Gerrit Komrij: 'De taalsmid'

 

De taalsmid

 

De klinker en de medeklinker zijn

De weke onderbuik en het korset.

Dichter is hij die, schijnbaar zonder pijn,

Het vormeloze in de steigers zet.

 

Zijn woorden, corpulent of slank van lijn,

Verenigen zich vloeiend tot couplet.

De moeiteloosheid, niet het rookgordijn,

Is zijn geheim. Met taal gaat hij naar bed.

 

De taal, van A tot Z, is zijn fles wijn.

Halfdronken wordt er, zomaar voor de pret,

Een kind verwekt, een epos of kwatrijn,

 

Of iets daartussenin, zeg een sonnet,

Terwijl de lezer onbekend blijft met

Zijn worsteling met spekvet en balein.

 

 

The language-forger

 

Language’s consonants and vowels portray

The corset and the flaccid belly’s spread.

A poet’s one who’s able to display

An ease when boning them that seems inbred.

 

Obese or slim, his words without delay

Unite, in fluid couplets sweetly wed.

His secret’s effortlessness, not to lay

A smoke screen. He takes language off to bed.

 

His flask of wine is language – A to Z.

And when half-drunk – albeit just in play –

He spawns a child, an epic or quartet,

 

Or something in-between – a sonnet, say.

His fight with blubber, though, and whalebone stay

The reader never knows is left unsaid.

Gerrit Komrij was present when I read out my translation at a Poetry International Rotterdam event many years ago. I knew that the most usual translation of the title is 'Wordsmith' in English, but I couldn't resist a tongue-in-cheek play on the English word 'forger' ('counterfeiter' and 'fashioner'), and the twinkle in his eye proved he knew what I was doing. Gerrit was a great poseur in his poetry, but maybe only a fake poseur in order to protect himself.

 

ZKV 105: 'Am I too loud?'

 

ZKV 105

 

AM I TOO LOUD?

 

As a teenager I was lucky enough to attend an evening given by the wonderful accompanist Gerald Moore with the title ‘Am I too loud?’ He remarked that he had often been asked why he chose to be an accompanist and not a concert pianist. ‘Weren’t you good enough?’ was the question most frequently put to him.

I rather feel like that at times as a translator of poetry. ‘Weren’t you good enough to write your own poetry?’ I have occasionally been asked. I translate poetry because I cannot help myself. And I try not to be too loud. 

 

The Dutch poet Gerrit Komrij, himself a seasoned translator, once remarked ‘Keep away from translating if you’re not a poet’. He is absolutely right. Translating poetry means creating poetry. And in that sense the poet and translator are equals.

It might seem at first sight as if the two processes were very different indeed. The poet starts with a blank page. The words, like chess moves, create openings and unforeseen chain reactions and, as the writing progresses, an inevitability in the end-game – with the poet going where he or she simply has to go.

The translator starts with someone else’s poem and has to decide what balance to strike between various features of it – the sound, the shape, the rhythm, the meaning. At the same time, the poem is to be uprooted and a new poem planted in a different soil, one with a different poetic, cultural and linguistic tradition. But, I sense there are also close parallels between the poet and the translator, although I suspect that no two translators work alike.

 

It is very difficult to describe a creative process. My job, as I see it, is to be both present and absent. If I obtrude, all my translations sound like me, no matter who I am translating. If I absent myself, the translation isn’t poetry. I tend to burrow blindly, relying almost entirely on my intuition. I try and put my mind into neutral, to reach a deeper state where everything becomes fluid. To work at a level deeper than language. And to resurface in my own. I work very fast – I am a sketcher. This means I can make some mistakes in terms of language, but there I am normally lucky in having friends to rely on. And I love to collaborate with the poet.This can help me arrive at a result I could not attain on my own.

Komrij, in a dedication to a copy of one of his collections, called me a schaduwdichter (a shadow poet). I’ll settle for that.

 

 

 

Lars Gustafsson: 'Bombus terrestris'

 

Bombus terrestris = buff-tailed bumblebee

Bombus terrestris 

 

När luften ligger, ligger också sjöarna

de stora ljusa sjöarna stilla som kvicksilver.

 

De sovande hundarna andas med allt kortare rytm.

De allra lägsta ljuden känns som darrningar.

 

Och de hålls gömda i stora orglars pipor,

sexton fot och mer, tills det är tid.

 

Men ur de små hålorna i jorden når ljudet ut.

 

Vid fallande lufttryck drunknar de avlägsna tågens ljud,

de växlar och rör sig ljudlöst mellan spår och spår.

 

En flygande man som bor längst inne i skogen

har fällt ihop sina vingar och sover i regnet.

 

Det är inte i början och inte i slutet.

Det är fastland, vidsträckta trakter

 

i det inre av kartor, djupt inne i tiden,

en skog av år står skyddande åt alla håll,

 

och lärkorna lyfter, som ett jublande moln,

men några faller alltid död ned, och förgår.

 

Alltför varmt för att frysa, alltför kallt

för att bo, så långt inne i världen.

 

En avig vinter, en omvänd årsföljd, ett omvänt år.

När luften ligger, ligger också sjöarna.

 

Men på den lägsta höjden, en handsbredd över marken

växlar tydligt temperaturen; två grader varmare

 

och några dova bruna ljud.

Hela naturläran handlar om värme

 

och låga skymmande moln.

 

 

Bombus terrestris

 

When the air lies still, so too lie the lakes,

the great bright lakes, like quicksilver.

 

Sleeping dogs’ breathing grows ever more rapid.

The deepest sounds of all are felt as tremblings.

 

And held hidden in large organ pipes,

sixteen-footers and more, till it’s time.

 

But out of small holes in the ground sound emerges.

 

When air pressure falls, sounds of far trains get smothered,

they soundlessly change and move from track to track.

 

A flyer who lives in the depths of the forest

has folded its wings, is asleep in the rain.

 

It is not at the start and not at the end.

It is mainland, vast tracts that are far

 

within maps and deep within time,

a protective forest of years on all sides,

 

and the larks soar up like a jubilant cloud,

but always some will fall dead, and be gone.

 

Far too warm to freeze, far too cold

to reside, so far within the world

 

A backhanded winter, seasons inverted, a year that’s reversed.

When the air lies still, so too lie the lakes.

 

But at the lowest height, a hand’s breadth above the ground

the temperature changes distinctly: two degrees warmer

 

and some stifled brown sounds.

All natural science is a question of warmth

 

and obscuring low clouds.

 

 

 

Lars Gustafsson: 'Albrecht Dürers Rhinocerus 1515'

 

Albrecht Dürers Rhinocerus 1515

 

Dürers noshörning, sällsamma djur som så högtidligt

fyller bildens rum med din allvarsamma kropp.

 

Hud i tunga sköldar som hos någon riddare och allvarsman

på väg mot Äventyret. Vilken jungfru skall du

 

finna, du enda enhörning som faktiskt fanns?

Man ser att du är kommen långtifrån

 

och inte hör i Frankens mörka dalar hemma.

 

Vad skulle ej behövas för att genomtränga

Denne kropp och nå till hjärtat in?

 

Kanske en silverkula? Att fånga dig

i något tåligt flätat nät var säkert inte lätt,

 

än mindre att hålla dig vid liv så långt som hit,

och allt det bara för att fånga dig en andra gång,

 

i bildens fruktansvärda nät,

och denna gång för alltid.

 

Vad tänkte du? Hur stilla stod du? Vad skräck

Kan du ha känt i alltför pansrat hjärta?

 

Mästaren gjorde dig till en riddare,

Större, mer melankolisk, mer pansrad

 

Än någon av de andra på hans bilder.

Kanske också mer oskuldsfull.

 

Du är Det Djur Som Stilla Står

mitt i den kalla ström och fångar upp

 

i mycket små men trofast vakna ögon

var bild som ljusreflexen ger i vattnet.

 

Sin egen riddare. Sin egen drake.

 

Beredd på allt.

 

 

Albrecht Dürer’s Rhinoceros 1515

 

Dürer’s rhinoceros, you strange beast who so gravely

fill the picture space with your solemn body.

 

Hide in heavy shields like some knight and grave figure

off on an Adventure. What damsel will you

 

find, you the sole unicorn that actually existed?

One can see that you have come from afar

 

and do not belong to Franconia’s dark valleys.

 

What would not be needed to penetrate

this body and reach right in to your heart?

 

A silver bullet perhaps? To capture you

in some patiently plaited net cannot have been easy,

 

no less than to keep you alive as long as this,

and all this only to capture you a second time,

 

in the terrible net of the picture,

and this time for ever.

 

What were you thinking? How still did you stand? What fear

can you have felt in your far too armour-plated heart?

 

The maestro turned you into a knight,

larger, more melancholy, more armour-plated

 

than any of the others in his pictures.

Perhaps more innocent as well.

 

You are The Beast That Stands Stock-Still

in the midst of the cold current and take in

 

with your tiny but trustingly alert eyes

every image that light reflections make in the water.

 

His own knight. His own dragon.

 

Ready for everything.

 

The text says this:

 

Nach Christus gepurt. 1513. Jar. Adi. j. May. Hat man dem großmechtigen Kunig von Portug[all] Emanuell gen Lysabona pracht auß India / ein sollich lebiendig Thier. Das nennen sie Rhinocerus. Das ist hye mit aller seiner gestalt Abcondertfet. Es hat ein farb wie ein gespreckelte Schildtkrot. Vnd ist von dicken Schalen vberlegt fast fest. Vnd ist in der groeß als der Helfandt Aber nydertrechtiger von paynen / vnd fast werhafftig. Es hat ein scharff starck Horn vorn auff der nasen / Das begyndt es albeg zu wetzen wo es bey staynen ist. Das dosig Thier ist des Helffantz todt feyndt. Der Helffandt furcht es fast vbel / dann wo es Jn ankumbt / so laufft Jm das Thier mit dem kopff zwischen dye fordern payn / vnd reyst den Helfffandt vnden am pauch auff vnd er wuorgt Jn / des mag er sich nit erwern. Dann das Thier ist also gewapent / das Jm der Helffandt nichts kan thuon. Sie sagen auch das der Rhynocerus Schmell / Fraydig vnd Listig sey.

 

 

After the birth of Christ. 1513. Anno Domini. 1 May. Brought to the mighty King of Portugal Emanuel to Lisbon this magnificence from India, such a live creature. This they call Rhinoceros, here depicted in its entirety. It has the colour of a speckled tortoise. And is covered with thick plates, extremely firmly. And has the size of an elephant, but with shorter legs and extremely well protected. It has a sharp, strong horn on its nose. It always starts to whet this when in the vicinity of stones. The creature here is the deadly enemy of the elephant. The elephant is utterly terrified of it for when confronted by it, the beast charges with its head between its forelegs and rips open the elephant’s belly, thereby causing it to choke. The elephant is unable to protect itself against it. For the beast is so armoured that the elephant is powerless. It is also said that the rhinoceros is quick, audacious and cunning.

 

 

A.L.Snijders: 'Bach'

 

bach

 

Mö says to the publisher that Bach wrote his Brandenburg Concertos aus einem Guß: pushed for time (1), dead-line, (2) no second thoughts (3), no scrapping (4), no niggling (5), you can see it from the score.

I think that the publisher was impressed by the ease with which Mö meddles with great culture (bordering on brutality). I’m used to it, I remember the time when I was still not used to it, Mö was twelve, back then he already had outspoken opinions too, over 50 years ago, now he’s on social security, nothing’s changed. On his way home, he threw without a moment’s hesitation a small jigsawed piece of art he’d been forced to work on at school for a long time into the canal with the words ‘I’m going home to listen to Bach.’

The last word about Bach hasn’t been spoken. E.M. Cioran says:

 

bach was a troublemaker and a nitpicker, he was close-fisted and mad about titles, honours, etc. But what difference does that make? A musicologist who wrote a summary of all the cantatas that have death as their theme remarked that no mortal had ever longed for death. And that’s the only thing of any importance. The rest is biography.

 

On 12 December 1973, at 10am, I was walking with Mö from the Olympiaplein to the Raphaëlstraat. As usual, we didn’t talk to each other, but in the Leonardostraat he said something: ‘I know that my birth is sheer chance, a ridiculous incident, but if I let myself go, I behave as if it is an event of cardinal importance, indispensable for the progress and balance of the world.’ I asked him it he’d thought of that himself. He said: ‘No, I got it from E.M. Cioran.’

            In the Leonardostraat I heard that name for the first time.

Lars Gustafsson: 'Världens tystnad före Bach'

 

Världens tystnad före Bach

 

Det måste ha funnits en värld före

Triosonatan i D, en värld före a-mollpartitan,

men hur var den världen?

Ett Europa av stora tomma rum utan genklang

överallt ovetande instrument,

där Musikalisches Opfer och Wohltemperiertes Klavier

aldrig hade gått över en klaviatur.

Ödsligt belägna kyrkor

där aldrig Påskpassionens sopranstämma

i hjälplös kärlek slingrat sig kring flöjtens

mildare rörelser,

stora milda landskap

där bara gamla vedhuggare hörs med sina yxor

det friska ljudet av starka hundar om vintern

och – som en klocka – skridskor som biter i glanskis;

svalorna som svirrar i sommarluften

snäckan som barnet lyssnar till

och ingenstans Bach ingenstans Bach

världens skridskotystnad före Bach

 

 

The silence of the world before Bach

 

There must have existed a world before

the Trio Sonata in D, a world before the A minor Partita,

but what was that world like?

A Europe of large unresonating spaces

everywhere unknowing instruments,

where Musikalisches Opfer and Wohltemperiertes Klavier

had never passed over a keyboard.

Lonely remote churches

where the soprano voice of the Easter Passion

had never in helpless love twined itself round

the gentler movements of the flute,

gentle expanses of landscape

where only old woodcutters are heard with their axes

the healthy sound of strong dogs in winter

and – like a bell – skates biting into glassy ice;

the swallows swirling in the summer air

the shell that the child listens to

and nowhere Bach nowhere Bach

skating silence of the world before Bach

To hear it read in English, go to here

And here is Bernlef's Dutch translation:

 

 

De stilte van de wereld voor Bach

 

Er moet een wereld bestaan hebben voor

de Triosonate in D, een wereld voor de partita in A mineur,

maar hoe zag die wereld eruit?

Een Europa van grote lege vertrekken zonder weerklank,

overal onwetende instrumenten

waar Musikalisches Opfer en Das Wohltemperierte Klavier

nooit over een claviatuur waren gegaan.

Eenzaam gelegen kerken

waar de sopraanstem uit de Johannes Passion

zich nimmer in hulpeloze liefde slingerde

rond de mildere windingen van de fluit,

weidse zachtmoedige landschappen

waar alleen oude houthakkers met hun bijlen te horen zijn

het gezonde geluid van sterke honden in de winter

en – als een slingerklok – schaatsen klauwend in glansijs;

zwaluwen zwermend in de zomerlucht

schelp waar het kind aan luistert

en nergens Bach, nergens Bach

schaatsstilte van de wereld voor Bach.

 

N.F.S. Grundtvig: 'Påskeblomst! Hvad vil du her?'

 

Påskeblomst! hvad vil du her?

 

Påskeblomst! hvad vil du her?

Bondeblomst fra landsbyhave

uden duft og pragt og skær!

hvem est du velkommen gave?

Hvem mon, tænker du, har lyst

dig at trykke ømt til bryst?

Mener du, en fugl tør vove

sang om dig i Danmarks skove?

 

Lever op i sind og hu,

stander op af eders grave,

barnedage! følger nu

med mig ud i faders have!

Lad mig under påskesang,

kirkeklokkens højtidsklang,

blomsten til mit hjerte trykke,

bryst og hoved med den smykke!

 

Vinterblomst! du melder vår,

fold dig ud i stille kammer!

Ved Guds værk og egne kår

sig kun verdens dåre skammer.

Spottes end din ringe dragt

uden glans og farvepragt,

selv jeg dog på sorten tilje

ligned helst en påskelilje.

 

Ej i liflig sommerluft

spired du på blomsterstade,

ej så fik du rosens duft,

ikke liljens sølverblade.

Under vinterstorm og regn

sprang du frem i golde egn,

ved dit syn kun den sig fryder,

som har kær, hvad du betyder.

 

Bondeblomst! men er det sandt:

Har du noget at betyde?

Er din prædiken ej tant?

Kan de døde graven bryde?

Stod han op, som ordet går?

Mon hans ord igen opstår?

Springer klart af gule lagen

livet frem med påskedagen?

 

Kan de døde ej opstå,

intet har vi at betyde,

visne må vi brat i vrå,

ingen have skal vi pryde,

glemmes skal vi under muld,

vil ej vokset underfuld

smelte, støbes i det dunkle

og som lys på graven funkle.

 

Påskeblomst! En dråbe stærk

drak jeg af dit gule bæger,

og som ved et underværk

den mig hæver, vederkvæger:

Svanevinge, svanesang,

synes mig, af den udsprang.

Vågnende jeg ser de døde

i en påskemorgenrøde.

 

O, hvor est du mig dog kær,

bondeblomst fra landsbyhave!

Mer end rosen est du værd,

påskeblomst på fædres grave!

Sandt dit budskab er om vår,

om et helligt jubelår,

som hver ædel blomst af døde

skal forklaret igenføde!

 

Ja, jeg véd, du siger sandt:

frelseren stod op af døde!

Det er hver langfredags pant

på en påskemorgenrøde:

Hvad er segl og sværd og skjold

mod den herre kæk og bold?

Avner kun, når han vil ånde,

han, som svor os bod for vånde.

 

 

Easter flower! what would you here?

 

Easter flower! what would you here?

Common flower from village garden,

scentless, lustreless, austere!

Gift that no one e’er would pardon.

Who do you think fain had pressed

such as you to loving breast?

Dare a bird your praise send winging

when in Danish woods it’s singing?

 

Come alive in heart and mind

from your graves now be upstanding,

childhood days! And with me wind

your way out to father’s garden!

Let me during Easter song,

church bell’s ringing loud and long, 

to my heart the flower be pressing

breast and head with it be dressing!

 

Winter flower! You herald spring,

now unfold in quiet chamber!

Only fools would shame to sing

of God’s work, their lot not savour.

Though your humble garb’s yet mocked,

dull you are and poorly frocked,

on my bier my wish is fully

to be like an Easter lily.

 

Not in sweetest summer air

did your roots begin to settle,

nor the rose’s scent did share

nor the lily’s silver petal.

During winter’s storms and rain

you put forth in harsh terrain,

joy alone on hearts to lavish

who your inner meaning cherish.

 

Common flower! but is it true:

Is your meaning that of waking?

Is your sermon really new?

Can the dead grave’s hold be breaking?

Did he rise up, as they claim?

Will his word rise up again?

Does from winding sheet of mourning

life spring forth at Easter’s dawning?

 

If the dead can’t rise again,

then our meaning has no substance,

we’ll die quickly and in vain,

grace no garden with our presence,

’neath the ground forgotten be

and our wax won’t wondrously

melt, be formed in darkest lining

candle-like on graves be shining.

 

Easter flower! A drop most strong

from your cup my thirst has sated,

and I quicken before long

wondrously refreshed, elated:

From a swan’s song or its wing

it would seem that it did spring.

Now I see the dead reborn in

early flush of Easter Morning

 

Oh, how dear to me you are,

common flower from village garden!

Dearer than the rose by far,

Easter flower on graves of fathers!

True spring-tidings bringing me,

of a holy jubilee,

as from death each noble flower

you’re transfigured at this hour!

 

Yes, it’s true what you allege:

that from death our Saviour’s risen

It is each Good Friday’s pledge ­–

Easter Morning bursts death’s prison

What are sickle, shield and sword

’Gainst that master brave and bold?

Chaff his breath dispels for certain,

he who swore to bear our burden.