Antonio Machado se naakte aarde

AZ3ItI2

Desnuda está la tierra,
y el alma aúlla al horizonte pálido
como loba famélica. ¿Qué buscas,
poeta, en el ocaso?

deur Antonio Machado

Naak is die aarde
en die siel skree teen die bleek horison
soos ’n honger wolfwyfie. Wat soek jy,
digter, in die sonsondergang?

Dit is bitter om te loop want die pad
weeg swaar op die hart! Die yskoue wind,
en die nag wat hier is en die bitterheid
van die afstand! … op die wit pad
word party roerlose bome swart;

in die ver berge
is daar goud en bloed … Die son is dood … Wat soek jy
digter, in die sonsondergang?

Uit Spaans vertaal deur De Waal Venter

Bron: Wikipedia

Antonio Machado, in full Antonio Cipriano José María y Francisco de Santa Ana Machado y Ruiz (26 July 1875 – 22 February 1939), was a Spanish poet and one of the leading figures of the Spanish literary movement known as the Generation of ’98.
Works
Machado’s evolution has strong links to larger European trends in the same period. He turned away from the hermetic esthetic principles of post-symbolism and cultivated the dynamic openness of social realism. Like such French æsthetes as Verlaine, Machado began with a fin de siècle contemplation of his sensory world, portraying it through memory and the impressions of his private consciousness. And like his socially-conscious colleagues of the Generation of 1898, he emerged from his solitude to contemplate Spain’s historical landscape with a sympathetic yet unindulgent eye. His poetic work begins with the publication of Soledades in 1903. In this short volume many personal links which will characterize his later work are noticeable. In Soledades, Galerías. Otros poemas, published in 1907, his voice becomes his own and influences 20th Century poets Octavio Paz, Derek Walcott, and Giannina Braschi who writes about Machado’s impact in her Spanglish classic Yo-Yo Boing!.[1] The most typical feature of his personality is the antipathetic, softly sorrowful tone that can be felt even when he describes real things or common themes of the time, for example abandoned gardens, old parks or fountains: places which he approaches via memory or dreams.

Tranströmer se afgesonderde huise

Tomas Tranströmer
Tomas Tranströmer

Uit: Geheime op die weg (1958)
Hemligheter på vägen

Afgesonderde Sweedse huise

Tomas Tranströmer
‘n Wirwar van swart spardenne
en smeulende maanstrale.
Hier onder lê die kleinhoewe
en dit lyk leweloos.

Tot die oggend-dou murmel
en ‘n ou man sy venster –
met bewende hand – oopmaak
en ‘n uil uitlaat.

En in ‘n ander rigting
staan ‘n nuwe gebou en stoom
met die wasgoed-skoenlapper
fladderend op die hoek.

In die middel van ‘n sterwende woud
waar die vermolming
deur ‘n bril van sap
die bedrywigheid van houtboorders lees.

Somer met vlasharige reën
of ‘n enkele donderwolk
bokant ‘n hond wat blaf.
Saad skop in die aarde.

Oproerige stemme, gesigte
vlieg in telefoondrade
op verkrimpte vinnige vlerke
oor die vleiland myle.

Die huis op ‘n eiland in die rivier
broei op sy klipfondament.
Aanhoudende rook – iemand verbrand
die woud se geheime papiere.

Die reën wentel in die lug.

Die lig slinger in die rivier.

Huise op die hoogte hou toesig
oor die waterval se wit osse.

Herfs met ‘n swerm spreeus
wat die dagbreek skaakmat.
Mense beweeg styf
in die lamplig se teater.

Laat hulle geen vrees ken nie
die gekamoefleerde vleuels
van God se energie
opgekrul in die donker.

Uit Sweeds vertaal deur De Waal Venter

Deep thinking

akula_class_submarine_by_euqid-d2zpyg2
Deep thinking
This is a submarine
in which we slowly,
gradually descend into time;
yesterday, still clear, with most details visible;
last week is darker, not so much
that we can see;
last month, quite dark;
last hear, we have to switch on
the search lights of memory.
We descend.
Unknown creatures undulate, float, wriggle
through the blue cone of the light beam,
the shape of a whale looms and fades.
Deeper – the hull hums with strain;
above us a lifetime is clamping down
with the force of unstoppable time.

A soft bump.
We are resting on the bottom.
Mother walks into the corridor of light.
Her eyes are brighter than the light,
her lips curl in a small smile
that that can bend time.

She bends to pick up a shell.
Then she walks into the blackness.
It is dark.
I am in her womb.

Elepants aren’t big

Elephants aren't big. Artwork by De Waal Venter
Elephants aren’t big. Artwork by De Waal Venter

Elephants aren’t big

 

Today my thoughts

are elephants;

they wander around

and touch computers

with their trunks.

They switch on satellite TV channels

and ignore the programs,

walk around the vegetable garden

and dig out small weeds

with their tusks.

My thoughts are elephants,

but they are not p0nderous –

they drift along

with a thistle seed,

ears flapping in unconscious enjoyment.

They look into weavers’ nests

high up in the acacia tree

and pat the the babies

on their bald heads.

Elephants aren’t big

not big at all,

they fit into my head.

Poems by Philip Mercator

Kgalagadi_lodge13

Philip Mercator sent me one of his latest poems “Hot breath”. I publish it here with one of his previous poems, “The cutting edge of time. DWV

Hot breath

Philip Mercator

Into the Kgalagadi
sands
the sun thrusts
his tongue
white hot
with words of life.
At night
the sands
take their hands
from their eyes
and whisper the words
to each other.

“They eat the animals
animals wild and tame,
the smoke of their fires
smother the plants.”

It is fiercer,
they murmur,
fiercer than ever before.

Philip Mercator
Philip Mercator

The cutting edge of time

Philip Mercator

This hour
has slid out of its sheath,
it will remain
for as long as it is.
It will pierce
the dark underbelly
of yesterday;
with it I will
clash with the hours
of tomorrow,
rasp and scrape in battle,
the steel of time
on the steel of time.

This hour is what I have now,
my grip on it is secure,
but I feel the cutting edge changing,
the tip slowly curling.

Description of an unpainted painting

Dylan Thomas with canvas
Dylan Thomas with canvas

Description of an unpainted painting
Large blue blocks
glide ponderously along
muted orange threads
towards a darker area
in hues of purple, brown and sepia.
A sienna shape,
resembling a bird
carved out of wood
three thousand years ago
in Egypt,
swoops across the backs
of the blues,
squawking priestly pronouncements
in a Welsh accent.
Dylan Thomas is just out of sight,
taking notes in a small moleskin notebook;
is he writing a poem
or writing out an order for groceries
and whisky?
The sky has a texture
which reminds one
of worried wrinkles
on an elephant’s brow.
Should we all worry,
or is useless?
Cyanobacteria, like spirulina,
don’t worry, one assumes,
yet they thrive.
This painting is like an unmade bed –
limp with exhaustion
after the violence
of unconscious thought.
Good day.

Antonio Machado in Afrikaans

Antonio Machado
Antonio Machado

Aan Jose Maria Palacio


Palacio, ou vriend,

is die lente daar

in die take van die populiere

langs die rivier en die paaie?

In die vlaktes

van die Duero hoogland, is die Lente* laat,

maar so pragtig en heerlik wanneer dit kom! …

Het die ou olms ’n paar nuwe blare?

Die doringbome is seker nog kaal

en die bergpieke bedek met sneeu.

O, die massa wit en pienk van Moncayo,

die lug van Aragon, so lieflik daar!

Is daar brame wat blom

tussen die grys klippe

en wit madeliefies

in die fyn gras?

Op die kloktorings

het die ooievaars seker al kom sit.

Daar sal groen koring wees,

en bruin muile in die ploegvore,

plaaswerkers wat laat oeste saai

in die April-reën. Die bye

sal fuif aan tiemie en roosmaryn.

Blom die pruimbome? Die viooltjies nog steeds?

Skelm jagters, patrys-lokvoëls

onder lang mantels,

sal daar wees. Palacio, ou vriend,

is daar nagtegale by die rivier?

Met die eerste lelies

en die eerste rose in die tuine,

in ‘n blou skemeraand, moet jy Espino beklim,

teen die hoë Espino waar hulle wêreld lê …

Uit Spaans vertaal deur De Waal Venter

 

*Lente – verwysing na die mitologiese Persephone wat elke jaar terugkeer in die lente.

Die gedig is ‘n uitdrukking van verlange na die digter se vrou wat jonk oorlede is. Hy doen ‘n indirekte (in die laaste paar reëls) beroep op sy vriend om haar graf te besoek. Die digter vereenselwig die vernuwing van die lente met die herlewing van sy geliefde in die hemel. DWV

Uit: Wikipedia:

Antonio Machado (1875-1939) is Spain’s master poet, the explorer of dream and landscape, and of consciousness below language. Widely regarded as the greatest twentieth century poet who wrote in Spanish, Machado–like his contemporary Rilke–is intensely introspective and meditative.

Octavio Paz se hulde aan Basho

Basho
Basho

Basho an

 

El mundo cabe

en diecisiete sílabas:

tú en esta choza.

Basho an

 Die wêreld pas

in sewentien sillabes:

en jy in hierdie hut.

Boomstamme en strooi:

deur die skrefies kom hulle

boedhas en insekte.

Gemaak van lug

tussen die denne en rotse

spruit die gedig.

Vervleg

klinkers, medeklinkers:

die tuiste van die wêreld.

Beendere van eeue,

smarte word kranse, berge:

hier gewigloos.

Wat ek sê

is skaars drie reëls:

hut van sillabes.

Uit Spaans vertaal deur De Waal Venter

Nota: “Basho an” beteken “Basho hut”. Dit is die hut waar Basho langs ‘n tempel gewoon het en baie van sy gedigte geskryf het.

Die “sewentien sillabes” verwys na die haikoe verse waarvoor hy beroemd is. Die haikoe bestaan uit drie reëls van vyf, sewe en vyf sillabes of, in Japanees, “on”.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

 

Matsuo Bashō (1644 – 1694) was the most famous poet of the Edo period in Japan. During his lifetime, Bashō was recognized for his works in the collaborative haikai no renga form; today, after centuries of commentary, he is recognized as the greatest master of haiku (then called hokku).

uru ike ya / kawazu tobikomu / mizu no oto (1686)

’n oeroue poel,

skielik spring ’n padda in

plons in die water

iza saraba / yukimi ni korobu / tokoromade (1688)

goed, kom ons gaan uit

en geniet die sneeu … totdat

ek gly en neerslaan!

Uit Engels vertaal deur De Waal Venter

Understanding a fig

Photo by De Waal Venter
Photo by De Waal Venter

Understanding a fig and a few other things

 

Take a fig.

What can you do with it?

You can look at its parts:

hundreds of little flowers

enclosed in the green skin,

each producing a delectable nectar

which you can enjoy

and which feed the little wasps

that pollinate the flowers,

flowers that turn into tiny nuts

which crunch under your teeth

when you eat a fig.

What can you do with a fig?

You can look at the systems

it is part of:

the fig family of trees

that belong in the greater plant classification,

part of the phenomenon of life on earth,

which is stable within the solar system,

part of a galaxy,

one of an uncountable number

in the universe

which shows its bland face to us,

forever unknowable.

Eat your fig,

I will understand.

 

‘n Gedig van Andra Volschenk

Andra Volschenk het nog een van haar gedigte aangestuur wat ek met graagte plaas. DWV

Brood

Andra Volschenk
Meel, wit somerwolk
ontmoet die water
helder soos ‘n oggend
na die reën,
streng sout, glansende
edel wapen.
Melk, sagte hand,
‘n lepel glinsterende suikerkristalle,
en gis
wat werk in donker,
asem blaas deur die liggaam
die muse
van die versorgende vrou.
Die pynlike hitte
van die oond.

Nou is daar vorm
en voeding,
nou sny die mes
vir dié wat nodig het –
niks bly heel nie.

Andra Volschenk. November 2014
Andra Volschenk.
November 2014
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