to those who are no longer with us.

Grateful. 

Herman van Veen

Last Sunday I received a small book with poems. On page 11 stood the poem ‘At a distance.’

When I read  ‘At a distance’, that you were not a woman with a baby in her womb, but an island, you were a poem about Vlieland, it didn’t surprise me. Because what is the difference when you read?

Perhaps

you can let me lie 

and look at me

from the sea

on your raft yearning

to reach me

but the tide

is not favourable, that’s why

and you wait and hope

that the wind which will 

swerve, will turn 

the current around

because you are sure, so sure,

even without a map, you know

of the treasure hidden

in me. 

‘At a distance’ is a poem published in ‘Scything light’ (‘Zeisend licht’).  Poems of Vlieland, written by Louise. Since 1997, this has been the alias for Gerda Posthumus who lives in Vlieland, I read on the cover. Her poems have often won prizes. Her work is characterized as a mysterious and ambiguous play with the language.

In Holland, during the past three years, one after the other Post Office has been closed and two thousand employees had to find another job. For postal services people can now be served at the 2600 counters of PostNL at Primera  and Bruna bookshops. 

‘In case of loss, please inform the office where you have signed for your savings deposit book as well as the Director of the Post Office Savings Bank’, I read at the back of the old savings deposit book, serial number 93-71983 of my father. A credit of: 10 guilders and 99 cent. 

Like a grumpy palace the art deco building of 1924, built by order of the National Building Services and designed by the School Architect of Amsterdam  Jo Crouwel, dominates the square in the centre of Utrecht. The black decorations in the foyer was carved from famous Belgian bluestone. Five prominent sculptured figures representing the five continents. The two light grey stone lions at the top of the stairs by the door were donated by the people of Utrecht, because by the time the megalomaniac building was finished, the State had no more money left.  

I can still picture myself walking, hand in hand with my father,  up the majestic stairs in the gigantic Post Office, to deposit ten silver guilders on his savings book. To a child the hall of the post office was like a mysterious palace. Innumerable counters where adults deposited or withdrew money, posted or received their postcards, letters and parcels.  Here, in the post office, my father would always enquire about how to complete his new tax form. Here you could ask almost anything, for example, if you had questions about the miracle telephone. 

I read in the newspaper that our Post Office in Neude in Utrecht will be closed.  The familiar building will be given another purpose.  Hotel and catering and shops. I think it’s sad. Never again will an old lady be waiting for a parcel from Indonesia. Never again will someone deposit a handful of pennies onto his savings book. No young boy will ever buy the first day stamped sport stamps for his collection of postage stamps again.  Nobody will send a telegram to New York: ‘Missing you.  Coming home for Christmas.’ No father will ask how he should interpret the small letters on the damn income tax form. No postal bags on delivery bicycles, no dingdong in the hall: ‘Call for Jan Frederik Albertus van Veen in callbox 52.’ Nobody will ever go into the hall again to hide from the rain, or just to have a chat, or to make an appointment below the huge clock.  No Ans, no Jans or Joke will ever wait for a sign of life from an unknown place where their loved one had gone to fight.  

With the closing of the old Post Office in Utrecht a much-loved dispatcher disappears. Our Post Office was living history. Living history that justly continues to exist.

We live next to the bird sanctuary, a small building run by the animal protection society, occupied by wounded, lost or stray birds (birds without papers) and volunteers. Restored or recovered birds are sometimes given back to nature in our garden. Crows, robins, owls, storks, blackbirds, swans, oxeyes etc. Fifteen years of voluntary work at this bird sanctuary has led to the publication of a little book which a friendly lady presented to me as a thank you yesterday. This little book contains anecdotes and notes, a glance of the daily routine, recorded in an exercise book. ‘Parakeet survived the journey through vacuum cleaner. A bit crumpled, but emerged alive.  Must keep an eye on it.’

 ‘If birds are able to sit on a perch, it might be handy to give them a perch. 

 ‘Mrs. W. is going to bring her parakeets next Tuesday.  She will bring their toys and sleeping baskets as well.’

 ‘Amivedi phoned regarding the grey redstart. Try to find out if it reacts to words in Turkish. We did not get further than ‘Maraba, tjokuusel, doeskoena, doschaapra’, but it didn’t react. Maybe you know something?’

Áccording to G. the quail is deaf.’

 ‘Parakeet brought in. Mrs. was very emotional. Gave large donation.’

 ‘When you let the water out inside, place a filter on the outlet. Otherwise the ducklings might disappear with the water.’

Two young ducklings were brought in. Burned by deep-frying fat. Washed them with baby shampoo and placed under the lamps.’

 ‘The ducks have left for the eternal duckweeds.’

 ‘Four table chickens brought in by ambulance. Probably fell off a truck and dumped by MacDonalds.’

 ‘Three blackbirds arrived by taxi.’

 ‘Indoors: duck struck by a golf ball.’

 ‘Dead: woodpecker. Diagnosis:  Suicide.’

As a young boy I wore the sweaters of my father, which were washed in hot water, that were also passed down from his father.  Should I outgrew them, the articles of clothing were recycled as woolly vests (camisole).  After all, in those days there was no heating in the house. Sleeves became oven gloves, the pieces still left over egg-cosies. Even the holes in the sweaters had a purpose: they were deployed as button holes. 

Due to prosperity the use of goods has changed.  To the annoyance of my mother it was no longer necessary to make tea-cosies from old bras.

But look:  the world is changing. We are standing on the eve of what is possibly a new shortage.  Read today’s newspaper. ‘Because natural resources are becoming scarcer, people are  finally starting to realise  that we should also see our waste as a resource.  That calls for clever designs and innovation.’ It is all about using as much of our resources for as long as possible so that waste becomes just as useful as the pure resource with which you started. It is called: circular economy. My mother would have been surprised.  She would now have been considered a circular economist.  With glass and paper people can already get far.  Especially paper which can be recycled up to seven times. To a large extent, the carpet manufacturers are already following this formula. While I am writing, my deceased mother is reading over my shoulder and is nodding approvingly.