Poetry Poësie De Waal Venter

Octavio Paz in Afrikaans

Jospeh Sima. Lieu - 1959 — Jospeh Sima. Lieu – 1959

Uit: Vuelta 1969 – 1975

Piedra blanca y negra

Octavio Paz

Sima

siembra una piedra

en el aire

La piedra asciende

Adentro

hay un Viejo dormido

Si abre los ojos

Swart en wit klip

Sima

saai ‘n klip

in die lug

Die klip styg op

Binne

is ‘n ou man aan die slaap

As hy sy oë oopmaak

sal die klip ontplof

‘n maalstroom van vlerke en bekke

bokant ‘n vrou

wat vloei

deur die baard van die herfs

Die klip val

brand

in die plein van die oog

blom

in die palm van jou hand

praat

swewend

tussen jou borste

watertale

Die klip word ryp

Binne

sing die sade

hulle is sewe

sewe susters

sewe slange

sewe druppels niersteen

sewe woorde

aan die slaap

op ‘n glasbed

sewe waterare

in die middel

van die klip

oopgemaak met ‘n kyk

Uit Spaans vertaal deur De Waal Venter

…

Josef Šíma (March 18, 1891 – July 24, 1971) was a renowned Czech painter, an important figure of modern European art.

Biography

After graduating from Academy of Arts in Prague where he was the student of Jan Preisler he was involved in the Devětsil movement and in Umělecká beseda in Prague before travelling to Paris in 1921. He took French citizenship in 1926. He was artistic director for the journal Le Grand Jeu in 1929 and friend of French poets René Daumal, Roger Gilbert-Lecomte and Roger Vailland.

Style

His sources of inspiration spanned from sensual experience, through civil themes, geometric abstraction, imaginative seeking of archetypes of nature, things and human existence pictured as crystals, cosmic egg and female torsos to fascination by landscapes and mythology, until he finally united all these elements and made a synthesis of them in cosmic visions and symbols of human destiny.

Aantekening deur Octavio Paz

(Uit Spaans vertaal deur Eliot Weinberger)

I was not a friend of Joseph Sima’s, but in 1969 and 1970 I had the fortune of seeing him a few times, always briefly, at the gallery Le Point Cardinal in Paris. His presence and his conversation created an impression on me that was no less vivid than his painting. Two days before writing the poem and dreaming the dream that are the object of this note, I had received al letter from Claude Esteban, asking me for a text – perhaps, he hinted, a poem – in homage to Sima. I barely remember my dream, except for the image of an almost spherical stone – a planet? giant gourd? light bulb? fruit? – floating in the air, slowly changing colour (but what were the colours that alternately lit up and grew dark?) spinning around itself and over a landscape of fine sand covered with eyes – the eyes of Marie José who slept at my side. The undulating yellow landscape had turned into eyes that watched the stone breathe, dilating and contracting, suspended in the air. Then I was woken by a voice that said “Sima siembra” (“Sima seeds”). I got up and wrote, almost embarrassedly, the poem that Esteban had requested. Three days later I read in Le Monde that Sima had died. As the newspaper arrived in Mexico three days after publication in Paris, I had dreamed the dream and written the poem just when Sima died.

…

Dit sal aand wees …

Claude Esteban

Dit sal aand wees, dieselfde

aanduur, die duiwe

sal begin sit op die takke
iemand sal sê, hoe
hoog is die gras, kom ons sit,

vertel ons

om die tyd om te kry, ‘n simpel storie,

van ‘n koning

wat gedink het hy weet als en toe als

verloor het, iemand

sal sê, genoeg treurige stories,

vergeet dit,

terwyl die son stadig sak,

Uit Frans vertaal deur De Waal Venter

Ce sera le soir

Claude Esteban

Ce sera le soir, la même heure
du soir, les colombes

commenceront à se poser sur les branches,
quelqu’un dira, comme

l’herbe est haute, allons nous asseoir,
racontons-nou’s …

Held at bay

Held at Bay

Today the bay

leans quietly on the land

in a grey suit

showing streaks of silver

when it moves an elbow.

It is thinking about whales

that go on their rounds

down where the light

is a curious tourist.

It is thinking about

submarines that clang

their way across the territories

of sharks and schools

of silver flicking fish.

The bay looks up at the mountain

and playfully touches its foot.

You’ve been down here once, it says,

and moves an arm

a gentle glinting bit

on the shining wet sand.

You’ve been down here

and a time will come

when we will again

see eye to eye.

Jy vat my

Jy vat my

Andra Volschenk
Jou hande vorm my –
die lemoene van my borste,
my rug se ligging,
die lang rant
anderkant die boord,
jou hande hou my enkels
die lang stele van rose,
jou hande rus
op die somervlakte
van my maag,
jou hande
vang my hande,
matryse van mekaar.
Jou hande vat my dink
en bêre dit
langs joune.

Physiology of faith

Physiology of faith

Pastor Francolin Steyn realised
that he was a biological machine.
He knew that his bodily functions
were controlled by intermeshing waves
of enzymes and intermittent hormones.
His muscles were mechanically efficient,
he realised, making use of organic levers and pulleys,
powered by extracting energy
from food substances with the help of oxygen.

Pastor Steyn was quite a student
of biology, physiology, biochemistry
and all the other disciplines
that endeavoured to explain
how the human body worked.

On Sundays, though,
pastor Steyn put all that aside
when he stepped into the pulpit.
Then he dealt with the ghost
in the machine
and told his audience
that this entity was immortal
and will survive
the demise of the bodily machine.

He didn’t have a scrap of evidence
for that.
But he knew it was true.

Short poem

Short poem

They asked Jane
to bring the word “short”
to the lounge of the exclusive men’s club
that nowadays had as many woman members
as male members.

Jane seated the word
in an overstuffed leather chair
and introduced it to the members
in a short speech.
Donald asked the first question:
what is your prime meaning?
Lack of length, some people would say,
the word answered,
but that is not necessarily so.
In short, I have many connotations, all of importance.

Please don’t try to evade the question,
Raymond said shortly, not being a patient man.

Well, what about men’s clothing,
the word answered after a short pause.
Shorts! laughed Jane.
But that is still close to what you said first,
Donald pointed out, pants that lack length.
The word smiled shortly and said:
Ampère, Volt and Watt.

Something flashed in Jane’s neuronic circuitry:
short-circuit! she exclaimed.
The word gave a little laugh and nodded.

Donald leaned forward and asked, a little ungrammatically:
tell me, whereabouts you from?
In Old English “sceort, scort ” means short, not long, not tall; brief,”
answered the word.
Sounds like “kort” in Afrikaans,
rumbled Johannes.
Indeed, agreed the word, it is probably derived from Proto-Germanic *skurta- (cf. Old Norse skorta “to be short of,” skort “shortness,”
and Old High German scurz “short”).
Ultimately it comes from the PIE (Proto Indo European) root *(s)ker- (1) “to cut.”

There was a brief stunned silence.
Then the word added: I am probably the most important word in your language.

Why? asked Jane softly.

The word answered: life is short.

Seeing is only part of it

Seeing is only part of it

His glasses censor
the world for him.
Light is bent carefully
to focus the face
of the woman
on his retina.
The line of her nose
runs like the sweep
of a swallow’s wing.
Her mouth moves like a team
of trained acrobats,
her eyes are portals
to wondrous cities;
sumptuous caravans enter,
nobly clad princes and ladies
ride out on magnificent horses.
Her chin is the yearning expanse
of a bay with sensual beaches.

This is the interpretation of his glasses.

When he takes them off,
she becomes a tropical mystery,
almost invisible
in a slowly moving mist.

Now he will be guided
by her voice,
by her hands,
lost in the lush heat.

A soft fruit on his tongue.

The Maynard effect

The Maynard effect
There was one particular oxygen atom
that Doctor Maynard
was particularly fond of.
She kept it in
a specially designed test tube
and often spent some time
with it.
The atom was just like all other
oxygen atoms,
but for some reason
it fascinated Doctor Maynard
who had no children.
That was mainly
because she was not married.
Doctor Maynard would have spoilt
her oxygen atom
if only she knew how.
Instead she admired its wonderfully balanced shape
and stable constitution.
She imagined her atom to be azure blue
and elastic like a tennis ball.

One night
some other atoms
entered the test tube
though a blemish of which
Doctor Maynard was unaware.

Later that night the oxygen atom
combined with two hydrogen atoms.

The next morning
Doctor Maynard picked up the test tube
as usual to look at her atom.

But it was gone,
there was only a very small wet patch,
much, much smaller
than the wetness
on Doctor Maynard’s cheeks.

Octavio Paz in Afrikaans

Uit: Dias habiles

1938-1961

Niña

Octavio Paz

Entre la tarde que se obstina

y la noche ques se acumula

hay la Mirada de una niña.

Meisie

Tussen die aand wat traag kom

en die nag wat aankom

is die staring van ‘n meisie.

Sy los haar notaboek en skryfwerk,

haar hele wese in twee starende oë.

Teen die muur vernietig die lig himself.

Sien sy haar einde of begin?

Sy sal sê sy het niks gesien nie.

Die oneindige is deursigtig.

Sy sal nooit weet wat sy gesien het nie.

Note left by the rain

Note left by the rain

Rain is walking
slowly through the garden.
It stops at the patch
where I planted lettuce
and bends down
to finger one of the small leaves
lightly.
Rain peeks into the rain meter
and smiles.
The meter is slowly filling up.

Rain looks up
into the air,
holding up a hand
to block out the sun.
Rain decides it is time
to go.
It leaves a note at the back door –
a sodden brown leaf
from the previous season.
It says:
the green has come,
the green will go,
it will come,
it will go
and in time,
so will you.

The general and the sadhu

The general and the sadhu

Discipline is everything,

said the general,

sitting straight like the barrel of a cannon

in his camp chair

in his command tent

on the battlefield.

Discipline shapes the mind,

he continued,

into a sword,

sharp and decisive,

that you can drive

into the heart of a problem

and kill it.

The sadhu,

who sat on the floor

in a loose lotus position,

nodded.

Discipline lifts the mind

high into the air,

and shows the land

with its people,

walking, working, loving

sleeping, lying, swimming

and running.

It shows the mind

the man who steals from his neighbour,

who is now poorer

because he took what is not his own,

what he did not earn.

Discipline shows why winning is losing.