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| photo: Andrys Stienstra, collection Tresoar |
Tsjêbbe Hettinga Hettinga was born in 1949 in Burchwert, a small village in the Province of Friesland in the Netherlands. His father was a dairy farmer and horse breeder. After Teacher Training College he studied Dutch and Frisian language and literature at Groningen State University. He has been living in Ljouwert/Leeuwarden, capital of Friesland, since 1982.
Hettinga made his debut before an international audience at the Frankfurt Book Fair in October 1993, when special focus was on literature from the Netherlands. The resounding, musical performance of the Frisian poet came as a surprise to many and made a great impression on the public. In the following years he was invited to present his work on important occasions, such as ‘De nacht van de poëzie’ (The Night of Poetry) in Utrecht, the Poetry International Festival in Rotterdam, the Barcelona Book Fair, a Swansea festival celebrating the UK Year of Literature and Writing, the Writers’ Week in Listowel and, in March 1999, the London Festival of Literature. He recites his poetry by heart, not just because of his poor eyesight, but principally to create maximum space for the expression of his emotions. He is also a saxophone player and he likes to compare his recitals with solos in jazz. (more...)
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Frisian
version
Fjemde Kusten
Oan swarte stielkabels hawwe de bokken
De nacht boppe see en haven úttakele.
De gjalpen fan seefûgels, op it wetter
Yn ’e slomme, binne oernommen troch fammen
Dy’t op hichte havenjonges befleane.
De wyn, dy’t sâlt en frjemde tongslaggen ynhat,
Sylt plichtmjittich as in parlefinker troch
De wetterstrjitten fan ’e stêd, de kaaien del
Dêr’t de houdini’s fan de grutte feart fluch
De boeien fan de lange dining ôfdogge,
De stegen troch nei dearin’de herten, om
Lichtsinnich oan ’e swier te gean mei roken fan
Lavendel, lear, knyflok, tabak, benzine.
De drokke kaaien en de wurge neisimmer,
De bokken en de mokkels fine elkoar
Net: sykjend in seeman, dy’t noch lânrôt is. Ik.
Oerenlang doal ik troch it havenkertier,
Drink yn ’e dokkroegen: ûnder de dekmantel
Fan nacht en neon befarre rossige
Froulju de koaien fan it wrakke skip De Wrâld
(Mei poaiers oan ’e pompen dy’t de triennen
Eazje). De útholjende boat fan ’e moanne
Besylt koel de súdlike kontininten,
Dy’t op ’e wetterkaarten fan myn oantinken
Skatten krúst ha mei de nammen fan havens,
Mei de kielen fan kriezjende seefûgels, mei
De grize eagen fan in oerstutsen mem.
Ja, alle havens lykje op inoar, wit ik,
En, lyksa, de sulverrôvjende froulju.
Kom leave, ropt ien. Dat sizze se allegear,
Oeral. Nee, thús wol ik wêze, al is ’t mar
Foar in nacht, en sykjend slaan ik de taxi’s acht.
Reprinted with permission by Tsjêbbe Hettinga,
from Vreemde kusten/ Frjemde kusten, Atlas, 1995. |
English
version
Strange Shores
On black as tar steel cables all the derricks
Have hoisted up the night above sea and harbour.
The cries of the seagulls now a-slumber on
The water, have been replaced by the shrill shrieks of
Girls, who dart out to tig lads in the harbour
Laden with sea-salt and foreign tongues, the mild wind,
As dutifully as a bum-boat, sails down
Through the waterways of the port, along the quays,
Where the Houdinis of the merchant shipping
Are quick to toss off the chains of the long, long swell,
And, winding through dark lanes towards dead-end hearts,
Go off on the spree with the odours of leather,
Lavender, garlic, gasoline, tobacco.
The busy wharfs and the tired tail-end of summer,
The derricks and the bints fail to find eachother:
There’s a sailor, landlubber still, searching here. I.
I rove for hours through this labyrinth of docks,
Drinking in the sailor’s pubs: under the cover
Of the night and neon, rosy women are
Sailing in the bunks of the wreck, called The World
(With pimps on the leaking pumps that scoop away
The tears.) The hollowed-out boat of the moon sails out
So coolly between the southern continents,
Which have marked with crosses on the blue marine charts
Of my memory treasures with the sleeping
Names of harbours, with the throats of screeching sea-birds,
The grey-green eyes of a passed away mother.
Yes, I know. All ports are like other ports. And so
Are the silver-stealing women. Come, my dear,
One of them calls. They all say that, everywhere.
No, home is where I’d rather be, even for
Just one night and I search and wait for a taxi.
Translated by James Brockway and Tsjêbbe Hettinga.
Reprinted
with permission
from James Brockway and Tsjêbbe Hettinga, from
Strange Shores/ Frjemde
kusten, Frysk & Frij, 1999. |
Audio version
Fjemde Kusten
Click on the title of the poem below to listen.
Fjemde Kusten -
Frisian version.
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Frisian
version
Oankomst
Tsjin in hagelwite flecht fan snieguozzen yn,
Noch foar’t syn lytse spegeljende haven
Fersânje koe ta in lânskip fan wier en sâlt,
Fan brûnsgrien hiem en gielkoperen hurdstee
Troch dagen hege blauwe winen as it stof
Fan hjerstmis ploege maitydsgrûn ferwaaiend,
Sa wied er útsyld, opdat de see, rjochtsprekkend
Oer in siel dy't net in anker ferneare,
Him opnaam en de readferbaarnde earen fan
It seil Biskaje syn ûnbeskieden weach,
It hûnske gromjen fan Atlas en Gibraltar,
Beharken, of dowesturt en batsk kreakjend
Roer, oant tsjin in kleare jûnloft swarte bergen
Brieken troch de skyn fan in ûneinichheid.
Suvere hertstocht huvere troch wrangen en
Ynhout yn in ûnderstream fan dolfinen.
De wite do, dy’t fan toarst en honger twongen
Op it dek delstrutsen wie de moarns, ûntfleach
De kajút syn koperen patryspoarte,
Op de poalstjer yn, dêr't in taskimerjend
Unbekind eilân ûnder omheechkaam, lykas
Ea, nei njoggen dagen en njoggen nachten
Op it wrakhout fan in kylsbalke troch see en
Acht wynstreken belage west te hawwen,
Dat fan Kalypso foar in soan fan Erisos.
Tiid, dy't hannen kriich om't ôfstân noch bestie,
Liet, lyts, autoljochten tusken oanstutsen doarp
En fersmiten krusing ferdwaald sykje om
Stjerren, fisken, sa't mei grize wynbrau it strân
Noch socht om in float dy’t útgie om in frou.
Yn dat sykjen sûnder finen koe de siel him
Wer as in eilân troch eilannen omspield.
Op it tanachte alter fan it strân, dêr't er
Mei in hurde wraam fan genot fan hout op
Sân op oankaam, yn in katedraal fan rotsen,
Steil, seestikelbaarch en útdraafde swarte
Hynders mei seestjerren yn 'e hals, brânmerke
In lyts fjoer mei oardel stiennen ezel en
In noegjende man yn in mantel syn oankomst.
En sa’t er mei steatlike kalmens, geduld
Foar oarmans begryp it spit mei it skieppefleis
Draaid hie, sa't er, alle kearen knibbeljend,
Hieltyd wer de siel yn it fjoer blaasd hie, ja, sa’t
De ezels oan de rotsen gnabben, guodlik,
Sa spriek dy man fan noegjen, joech him syn miel, briek
De stilte en sei: Kalispera, file. |
English
version
Arrival
A flock of hail-white snow geese winged its way north, so
He sailed south, before his sparkling harbor could
Silt up into a landscape of seaweed and salt,
Leaving behind the bronze-green farmyard and brass
Andirons, only to be blown for days on end
On high blue winds, like dust when the fallow fields
Of fall are sown in spring, and on he sailed until
The sea, taking pity on a soul that chafed
At the anchor, bore him aloft and the sunburned
Ears of the sail harkened to Biscay’s brazen
Swell, the snarling bark of Atlas and Gibraltar,
The creak of dovetail joints and grumbling rudder,
Until at last black mountains burst through the twilight
And the seemingly endless eternity.
Passion rippled through the timbers of keel and hull,
On an undercurrent of passing dolphins.
A white dove, driven by hunger and thirst to land
On the deck early one morning, suddenly
Fled the safety of the copper porthole and flew
Up toward the North Star, where an unknown island,
On the cusp of dusk, arose from the depths, just as
Calypso’s island had once loomed up before
The shipwrecked son of Erisos, after he’d clung
For nine days and nights to a broken beam and
Twice been buffeted by the wind’s four directions.
Time, noting the existence of distance, called
All hands on deck, raked its lights over twinkling towns
And abandoned crossroads, seeking stars and fish,
Still hoping, like the gray-browed beach, to see the fleet
That had once set sail in search of a woman.
In that fruitless search his soul recognized itself
As a lone island in a sea of islands.
On the dark altar of the beach, where he landed
With a thump of joy and the smack of wet wood,
In a cathedral of rugged cliffs, sea urchins
And crashing horses with starfish on their necks,
His arrival was branded into the sand by
A fire, one and a half mules, still as statues,
And a welcoming man in a long black cloak, who
Greeted him with the same majestic calm and
Patient understanding with which he rotated
The lamb on the spit and repeatedly knelt
By the fire to blow life back into its soul. And
With the same air as the mules, nibbling gently
At the rocks, the man handed him his meal, then broke
The silence and said: Kalispera, file.
Translated by Susan Massotty. Reprinted from
Fan oer see en fierder, (‘From Overseas and Farther’), 2000. |
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Frisian
version
Fan Oer See en Fierder
In brief, in flecht, in kommen ûnder de golfplaten
Fan ús hutte yn in hôf fan oliven ferburgen,
Yn ’e middei op in eilân yn ’e weagen fan
In mediterrane archipel: alve dagen do
Waarm en ryp as de fruchten dêr’tst mei komst. Eagen dêr’tst
In man it swartst ljocht mei ferreagest hasto en eat fan
It Hollânsk fleanen om ’e mûle dat him deljout
As it hite kalkstof fan it paad dat dy brocht hat en
Yn himsels weromgiet mei de blauwe trekker út
It seedoarp wei, trekker, ûnderweis nei de see werom.
Nei it reade drinken op it alter fan it grien
Oliveskaad, by de liddige put yn de folle
Sinne, mei sicht op wat ús besjocht, ezel en frou,
In team stienkoalejapanskpratende kalkoenen neist
In twahûndertfyftich cc Suzuki, reedzjend
Oer de twa faasjes fan it eilân, of, laitsjend, it plak
Fan twa freondinnen en in man op ’e âldmotor
It sûzjend slingerpaad del nei de rûzjende baai mei
Syn oardelmeters weagen sûnder wyn, net in sucht,
Fan in fiere stoarm, fan in juster foar altyd, de see.
En mei dyn dûnker glimmend gesicht, dat no weach nei
Weach it wyt koraal fan ’e tosken bleatkryt nei stille
Eagen ûnder de griene jagershoed fan ’e kust
Stietsto oant de ankels yn de see syn ynlutsen búk,
Tusken twa as in souvenier stjurre weagen,
Yn in skitterjende skulpen skaal fan ovaal blau glês,
It strak slim wyt swimpak oant op de dûnkere o
Fan ’e heupen delstrûpt, de boarsten ferskriklike bleat
En de earmen al kapitulearjend foar de drift
Fan it wetter, do Karaïbyske Afrodite.
Tagelyk tasprutsen en lokke troch de nammen
Fan ’e skippen yn ’e simmerhaven dy’t Hercules
Seghers in pear foargoed útfearne ieuwen ferlyn
Mei fine streken fan ’e pinne fêstlei – Zakynthos,
Kilini, Kastor / Pollux, Stardust, Aspropirgos –
Stietsto yn ’e sinne fan septimber en seewyn dy’t
Fernimber mei dyn lange wite simmerjurk, as
Jachtbút fan dyn oerjûne foarmen, útnaaie wol, op
Hege hakken, hân yn ’e side, op ’e muorre
Tsjin de winterstoarmen fisker’s netten út te daagjen.
Jûns, hoenear’t skimer as niis skiep en skieppehoeder
Troch de oerâlde olivehôven fan ’e ynkear
Wâlet, hoenear’t de golfplaten hutte waarmer wurdt
As de stiennen put neist de deastille stuollen, hoenear’t
De boeven fan it libido nacht syn finzenis
Al bespegelje, krijsto, neaken oant op ’e skamte,
In swarte slange beet en rekkest yn gefjocht mei
Wetter (swart glês dat dyn swart liif noch swarter makket), en
Mei ús, wylst it ús, kâld, de seesâlt fan de kjelle
Hûd spielt en genot yn spuitsjen raze en reine lit.
It dûknekkich tsjuster, dat rûkt nei hout en see, slút
(Holpen troch de hûnen dy’t op harren keatlings gromje)
De hôven ôf, lit los de rotten en út it rom
Fan in djipsonken skip de moanne, op ’e râne fan
De pûlemûljende put nei it ûnfersteanber
Praten harkjend fan twa inoar klaaiende freondinnen,
Geregeld smoarend yn in allessizzend laitsjen
Ut de hutte wei, en rûkt troch it tinken oan see en
Hout hinne ûnferhoeds de geur fan nije bosken
Hier en frjemde blommen dy’t kleuret dit stomdom tsjuster.
Under de pergola fan ’e salamander en
Ripe druvetrossen, dy’t in âld-testamintysk byld
Foar eagen tsjoenje, yn it skynsel fan spoekdûnsjend
Waxineljocht tsjin ’e âldmuorre bekwattele mei
De homearyske hantekening fan Kyrios
Seismos, dwaalsto, mei dyn krektoandiene wite dûnsjurk,
Dyn longerjende folle lippen fan dit eilân
Wei nei dyn Karaïbysk, mei dyn hannen dy’t drokkeroan
Syn skiednis, dyn oarsprong, beskriuwe, en eagen fan fjoer
Dat ea by nacht in skip oanloek fan poerfrjemd kontinint.
En letter, yn de pûsterige opwining fan
It earmoedich ferljochte feest fan oksen, rammen,
Bokken fan boeren, skieppe- en geiteslachters út
It doarp syn ûntuchtige heuvels, sylsto al dûnsjend
Yn de Spaanske earmens fan in strâne seekaptein
(Dy’t ea oan Sily’s njirrebrod ûntkaam, okkerdeis noch
Sa grutsk as in pau mei twa njirren oan in toutsje
It doarp ferbjustere) flinterlicht de nacht yn, seeën
Oer om – o stjerren – leafdes skipbrek te lijen, as
Brief yn ’e flesse oan te spielen op dyn Curaçao:
O Mai, sa stjerrende stil is ’t, as mei wetter fan
Glês om my hinne en stomme fisken mei, o, de bek
Op it wiidst iepen ûnder de sliepende kust fan
Koraalspecht, stil as de kriki en de nacht dy’t swier is
Fan him en djipwei wrottend deiljocht, dat my opnimt,
Iere betiid, by Fort Nassau, dêr’t de wyn fan boppen
Komt om dyn ûnderkommen te sykjen yn Santa
Rosa, stil as dizze letters yn dyn skerte, yn ’e tún
Fan mango’s goudgiele trânsparante tango mei
De proastige noardeastpassaat fan oer see en fierder.
Lykme allinne, as de skrutene leguaan
Op ’e sintebibu yn ’e sinne fan de middei
(Dy’t alle dagen de rappe dei yn twaën dreamt),
Tusken de foarse kaktussen, myn hert. Mar ik sjong, swing
Troch de nacht, stim en yngewant fan in havenstêd
Mei de azem fan fisk en see, manlju’s blauwe weemoed,
De leginde fan in blanke hân, in seemanshân
Op myn swart him hifkjend skouder, dat bûgje kin mar taai
Is as de watapana, fan it bûnzjend wachtsjen
Fan myn wêzen as in faam ûnder de tamarinde.
En rûzjend yn ’e branning fan beide eilannen
(Soe it koark de geast noch yn ’e flesse hâlde?) myn bloed
Dat my ûngemurken it tinken benimt, my bringt
Nei see, doch net mear wit fan wa’t it kriten (fan de bern
Op it strân, seefûgels om ’e fisk of dolfinen
Yn ’e baai) noch is – oant yn it sân fan myn dreamen al
Myn alve krobben al widzjend al te sjongen stean:
‘Ken’ ken’ nos ke tuma ke tuma ke tuma, ken’, ken’’,
Yn in krinkje yn in skimer ûnder in beam by
In put yn in wolken boppe in skip yn in flesse.
© 2000, Tsjêbbe Hettinga. Reprinted with permission
from
Tsjêbbe Hettinga from Fan oer see en fierder, Útjouwerij MONTAiGNE,
Gasselternijveenschemond, 2000. |
English
version
From Overseas and Farther
A letter, a flight, a getting together again
Under the corrugated roof of our cottage, hidden
In the cool noon of an olive grove on an island
Amid the waves of an Aegean archipelago:
Eleven days of you, warm and ripe as the fruit you
Brought with you; and while your eyes dispel a man’s darkest light,
The trace of urban haste around your mouth comes to rest
Like the hot chalky dust of the path that led you here, which
Keeps bumping into itself as the blue tractor from
The village by the sea winds its way back down to the shore.
After a red drink on the shady green altar of
An olive tree, the full sun beating down on an empty
Well, looking and being looked at by a woman and
A donkey, a bevy of turkeys babbling in broken
Japanese beside a two fifty cc Suzuki,
Discussing the island’s two faces or laughing at how
The two women and a man manage on an ancient
Motorbike, we whiz down the winding road to the quiet
Bay with its shoulder-high waves, the wind more of a sigh
From a far-off storm, forever yesterday’s storm, the sea.
And your dark gleaming face, wave after wave exposing
The white coral of your teeth to the coast, which silently
Stares back from beneath its green hunter’s cap; there you stand,
Up to your ankles in the sea, where the shoreline sucks in
Its girth, a souvenir caught between two time-frozen
Waves in a beautifully scalloped bowl of blue oval glass,
With your tight white swimsuit rolled down to the darker O
Of your hips, your breasts unbelievably bare and your arms
Already surrendering themselves to the water’s
Latest onslaught, you, a Caribbean Aphrodite.
Accosted as well as lured by the names of the ships
In the summer harbor that Hercules Seghers captured
With a few strokes of his pen all those eternally
Sailed away centuries ago – Zakynthos, Calini,
Castor / Pollux, Stardust, Aspropirgos – you stand there
In the September sun, the wind caressing your long white
Summer dress, hoping to carry you off, your flaunted
Figure a trophy in high heels, with your hands on your hips,
Poised atop a sea wall built to survive the harshest
Of winter storms, defying the fishermen and their nets.
Early in the evening, when twilight drifts like a shepherd
And his flock through ancient groves of supplication, when our
Simple cottage, with its corrugated roof, becomes
Even hotter than the stones of the well beside the dead
And silent chairs, when the bandits of the libido
Begin to implore the prison of the night, you pick up
A black hose and, naked to the waist, engage us and
The water (Black glass that makes your body even blacker)
In a water fight, so that while the icy spurts rinse
The sea salt from our shocked skins, we shriek in childish delight.
And then stoop-shouldered darkness, smelling of wood and sea,
Seals off the olive groves (assisted by the dogs growling
At their chains), unleashes the rats and fetches the moon
From the hold of a sunken ship, all the while listening
At the edge of a murmuring well to the muffled
Chitchat of the two women as they help each other dress
And the revealing bursts of smothered giggles that keep
Coming from our cottage, so that the thought of wood and sea
Adds an unexpected fragrance to the freshly coifed
Hair and exotic flowers that color this mute darkness.
Under the arbor, home to salamanders and ripe
Clusters of grapes that conjure up the Song of Songs before
Our weary eyes, in the ghostly shine of candlelight
That dances along an old wall scrawled with the Homeric
Handwriting of Kyrios Seismos, you stroll up and
Down in a white dancing gown donned for the occasion,
Yet your lips betray your longing for your own island,
Your Caribbean roots, and while your hands excitedly
Tell the story, your eyes burn like the nightly fire that
Lured long-ago ships from a wondrously strange continent.
Later on, you sail, buoyed by the swollen excitement
Of a dimly lit party for the local stags and bucks,
Butchers of goats and sheep, farmers from the villages
And nearby wanton hills, while dancing in the Spanish arms
Of a stranded sea captain (once in the clutches of
A Chilean viper’s nest and now, with a peacock’s pride,
Astonishing the poor villagers with two adders
On a string); into the night you sail, light as a feather,
Over oceans – oh bright stars – to suffer love’s shipwreck,
Like a letter in a bottle washed up on Curaçao:
Oh Mother, it’s as still as the grave, all around me
Water made of glass and mute fish with mouths, o, wide open
Beneath the sleeping coast of Koraalspecht, as still as
The crickets and the night they impregnated with their chirps
Before it gave birth to a low-slung dawn here in Fort
Nassau, enveloping me in early light, while the high
Wind seeks shelter with you in Santa Rosa, as still
As the sheaf of letters in your lap; and in the garden
A mango dances a transparent golden tango
With the trade wind, a proud northeasterly from overseas
And farther. All alone, like the bashful iguana
Sunning itself in the sharp heat of the afternoon
On a tall cactus (daily dreaming the rapid day
In two), alone with my heart among the sintebibu.
But I sing and swing through the night, the voice and belly
Of a seaport, breathe in the air of fish and sea, mournful
Blues and the legend of a white hand, a sailor’s hand
On my expectant black shoulder, leaning into the wind
But as strong as the watapana, from the throbbing wait
Of a maidenly existence beneath a tamarind.
And so the pounding of the waves on the two islands
(Will the cork keep the spirit in the bottle?) courses through
My veins, slyly robs me of my thoughts and takes me back
To the sea, though I no longer know the source of the shrieks –
The children on the beach, the sea birds above the fish
Or the dolphins in the bay – until in the sand of
My dreams my eleven little darlings dance and sing:
‘Ken’ ken’ nos ke tuma ke tuma ke tuma, ken’, ken’ . . . ’
In a circle in the twilight beneath a tall tree
By a well in a cloud above a ship in a bottle.
Translated by Susan Massotty. Reprinted with permission from
Fan oer see en fierder, (‘From Overseas and Farther’), 2000. |
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In Friesland Hettinga’s name as a poet has been established since 1971. As can be gathered from the titles of his books, the landscape of his own region, but also that of Wales and Greece, plays an important role in his poetry, where it is presented as a vivid experience and as a symbolic environment for the expression of inner life. The poet celebrates the sea, the sky, the seagulls, the cattle, the grass, but most of all the shore, the line where two worlds meet. His poetry is about great romantic themes, such as love, decay and death, about longing for strange shores and the longing to be back home. It is not a poetry of fine-spun reasoning but one of images.
His early collections sometimes contain small poems, focusing on casual events or ideas, but in the later ones the texts are more elaborate and lack reference to definite real events. The images Hettinga evokes seem to be prompted by the sound patterns of the Frisian language, or by previous images and this sometimes results in their baroque enumeration, over which he keeps control by a regular syllabic pattern in regular stanzas and by giving his poems an epic framework. His strongly expressive musical language tends to carry the reader away and the listener still more. Attending a recital by Hettinga is an experience in itself. In this respect T.S. Eliot’s words “Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood” certainly apply.
In 1995 Hettinga’s bilingual book Vreemde kusten/ Frjemde kusten was published, including the CD De foardrachten (The Declamations). It was generally hailed as a success and sold thousands of copies. Four years later – on the occasion of the poet’s performance at the London Festival of Literature – an edition of this book was published in English and Frisian, entitled Strange shores/ Frjemde kusten. In 2001 his Frisian collection Fan oer see en fierder was awarded the most important prize in Frisian literature: the Gijsbert Japickx Price. Three years later, during the Maastricht International Poetry Nights of 2004, Hettinga was the second poet ever to receive the Hans Berghuisstok, an international poetry prize celebrating his complete oeuvre.
by Teake Oppewal, reprinted with permission from Netherlands.poetryinternationalweb.org.
Bibliography
Frisian poetry
Yn dit lân (with drawings of Jelle Kaspersma; small press, 1973)
Loft, lân en sé (with Jelle Kaspersma; small press, 1974)
Fan lân loft en leafde (with drawings of Jelle Kaspersma; Koperative Utjowerij, 1975)
Tusken de bidriuwen troch is âlderdom (Koperative Utjowerij, 1981)
Under seefûgels – De kust (Frysk en Frij, 1992; 2nd run 1995)
Fan oer see en fierder (Montaigne, 2000)
With Dutch, German and/or English translation
8 Gedichte/ Gedichten (with German translations by Babs Gezelle Meerburg and Ronald Noppers; Frysk en Frij, 1993)
Fryslân! De wrâld! Friesland! Die Welt! (an anthology of poems of Obe Postma and Tsjêbbe Hettinga, with German translations by Ard Posthuma, Babs Gezelle Meerburg and Ronald Noppers; Attempto Verlag, 1998)
Vreemde kusten/ Frjemde kusten (with Dutch translation by Benno Barnard; includes a CD; Atlas, 1995)
Strange shores/ Frjemde kusten (with English translations by James Brockway; includes a CD; Frysk en Frij, 1999)
It doarp Always Ready/ Het dorp Always Ready/ The Town Always Ready (poem on a CD with Dutch translation by Benno Barnard and Tsjêbbe Hettinga, and English translation by Susan Massotty; Montaigne, 2000)
Platina de zee (Frisian-Dutch publication by Tsjêbbe Hettinga and Benno Barnard; includes a CD; Atlas, 2003)
Hettinga’s poems were also selected for anthologies of Dutch poetry in Spanish, English and German translation. Among other works of poetry, Hettinga translated Dylan Thomas’ ‘Fern Hill’ and Derek Walcott’ ‘Light of the world’ in Frisian. For the Frysk Festival in 1995 he translated Walt Whitman’s ‘Salút au Monde!’ in Frisian. |
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