Generador de ruido

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Graphic: DWV

Generador de ruido

De Waal Venter


Nunca hay silencio.


La quietud de la noche

es una ilusión

los baldosas de piso contratan

a medida que baja la temperatura

y escuchamos un crujido.


Fuera, del viento susurra

a sí mismo,

o tal vez al ave nocturna

quien agita sus plumas

para contrarrestar el frío.


Un silbido bajo entra en nuestros oídos

y se aleja,

luego sobresalta la quietud nuevamente.

¿Qué es?

Quizás los pensamientos condensados

de personas dormidas?

Pero esa es una idea fantástica;

los pensamientos no son audibles

a menos que los pongas en palabras

o ronquidos.


Tenemos la ilusión

que ahora está silencioso

en la noche,

a excepción de la marcha ininterrumpida

de la oleada suave

siento en mis oídos,

empujando la sangre en cohortes

a través de mis arterias.


Esta noche es tan tranquila

como mis pensamientos,

una compota

de amplitudes altas y bajas,

sin espacios intermedios.


¿Alguna vez termina?

La entropía se hincha como la masa que se eleva,

el universo se está agotando.


Lo mismo conmigo,

pero estoy planeando permanecer ruidoso

mientras el sonido sea posible

para mi.


De Waal Venter


There is never silence.


The stillness of the night

is an illusion.

Floor tiles contract

as the temperature falls

and we hear a crack.


Outside the wind whispers

to itself,

or perhaps to the night bird

who flutters its feathers

to counteract the cold.


A low hissing enters our ears

and steps away,

then startles the stillness again.

What is it?

Perhaps the condensed thoughts

of sleeping people?

But that is a fanciful idea;

thoughts are not audible

unless you put them in words

or snores.


We have the illusion

that it is quiet now

in the night,

except for the unbroken march

of the soft surge

I feel in my ears,

blood pushing in cohorts

through my arteries.


This night is as quiet

as my thoughts,

a compote

of high and low amplitudes,

with no spaces in between.


Does it ever end?

Entropy is swelling like rising dough,

the universe is running down.


The same with me,

but I intend to remain noisy

for as long as sound is possible

for me.

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Poems crated by miscellaneous philosophers and poets



Poems crated by miscellaneous philosophers and poets


Slowly the train slides

into the station.

It is laden

with crates containing

the undiscovered words of Aristotle:

My right knee starts hurting

after a hectic peripatetic day.


Another crate contains

a chaotic jumble of papers

containing poems and partial poems

by Fernando Pessoa and his heteronyms:

They walk past my window, intelligent sheep,

but they are people.


If you opened a crate marked “Oulipo”,

you will find neatly catalogued poems

and fragments that have never been published,

because Jacques Roubaud deemed them unfinished:

Why is the little doll

lying out there in the rain?

She is taking a shower.


The train stops

amidst a groaning grinding.

Men in literary uniforms and wearing protective gloves

unload the crates.


There is only time to peer into

one last crate.

It is stuffed to capacity

with unpublished thoughts.

One catches the eye

and you translate this line

by Joan Hambidge from Afrikaans:

Pre-textual urges should be controlled

by sheer willpower, fueled by chocolate mousse.


The train is empty,

the crates are being transported

to an unknown destiny.

Rumours have it that they will be opened

by AI agents

early in the next century.

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Die siele van Fernando Pessoa


Fernando Pessoa in Lissabon

Não sei quantas almas tenho.


Fernando Pessoa

Não sei quantas almas tenho.

Cada momento mudei.

Continuamente me estranho.

Nunca me vi nem achei.

Ek weet nie hoeveel siele ek het nie.


Ek weet nie hoeveel siele ek het nie.

Ek verander elke oomblik.

Ek voel voortdurend vreemd.

Ek het myself nog nooit gesien of gevind nie.

Vanaf soveel te wees, het ek net siel.

Hy wat ’n siel het, het nie kalmte nie.

Hy wat sien is net wat hy sien.

Hy wat voel is nie wie hy is nie.


Oplettend na wat ek is en sien,

word ek hulle en is nie meer ek nie.

Elkeen van my drome en begeertes

kom uit hulleself, nie van my nie.

Ek is my eie landskap.

Ek bekyk my eie reis,

verskillend, bewegend en alleen.

Ek kan myself nie voel hier waar ek is nie.


Dis waarom ek, as ’n vreemdeling

my wese lees asof dit bladsye is.

Ek weet nie wat gaan gebeur nie,

en vergeet wat gebeur het.

Ek merk in die kantlyn van my leeswerk

wat ek gedink het ek voel.

Met die herlees wonder ek: “Was dit ek?”

God weet, want hy het dit geskryf.

Die gedig is uit Portugees vertaal deur De Waal Venter.

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Blou voel


Ou kitaarspeler. Pablo Picasso

Blou voel


Onder die wit velle

van die adel

aan die hof van Louis XIV

en in die paleis

van koning Charles II,

lyk die bloed in hulle are blou.


Nes die wye lug

gespan oor Toon van den Heever se Hoëveld,

en die kleurstemming

In Picasso se ou man wat kitaar speel

in sy blou periode.


Die moederlike ovaal blou

van die janfrederik eiertjie

druk ander kleure liggies weg

uit jou geheue.


Jy weet die blou

van die Magaliesbergstreep op die horison

is net oënskynlik

en hoe nader jy gaan,

hoe meer verdwyn dit.


Gelukkig wees

is blou.

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Agon with the Unknown

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Photographic: DWV

Agon with the unknown


Here is the anvil

right in front of me.

The fire is raging,

it seems frustrated

that it cannot emerge from the forge

and consume everything it finds;

but there it must stay

to turn this word

into white-hot malleable metal.


On the anvil.

I start hammering

the word

into shape.


My hammer comes down

and down, hammering down

and the word

is slowly turning

into a blade.


Once I have finished working it

and reworking it,

and cooled it in water

and rubbed it into

a strange shininess,

I will heft it

and use it

to thrust into the belly

of the enemy:

that masked face

that keeps coming back,

no matter how many times

I have defeated him;

he is called


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It is time


It is time. Graphic: DWV

It is time


It is now 15:03:14

but it is changing –

rapidly, or slowly, depending

on your time sense

which can also change.


Now it is 15:12:09

and you look back

at the previous minutes.

What has happened?

A large piece of ice

has broken off an iceberg

in Antarctica and started drifting away

liked a dazed, newborn calf.

All over the world

some people fleetingly thought

of what lay ahead in future.

Torrents of data bits

gushed through cables and through devices,

turned into radio waves,

were captured, turned into algorithms

that became visible on screens

as the changing patterns of the New York Stock Exchange.


It has now become 15:16:08.

Is there no way to slow it down,

to create a silent space

in which to think?



No, evidently not.

There is no other way,

we live on the wing,

and the past incessantly threatens

to become the future.


But don’t be anxious,

we have learned to live in time

like a fish in water,

unconscious of the medium that supports it,

breathe in water, fish.


Don’t hold your breath, my friend.


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Inligting. Fotografika: DWV



Inligting stroom in:

van die nuusmedia, e-pos, blogs, Instagram, Pinterest, Facebook,

en nuwes kom gedurig na vore.

Google is altyd daar

en haal uit die murg en been

van die corpus

wat jy maar wil hê.

Voer jou lemma

deur die ore van die wydwetende algoritme

en kry wat jy soek:

kolofon, epigenetika, hadron, chintz,

comte de Saint-Simon, Hasdrubal, heteroniem …


Vyf honderd woorde

is genoeg om mee te leef:

kos, gee, ja, dankie, nee, warm,

jy, ek, saam kan, loop, eet, drink.


Maar kan die siel (vae, onomskrewe begrip)

leef met som min?

Die siel (wat dit ook al is) het meer nodig.

Selfs die sonbruin siel

wie se hoogste waarde dit is

om op ’n plank teen die strand gespoel te word,

selfs daardie siel

met spierknoppe op sy maag

het meer nodig:

bokkie en liefie, ten minste.

Dalk ook Heer, wie weet.


Nuwe woorde, die liggame

van nuwe idees,

onthul nou, hier, uit hulle fetale pens-en-pootjies

en maak hulle ogies oop,

kyk na jou en sê:


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