P/P | r2c | September: "Two as One" and the Poetry of Relationship II
P/P | r2c | September: "Two as
One" and the Poetry of Relationship II
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"As an incombustible moment, eternal as frozen film, I remember how you, sparkling with jewelry..." from F. Harmsen van Beek, a poem by Remco Campert (1929) This week, an image of late summer flowering Alpine Lettuce. Also: six new translations of Lowland poems.
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Zes Gedichten; Six Poems . . .
The guest poems for this week are new English
translations of a set of six Dutch pieces.
The featured poets are, Clara Eggink,
Pieter Langendijk, Judith Herzberg,
Gerrit Achterberg, Anna Blaman
and Remco Campert:
The Poetry of Relationship: Part II
Two weeks ago, while introducing the last set of seven Lowland poems,
("Dance in Stone"and the Poetry of Relationship) I referred to the idea
of the Indian spiritual teacher, Jiddu Krishnamurti, of life as a movement of relationship.
I also mentioned that this way of looking seems to move out in many directions all at
once in that it explores relationship not only in the way we are together with others, but
also how we are together with ourselves and the land or environment which surrounds
us. What is important in this is that we somehow need to give attention to the whole
movement, and not simply just to one aspect in isolation. This means that if there is a
problem in any one area, say in some personal relationship with a close friend, the
cause of the disharmony may quite possibly lie outside the particular space
of that relationship in some very much wider context.
Five of the six poems presented this week in some way deal with the timeless theme
of intimate relationship. And yet, old as this subject is, it still is open to continual change—
indeed, in the current era, many would say, radical change. What changes is not just
outward circumstances. Say, that people tend not to stay together these days, or that
homosexual unions are to a certain extent openly accepted. But rather in a deeper sense,
what changes is meaning. What it means to be together. And this is why we evidently
urgently need the poetry, to somehow get a hold of the meaning, to look at it, reflect
upon it, share it—sometimes our joy, sometimes our sorrow. We do after all feel more
passionately about passion than any thing else, and wish to have some degree of under-
standing of the different currents which push us about so powerfully as we move through
everyday life.
Looking at the image above of twin alpine lettuce blossoms towards the end of August
in sparkling mountain sunlight, I'm struck by how each flower seems to mirror or reflect
the other. In a similar way, when I read Lost, the sense of the loss of the feeling of necessity
and of opportunities missed is reflected back into my own life; when I read Question, I
question in myself and those around me what it might mean to lead a religious life; when
I read Indian Summer, I, too, sense the hopes and loves of youth scattered about like
leaves in a suddenly cold October wind; when I read Democrat, I begin to ask of myself
about my relationship to my own work; when I read Women, I am allowed as a man to
see for a moment the subtle beauty of a woman loving another woman; and finally, when
I read F. Harmsen van Beek, I laugh along with the poet, seated at a café perhaps,
awaiting an old beloved who does not seem to materialize, as he reflects upon his rather
sad situation and the culture of his generation. Indeed, the reflection which seems to take
place when the poem is brought to life somehow makes the two movements—in the
poet and in myself—one:
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Verloren Ik lees een boek, ik schrijf een brief, Ik kom bij jou, wij praten. Die dingen zijn mij even lief; Ik kan ze ook wel laten. Het voorjaar buiten is altijd zoel, Maar niet dat wilde wonder Toen ik weg wou gaan, alleen en koel; Nu kan ik ook wel zonder. Ik meende aan 't strand te zijn geboren, Mijn huis te hebben in het duin. Dat alles is al lang verloren, Nu voer ik meeuwen in mijn tuin. Clara Eggink (1906 - 1991) |
Lost I read a book, I write a letter, I go to you, we talk. These things are all equally dear to me; I can just as well do without them. Spring outside is damp and warm, But not that wild miracle When I wanted to leave, cool and alone; Now I can just go without. I thought I was born on the beach, and that my house was in the dunes. All that has long been lost, Now I feed seagulls in my garden. |
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Vraag Zijn naastens goed begeren, Te woekeren, te scheren, Te zorgen voor zijn pens, Nooit voor zijn evenmens. Op 't huisgezin te grauwen En armen toe te snauwen, Maar driemaal daags te kerk; Is dat geen christelijk werk? Pieter Langendijk (1683-1756) |
Question To be well-desirous of his neighbors, To profiteer, to shave, To care for his paunch, And never for his fellow-man. To snarl at one's family And gibe at the poor, But go three times a day to church; Is that not good Christian work? |
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Nazomer Eertijds glanzende kampioen, stapsgewijs aan klein verlies gewend, nu grijs. `Ball over' roept hij, en `Love thirty'. Klef blad en zware schaduw vlekken de baan. Het seizoen haast over, een bladerhoop is in een hoek opeengewaaid. Judith Herzberg (1934) |
Indian Summer Once shining champions, step by step grown used to small loss, now gray. 'Ball over' he yells, and 'Love thirty'. Sticky leaf and heavy shadow blemish the court. The season almost over, a pile of leaves in a corner scatters in the wind. |
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Democraat In deze kamer ben ik eindlijk thuis. Ik zal geen vers meer schrijven dat mijn leven uiteen moet rukken om te zijn geschreven. Ben ik een dichter, dan is 't per abuis. Ik lees het nieuwe boek. De kachel suist. Geertruida staat een overhemd te strijken. Ik heb maar van een bladzij op te kijken om te beseffen welk geluk hier huist. Zo zal het door de jaren blijven duren. We krijgen straks een kind en mijn pensioen zal voor onze ouwe dag het zijne doen. We hoeven niet voortijdig te verzuren. Ook leven wij in vrede met de buren. De ene heet Van Brakel, de ander Griffioen. Gerrit Achterberg (1905-1962) |
Democrat In this room I'm finally at home. Never again shall I write a verse that tears my life apart in order to write it. If I am a poet, then it's just a mistake. I read the new book. The heater rustles. Gertrude is ironing a shirt. I only need to look up from a page to realize the happiness which lives here. This is how it will last through the years. We'll soon have a child and in our old age my pension will care for all our needs. We needn't become bitter prematurely. Moreover, we live in peace with the neighbors. One is called Jones, the other Rutledge. |
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Vrouwen I Haar armen glad en blank in 't lome van donker tule, veel parfum en lippen van karmijnrood - ik zie de tippen van haar borsten deinend gaan en komen. II Winkel schemering, veel stoffen op de toonbank Zij buigt voorover in begerig kijken Ik zie haar blouse soepel open wijken en ben verzonken - diep en blank. III Haar benen lang en glad— zij lacht en ligt loom achterover— ik zie hoe diep en ver de lijnen van haar benen zijn en denk eraan met afgewend gezicht. IV Zij lacht me door de spiegel toe, en let daarbij op het effect van haar geschminkte ogen Wat denk je, zegt ze traag, heb ik de bogen van mijn wenkbrauwen goed aangezet? Anna Blaman (1905-1960) |
Women I Her arms smooth and clear-skinned in the shadow of dark tulle, amply perfumed and lips of carmine-red—I see the tips of her breasts heave coming and going. II Store twilight, fabrics piled high on the counter She leans forward with a look full of desire I see her blouse opening supplely and begin to sink—deep and fair. III Her legs long and smooth— she laughs and lies limply backwards— I see how deep and far the lines of her legs recede and reflect on this with face turned away. IV She giggles my way through the mirror, attending to the effect of her made-up eyes What do you think, she says slowly, did I get my eyebrows on right? |
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F. Harmsen van
Beek Je komt dus niet, er is iets waardoor je niet komen kunt - ik neem aan er is een diertje dood, het behoeft begraving of de hak van je pump zit vast in de plank, het struikgewas is te hoog gegroeid, het vuilnis opgestapeld: hoe ook de knappe telegrambesteller, boerenzoon met werk bij het rijk, zwoegt en ploetert, hij komt er niet doorheen met zijn ijlboodschap: dring aan op aanwezigheid! Ben je het dak op gevlucht? Lees je een boek in de kast? Er was altijd wat, weet ik nog goed. Een stap vooruit bleek, vraag niet hoe het kan, ook een stap naar achter en opzij - de meest beweeglijke pas op de plaats die ik ooit heb meegedanst. Tot in de donkere ochtend ik de balzaal verliet, op zoek naar hardere muziek en een voetspoor van mezelf. Als een onbrandbaar moment, eeuwig als bevroren film, herinner ik me hoe je, fonkelend van sieraad en verwilderde opmaak, grootogig de trap op kwam van het theater aan de hand van de nu verdronken schilder, die je tanden verzorgde dat het blonk - mooie generatie, vol van in de tijd verzonken gelijk. Remco Campert (1929) uit: `Collega's'. |
F. Harmsen van Beek I guess you're not coming, there's some reason why you can't come. I assume that there's a dead animal, in need of burying or the point of your high heel is stuck in a plank, the shrubs have grown too high, the garbage piled up: no matter how much the handsome letter-carrier, a farmer's son working for the government, plods and swears, he can't make it through with his express message: insist on being there! Did you take refuge up on the roof? Reading a book in the closet? There was always something, I can recall. A step forward always appeared, don't ask how it's possible, to be a step backwards or to the side as well— the most animated steps right at the place where I once had danced along. Until in the morning darkness I left the dance hall, seeking louder music and a footprint of myself. As an incombustible moment, eternal as frozen film, I remember how you, sparkling with jewelry and gone-wild makeup, walking large-eyed up the theater staircase hand in hand with the now drowned painter, the one who made your teeth shine— beautiful generation, full of in time deeply galvanized rightness. from: "Colleagues": (all tr. by Cliff Crego) |
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See also: new |
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"Straight
roads, Slow rivers, Deep clay." |
A collection of contemporary Dutch poetry in English translation, with commentary and photographs by Cliff Crego |
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See also another website by Cliff Crego: The Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke |
A presentation of 80 of the best poems of Rilke in both German and new English translations: biography, links, posters |
