J.K. Rensburg: 'Verraad van fabrieksgeheim' (PS 68)

 

VERRAAD VAN FABRIEKSGEHEIM

 

Ik waande eerst uit werken van poëten,

Dat je’ enkel werd door godd’lijk licht bestraald,

Voordat je’ iets schiep. Maar ik wil ’t eerlijk weten:

Je maakt het éérst af, wat het best betaalt.

 

En zoo’n sonnet?... Och, kalm met passen, meten

Schrijf je’ eerst de twee kwatrijnen. Dat bepaalt

Al, wat geklonke’ aan den terzinen-keten

Er verder aan het slot wordt bijgehaald.

 

’k Verraad hier eigenlijk fabrieksgeheimen.

’t Is heusch zoo’n kunst niet dat scandeeren, rijmen,

Verliefd zijn oók niet. Nou: dat pen je neer

En mengt dat met je stemming door het weer.

En landschap-schild’ren leer je - een, twee, drie -

Geholpen door een boek van botanie.

 

 

BETRAYAL OF TRADE SECRET

 

From poets’ works I first had the idea

You simply were suffused by light divine

Before you wrote. The truth’s more this, I fear:

You first complete what’s best paid, every time.

 

And such a sonnet?... well, fine-tuning’s out,

Just dump two quatrains on the page. For now

The tercets’ content is in little doubt,

As too the ending with its final bow.

 

Trade secrets are what I’m betraying here.

To scan and rhyme’s no art, is nowhere near,

Nor’s being love-struck. Well: you plonk that down

And with your mood you stir it round and round.

And landscape painting’s mastered – one, two, three –

Assisted by a book on botany.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 68

 

 

 

Jan Arends (1925-1974): 'Ik schrijf gedichten als dunne bomen'

 

Alain Teister: 'Poëzie' (PS 67)

 

POËZIE

 

Poëzie is, voor mij althans,

niet het vermoeid, roerdompig

droevig geroep om de gemiste kans.

Het is meer iets van op klompen

lopen, knarsen op het grint.

Wie dit vindt zal niet

mee kunnen komen met lome

en oude symbolen:

de bleke maan voor ’t bleke lief

is eerder week dan apocrief.

Meer dan op ’t volkje dat betreurt

en klankrijk zeurt

als de grond tussen gelieven split

hou ik het op wat bijt,

en wel om ’t hardst.

Poëzie is meer

die barst zien, verifiëren,

en dat dan zeggen. Barst.

 

 

POETRY

 

Poetry, for me at any rate, is

not the languid, bittern-booming

mournful cry at missed chances.

It is more like stomping along in

clogs and the crunch of grit.

Anyone that feels this fits won’t

settle for churning out listless

and outworn symbols:

the pale moon for the pale beloved

is more weak than apocryphal.

Rather than joining the groaners

and sonorous moaners if

the earth between lovers rifts,

I seek what has plenty of bite,

is rough and tough.

Poetry’s more a question

of gloves-off seeing, verifying

and then stating. Gloves-off.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 67

 

J.A. Dèr Mouw: 'Kent iemand dat gevoel...'

Paul Vincent and I present Peter King with 100 Dutch-language poems,
translated into English.

 

Kent iemand dat gevoel: ’t is geen verdriet,

’t is geen geluk, geen menging van die beiden;

’t hangt over je, om je, als wolken over heiden,

stil, hoog, licht, ernstig; ze bewegen niet.

 

Je voelt je kind en oud; je denken ziet

door alles, wat scheen je van God te scheiden.

’t Is, of een punt tot cirkel gaat verwijden;

’t is, of een cirkel punt wordt en verschiet.

 

Je denkt: Nooit was het anders; tot mijn Wezen

ben ’k al zo lang van sterflijkheid genezen.

Je weet: Niets kan mij deren; ik ben Hij.

 

Tot zekerheid je twijfel opgeheven,

zo hang je als eeuwig boven je eigen leven:

je bent de wolken en je bent de hei.

 

 

Who knows that feeling: it is not distress

not joy, nor yet a mixture of the two –

like clouds on moors it hangs round, over you:

still, high, light, serious; and motionless.

 

You feel a child yet old; your grasp aright

what you from God once seemed to separate.

As if a dot to circle will dilate,

circle contract to dot, shoot off from sight.

 

You think: Nothing has changed; to my true Being

I’ve long been cured from my mortality.

You know: Nothing can harm me; I am He.

 

You rise above your doubt to certain seeing,

hang as eternal, your whole life beneath:

you are the high clouds and you are the heath.

ZKG: 'Le morbier'

 

LE MORBIER

 

to protect leftovers of their comté

until the next day

the farmers of morbier

covered it with a layer of ashes

then placed more comté on top:

le morbier

 

in the heated pool

suddenly

day month and year

escaped me

were out of mind

for several minutes

 

since then

reality seems the same

but whenever

access to a word

is briefly but firmly denied

there is this taste

of ash

 

 

LE MORBIER

 

for at beskytte resten af deres comté

til den efterfølgende dag

dækkede morbiers bønder den

med et lag af aske

og placerede så mere comté ovenpå:

le morbier

 

i det opvarmede bassin

kunne jeg pludselig

ikke komme på

dag måned eller år

de var sporløst forsvundet

i adskillige minutter

 

siden da

ser virkeligheden ud som før

men hver gang

adgangen til et ord

nægtes kort men bestemt

er der denne smag

af aske

 

ZKV 24

ZKV24

 

It is the late 1950s. I am accompanying my father, who is playing a Schubert sonata for violin and piano. His violin is sonorous, the long and beautiful fingers of his left hand press firmly down on the strings, his bowing is vigorous, he sways in time with the music. And with a strange mixture of pleasure and exertion he grunts.

Among the works he loved most of all, Schubert figured prominently. And the two piano trios were always pencilled into the Radio Times when then were about to appear on the Third. We would listen together. Occasionally, just before a beloved entry, Pa would look over at me, lift the index finger of his left hand as if inviting me to hold my breath and give a slight smile.

I came to love both the Bb and Eb trios, so different yet two sides of the same coin. I later bought the old recording of Schneider, Casals and Istomin, which we listened to together. And in the slow movement of the Eb trio Casals grunts, just like Pa.

R.M. Rilke: 'Nennt ihr das Seele...?'

 

Nennt ihr das Seele, was so zage zirpt

in euch? Was, wie der Klang der Narrenschellen,

um Beifall bettelt und um Würde wirbt,

und endlich arm ein armes Sterben stirbt

im Weihrauchabend gotischer Kapellen, -

nennt ihr das Seele?

 

Schau ich die blaue Nacht, vom Mai verschneit,

in der die Welten weite Wege reisen,

mir ist: ich trage ein Stück Ewigkeit

in meiner Brust. Das rüttelt und das schreit

und will hinauf und will mit ihnen kreisen ...

Und das ist Seele.

 

 

 

You call that soul, which chirps so chary deep

within? Which, like the fool’s bells’ tinkling sound,

craves acclamation, unwon worth would reap,

and lastly poor will sleep poor death’s last sleep

in gothic chapels’ evening incense found, –

You call that soul?

 

When, covered in May’s snow, blue night I see

in which the planets lengthy courses run,

I feel: a small piece of eternity

lies in my breast. That shakes and calls to be

set free to join them orbiting the sun ...

And that is soul.

 

 

Maurice Roelants: 'Pygmalion V'

 

 

PYGMALION V | MAURICE ROELANTS 1949

 

'k Schep u altijd opnieuw in mijn verrukte zinnen,

of neen, vrouw van mijn droom, wij scheppen steeds elkaar.

Eén angst: werd ooit geduld zulk mateloos beminnen,

zulk aldoor stijgen van een sterflijk mensenpaar?

 

Te midden van die vlucht voel ik mijn pennen breken,

verstorven aan uw mond beklemt me een vreemde druk:

de droppels die u traag langsheen de lippen leken

zijn tranen van iets raadloos in het rijkst geluk.

 

Van waar, ontbindend zuur, zijt ge in die zoen gedropen?

Dit uur is veel te rijk, de tijd is veel te kort,

en van vertwijfling slaan mijn slapen toe en open:

Ikaros ben ik, die uit liefdes hemel stort.

 

 

PYGMALION V 

 

In my crazed senses you I keep on recreating,

no, dream-woman – two-way creation’s more this force.

One fear: would e’er such loving that has no abating,

such sheer soaring by two mortal creatures be endorsed?

 

Caught up in such a flight I feel my pens are breaking,

Long lost at your mouth a puzzling strain oppresses me:

the droplets that along your lips seemed tracks were making

are tears at what’s unsettling in this rich ecstasy.

 

From where, dissolving acid, did you in that kiss drip?

This hour is far too rich, and time’s brevity confounds,

and out of desperation my temples throb and whip:

Icarus am I, who from love’s sky now plummets down.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 66

 

 

 

 

Pia Tafdrup: 'Efteråret svulmet op' (Dronningeporten)

 

 

 

THE AUTUMN SWOLLEN

 

And, behold, there came up out of the river seven

well favoured kine and fatfleshed; and they fed

in a meadow.

(Genesis Chap. 41, v.2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The streams have quietly overflowed their banks,

along which rushes and scrub and moss-grown trunks stand in water,

new-born firs compete with each other at taking swimstrokes.

 

Winter-sown fields lie like elongated lakes that are not sucked up,

but mirror the sky with jet-fighter traces, parallel-ejaculated streaks 

sign the sky where it crashes into the two planes.

 

Motionless in their winter coats a herd of red-brown heifers has just got up,

where the black mud meets the wet green,

in long puffs the steaming breath of the cattle pushes into the cold air.

 

Further south if has rained continually for weeks, rivers throb and grow,

break dikes like pain chasing through a body, submerge town and countryside,

hide streets and cars in the streets, carries carcasses of animals.

 

Water pours into gardens, forces its way past barricaded doors and windows,

causes the odd house to collapse or rushes into cellars, rises several floors, 

people use boats in the streets, row from house to house, transport hundreds

                                                                                                        of dead bodies.

 

 

I wade across the ploughed fields, up the hill, my feet

slip in the clayey soil, trip on furrows as I proceed;

the tree at the crest flies up to fetch birds down from the sky.

 

A colony of rooks lands on the bare branches, crooked as fingers 

that for years have studied Haydn’s unpredictabilities,

with prolonged cries the birds pull a cloth right down across the earth.

 

They drag a death-cloak of darkness behind them, but the sky will be lit

a while yet and the clouds before then take on a bloodied pink primeval tinge, 

the white fighter-streaks change to steely grey before they dissolve.

 

The sky opens deep in copper fire, in turquoise, in bright shades of blue, 

a space of continued amazement for the dilated eye, a ravine

to disappear in without a sound above the soggy earth.

 

 

Klaus Høeck: 'Ode til musikaflytningen'

 

ODE TIL MUSIKAFLYTNINGEN

 

     det jeg holder så

meget af ved haydns mu

     sik er at man får

 

     hvad man hører – you

get what you hear – lige le

     des med digtene

 

     håber jeg – du får

det du læser hvis orde

     ne betød noget

 

     andet end det der

står hvorfor så ikke skri

     ve dette andet?

 

 

ODE TO MUSIC-LISTENING

 

     what appeals to me 

so much about haydn’s mus

     ic is you get what

 

     you hear – man bekommt

was man hört – the same applies

     to poetry i

 

     sincerely hope – you

get what you read for if the

     words meant something else

 

     than precisely what

is there on the page why not

     write that something else?

From the collection 'Palimpsest', p. 446.

The whole collection is available in digital form here.