Listening to a short poem is sometimes hard work. This was evident during the Night of Poetry, held for the 33rd time on Saturday 19 September. At a poem that ends in brief toneless silence from the poet after four short sentences, the experts separate themselves from the amateurs in the audience. Clap quickly, before the next poem is over. Or not clap. Who is a connoisseur and who is an amateur: you can decide that for yourself. That is the nice thing about this annual poetry festival, 'one of the best attended poetry events in Dutch literature', In Utrecht.
So the short poem is actually something I prefer to read and see printed in front of me on its blank page, rather than hear it casually spoken. K. Schippers, for example: his poetry is often more about the typography of the verses than the content of the message. Or the message is that typography. So you have to read it, not hear it. Though he is a lovely man, and a pleasure to listen to.
Gravely
Rich was the evening and at times heavy-handed. Especially when the sold-out TivoliVredenburg crowd was shown the farewell video of Rogie Wieg, the poet who euthanised himself earlier this year. Wieg's own tears for his beloved were heartbreaking.
Toe-curling, for me at least, was the performance by Ivo de Wijs who had the laughs with his boringly cynical old man's Saint Nicholas rhyme, but failed to captivate me. De Wijs may be an admirer and follower of Heinz Polzer (Drs. P), but he cannot stand in the shadow of that man who elevated word crafting to high art. Cabaret artist and musician Mike Boddé, on the other hand, performed a phenomenal ode to - the also this year deceased - Polzer immediately after De Wijs.
Highlight
Another highlight of the night emerged shortly afterwards. Carefully shuffling, supported by accompanists, up to the microphone and spotlights. And there the 88-year-old fragile old berry suddenly transformed into a 23-year-old beauty, who has shared a life and often bed with all the great poets and chansonniers of France. In her black dress, with her raven-black hair, perhaps helped by a facelift or two, but in her sensuousness not a year older: Juliette Greco. Sigh girl of all sigh girls, artist of the whisper song. With her current husband behind the piano, the man who also happened to compose the music for Jacques Brel. She had the room at her feet, and even at her respectable age could sing perfectly credibly about hands on hips, about blazing love and about vieux amants.
With performances by a slightly inebriated Levi Weemoedt and the still speedy Jules Deelder, nostalgia remained high on the agenda that night in Utrecht, but the bouncer was yet to come: Benjamin Clementine. This young singer, barefoot, nonchalantly playing the piano from a bar stool, managed to quiet the large hall with his unworldly voice. Hypnotic, this artist. Especially in the endless song Condolence, in which he pairs the fragility of Antony Hegarty with the pliability of Al Jarreau. To name a few extremes. He had been discovered before by Lowlands and Vredenburg, but now, for the first time, he could show a poetry audience, and hear them, how you do it: carelessly throwing out phrases and notes, which nevertheless arrive like a sledgehammer.
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