P/P | r2c | June: Five Dutch Sonnets and a Butterfly Weed
P/P | r2c | June: Five Dutch
Sonnets and a Butterfly Weed
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"O ripe bosom white that steadily before mine eyes so dearly drifts, like the clear reflection at the source of the Rhine of the purest snow — Ah but your shimmering, o weak eyes doth impair!...." from The Eleventh Sonnet to Beauty, a poem by Gerbrand Adriaensz. Bredero (1585-1618) This week, an image of a Solstice Butterfly Weed, one of the colorful harbingers of high summer on the tall grass prairies of North America. Also: five new translations of Lowland poems.
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Vijf Sonnetten; Five Sonnets
The guest poems for this week are new English
translations of a quintet of Dutch sonnets, spanning
some 400 years of literary history in the Netherlands. The featured poets
are: Jacques Perk,
Pieter Cornelisz. Hooft, Gerbrand Adriaensz. Bredero, Jan Campert,
and
Martinus Nijhoff.
FIVE DUTCH SONNETS . . .
When one thinks of sonnets, regardless of the language in which they were originally
composed, the first thought that normally comes to mind is that of form. Every school
child knows something of the outward mechanics of the sonnet, with its 14 10-step/5 beat
(iambic pentameter) lines, articulated into an octave (8 lines) and a sextet (6 lines). And
then there is also the long and wonderful tradition of subject matter, going back to 14th
century Italy, varying from the chaste, or not-so-chaste, love of a mistress, either real
or idealized, to themes more abstract and philosophical, such as time, death, love as
well as the nature of poetry itself.
The five Dutch pieces featured this week all, each in their own special way, and to varying
degrees, resonate with this great cross-cultural, especially, European tradition. In historical
order, the Sonnet by P. C.. Hooft (abba abba cc de ed) and The Eleventh Sonnet to
Beauty by G. A. Bredero (abba abba ccd eed) both fit squarely within the Italian Petrarchan
heritage. (Note that they were written about the same time Shakespeare first published his 154
Sonnets: 1609.)
The charming Jacques Perk piece, In Praise of Sonnets (abab abab cdc dcd: Also note that
I haven't attempted to follow the rhyme scheme, but instead have chosen to follow more
the rhythm and the general quality of sound of each poem.) is much more Elizabethan in
movement and character.
As we move closer to home in the 20th century, our themes become distinctly darker and
tragic. Jan Campert's Sonnets for Cynara (XIV) (abba abba cddece) is I think a strikingly
moving piece. Campert, who was the poet Remco Campert's father, (also featured here in translation
recently) was a leading figure in the Dutch resistance during the German occupation of Holland
in World War II. He died at the concentration camp at Neuengamme in 1943. And lastly,
The end, by Martinus Nijhoff, (abab baba cde cde). Who in the current era would not recognize
him- or herself in this moving description, very similar to Wallace Stevens in tone, of a
relationship falling apart for no clear reason, as if the two people involved were both somehow
aware of the senselessness of what is taking place and yet powerless to prevent it?
Much more could be said about this important theme of the relationship and, indeed, the
relationship of form and content as well. Perhaps we would do well to ponder for a moment
the beauty of the solitary Butterfly Weed pictured above. So strikingly unique in and of itself.
But at the same time, with its basic form of five petals and, come fall, the otherworldly warty
seedpods, still very much a member of the milkweed family. This having been said, let's move
on to the quintet of poems itself:
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Aan de
Sonnetten Klinkt helder op, gebeeldhouwde sonnetten, Gij, kindren van de rustige gedachte! De ware vrijheid luistert naar de wetten: Hij stelt de wet, die uwe wetten achtte: Naar eigen hand de vrije taal te zetten Is eedle kunst, geen grens die haar ontkrachtte: Beperking moet vernuft en vinding wetten; Tot heerschen is, wie zich beheerscht, bij machte: -- De geest in enge grenzen ingetogen, Schijnt krachtig als de popel op te schieten, En de aard' te boren en den blauwen hoogen: Een zee van liefde in droppen uit te gieten, Zacht, een voor een -- ziedaar mijn heerlijk pogen... Sonnetten, klinkt! U dichten was genieten.-- Jacques Perk (1859-1881) |
In Praise of Sonnets Sound clear, finely-chiseled sonnets, You, the children of quiet thoughts! True Freedom listens to the dictates: He submits the law, that you laws consider: In one's own hand free discourse to set Is noble Art, no border shall her disempower: Limit must reason and invention sharpen; To mastery, who masters himself, compelled:— The spirit drawn back to modest boundaries, Appears as forceful as the poplar setting shoots, Drilling into earth and blue heavens: A sea of love poured out in drops, Softly, one by one -- see there my grand attempts... Sonnets, sound! You set in verse such delight. -- |
| Sonnet ``Mijn lief, mijn lief, mijn lief....'' zo sprak mijn lief mij toe, dewijl mijn lippen op haar lieve lipjes weidden. De woordjes alle drie wel klaar en wel bescheiden vloeiden mijn oren in en roerden ('k weet niet hoe) al mijn gedachten om, staag malend nimmer moe, die 't oor mistrouwden en de woordjes wederleiden; dies ik mijn vrouwe bad mij klaarder te verbreiden haar onverwachte reên, en zij verhaalde het doe. O rijkdom van mijn hart dat overliep van vreugden! Bedoven viel mijn ziel in haar vol hart van deugden. Maar toen de morgenster nam voor de dag haar wijk, is, met de klare zon, de waarheid droef verrezen. Hemelse Goôn, hoe komt de Schijn zo na aan 't Wezen, het leven droom en droom het leven zo gelijk? Pieter Cornelisz. Hooft (1581-1647) |
Sonnet "My love, my love, my love....." so spoke my love to me, while my lips upon her loving lips did graze. The little words all three most clear and and modest most flowed into my ears and moved (I know not how) all my thoughts, turning constantly without fatigue, that the ear mistrusted and the words but did disprove; that I my dear lady bid clearer to propagate her unexpected reasons, and she storied the command. O richness of my heart that overflowed with joy! Muted fell my soul in her heart so full of virtues. But when the morning star appeared before the day, had, with the bright sun, the truth sadly risen. Heavenly goddess, how comes illusion so close to being, the life of dream and the dream of life so the same. |
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Het Elfde Sonnet van de
Schoonheid O rijpen boezem wit die voor mijn ogen stadig Zo liefelijken zweeft, gelijk den wederschijn Van d'allerwitste sneeuw aan d'oorsprong van den Rijn - Maar uwe schimmering, o zwakke ogen schadig! Met maagdelijke melk verschijnen daar beladig Twee zilver dopkens rond, op elke staat een robijn, 't Zijn appelkens gelijk, daarop twee kerskens zijn, Wiens rode rijpigheid een lust baart ongestadig. Och, die 't eens weten mocht, wat Hemels zuigelink Daar nog aanleggen zal, hoe met den gouden rink, Zijns Moeders echtsieraad, het dertelijk zal spelen, En zitten op haar schoot, verslaan zijn kinderpraat, Dan waar' het zeggen uit, Appeles schoonst sieraad Is 't lieflijkste kind van al des werelds delen! Gerbrand Adriaensz. Bredero (1585-1618) |
The Eleventh Sonnet to Beauty O ripe bosom white that steadily before mine eyes So dearly drifts, like the clear reflection At the source of the Rhine of the purest snow — Ah but your shimmering, o weak eyes doth impair! With chaste milk appear there laden Two silver covers round, on top of both a ruby, Which like small apples with cherries crowned, Whose red ripeness an unsettling pleasure bears. Ah, who would know it, what heavenly suckling Shall there lay, who with the golden tinkle Of his Mother's true jewels, delicately shall play, And sit upon her lap, suppress his babytalk, Then enough be said, apple's most beautiful adornment Is the most lovely child of all the many parts of the world! |
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Sonnetten voor
Cynara (XIV) Rebel. mijn hart, gekerkerd en geknecht, die aan de tralies van de al-dag rukt; weest om uw tijdlijk lot geenszins bedrukt, al zijn de kluisters hard, de muren hecht. Want in de aanvang werd het u voor-zegd, dat het aan enkelen steeds is gelukt het juk te breken, dat hun schouders drukt, laat dus niet af maar vecht en vecht en vecht. Breekt uit en blaast de dove sintels aan, die zijn verdoken onder 't rokend puin; vaart stormgelijk over de lage tuin, die Holland heet; slaat doodlijk toe en snel, opdat het kwaad schrikk'lijk zal ondergaan, o hart, mijn hart, o bloedrode rebel. Jan Campert (1902-1943) |
Sonnets for Cynara (XIV) Rebel. my heart, jailed and enslaved, that on the trellis of the mundane pulls; do not feel pressured by your temporary fate , even if the shackles are hard, and the walls tight. For in the beginning was predestined for you, that a few have continued to succeed in breaking the bar that presses on their shoulders, so do not let up, but fight and fight and fight. Break out and blow upon the muted cinders that lie hidden under the smoking ruins; move swiftly like a storm over the low garden called Holland; strike deadly and quick, so that wickedness shall meet a terrifying end, o heart, my heart, o rebel the color of blood. |
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Het
Einde Vreemd pizzicato van verre guitaren, Hoorden we buiten reeds de vogels zingen - De zon kwam door de kieren van de zware Gordijnen in de stille kamer dringen. Maar ons gezicht en alle dingen hingen Nog in `t vermoeide licht der kandelaren - En tusschen ons, als groote spoken, gingen Waanzin van woorden, wanhoop van gebaren. Dit was het einde van den laatsten nacht. De zon viel strak door `t raam. Tegen het glas Leunde ik mijn voorhoofd - jij, achter mij, rilde. Wat tusschen ons bestond, werd omgebracht. Laten we niet meer denken aan wat was. God heeft met ons gedaan wat hij doen wilde. Martinus Nijhoff (1894-1953) |
The End Strange pizzicato of distant guitars, We had just heard the birds singing outside — The sun pushed its way through the cracks of the heavy curtains in the quiet room. But our face and all the things still hung With the tired light of the chandeliers— And between us, as great ghosts, moved A craziness of words, a hopelessness of gestures. This was the end of the last night. The sun fell straight through the window. I leaned My forehead against the glass—you, behind me, shivered. What existed between us, has been killed. Let's not think anymore about what it was. God has done with us what he wanted. (all tra by Cliff Crego) |
Standbeeld voor Jan Campert/
Statue hornoring Jan Campert
"In Spijkenisse, het geboortedorp van Jan Campert, (Spijkenisse 1902
- concentratiekamp Neuengamme 1943), zal in
2002, honderd jaar na zijn geboorte, een monument worden opgericht voor deze
dichter en verzetstrijder. Het gedenkteken
werd ontworpen door de kunstenares Helen Ferdinand uit Spijkenisse. Het zal
geplaatst worden vlakbij het gesloopte
geboortehuis van Jan Campert. Als dichter werd Jan Campert vooral bekend door zijn verzetsgedicht "Het lied van de
achttien dooden"." (Source:
Meander Krant)
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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 |