P/P | r2c | March: When Color Returns
| click photo or here for r2c new dutch poetry | HOME |
Snow Balloons "Women
are ones deeply drowned
misty and more
unnoticed disappearing
than men
who on the surface
of their eyes usually
can be read"

from Women, a poem
by Lizzy Sara May

This week, an image called
Happy Balloons, End of Winter.
Also: six new translations
of Lowland poems.


rss: Twitter
r2c_dutchpoetry


When Color Returns  listen to intro in streamed (temp. not working...) RealAudio


'Ik heb nooit naar iets anders getracht dan dit:
het zacht maken van stenen
het vuur maken uit water
het regen maken uit dorst'

   Gerrit Kouwenaar 
*

"I've never tried to do anything but this:
to make stones soft
to make fire out of water
to make rain out of thirst"


In the high mountains of Europe, winter comes long and hard. This time
of year, around or just below treeline (±1800 meters) there's still an abun-
dance of snow, usually a good two or three meters of it. One of the joys of
living in such an environment, austere as it is in many ways, is that one
comes to see many aspects of both the natural and cultural worlds
that in the lowlands we normally take for granted in new ways

After many years of such mountain winters, one such feature which I've
come to experience as a yearly cyclical movement is the waxing and waning
of the pallet of natural color with the seasons. In the depths of alpine winter,
the spectrum of color is attenuated to the extreme. On cloudy, misty or
snowy days, of which there are many, color seems to whisper between
the contrasts of intense white and the dullness of granite gray. In an eerie
yet magical way, this absence of color is accentuated tremendously by a
parallel absence of sound, or depending I suppose on one's disposition,
on the extraordinary depths of mountain silence. Even the sound of rushing
water, usually everywhere, is almost completely covered or muted by the
continuous pack of snow.

But come April, on the happy, sun-facing southern slopes, it is truly a
joy to witness the return not just of spring, but of all the richness of living
sound and vibrant color. Like the Italians say,
Primavera, or first green.
After six months living with only the gray-green of spruce trees and dry
hay in the barn, to come upon a little patch of fresh grass with a few
scattered crocuses is indeed a miracle.

So in this supersaturated Western world of extreme stimulations of every
description, the ancient mountains at the very center of Europe still hold
a very powerful message for the current era. While it is, of course, not
possible to say exactly what this message is, it does perhaps have something
to do with coming to order or harmony by not adding more and more,
but by simply taking away. This is the work which high country winter
does for us; it drains the world of color, taking it back to some kind
of formal or primal essence, so when color does return, we experience it
as if for the very first time. First green, first yellow, first blue! 

The new translations from the Dutch featured this week, when taken as
a set or sequence, make a rather similar journey of color's absence followed
by its happy return. In poetic space we make then an arch from Gerrit
Achterberg's mysterious and brooding composition,
Black Spring, to
Martinus Nijhoff's masterpiece,
Clown. Of course, the poems refer not
just to color in the literal sense, but also to what we might think of as
hues or shades of emotional being....especially the darkness of loss of some
kind.  --  the loss of a beloved, which is Achterberg's perennial theme, or
of the loss of one's youth or self-respect. But there's also a sense of return,
or full-spectrum rebirth, to discover here, most notably in Nijhoff's Clown,
Here, the poet describes himself as a kind of circus performer with
the striking lines,


They laugh at everything my craziness does,
I play dog, play human, play elephant:
I bark, I cry, I dig around with my snout—

Late at night the tent empties itself:
On the plain, where the lanterns are burning,
I lean against a pole, and call my deeds good.








Zwarte Lente

In de zon is de dood begonnen.
Hij heeft het zoete vreten aangevangen.
De warme velden worden donker overronnen.
Wij lopen nu met vrome voeten over naakte wegen
en zijn van zijne majesteit doorzegen.
Ergens is er een onderspit gedolven.
En iedere vrouw is ons genegen
haar bloed te mengen met de zwarte zonnen,
die van de zomen van ons bloed zijn opgestegen.
O lente, zon-bedronken en van donker /
   overrompeld.

   Gerrit Achterberg
(1905-1962)
Black Spring

In the sun death has started his work.
He has begun his sweet feast.
The warm fields are effused with darkness.
We walk now with pious feet over naked roads
and are blessed overall by his majesty.
Somewhere one has gotten the worst of it.
And every woman is predisposed
to mix her blood with the black suns,
that from the hems of our own blood have risen up.
O spring, sun-drunk and caught off guard /
    by darkness.





Adieu

Droom dan tenminste dat we nimmer scheiden,
Wij droomden het zo vaaak, kind, naast elkaar.
Nu kuste ik, toen je sliep, voor 't laatst de zijden
Geurenden overvloed van je wild haar.

Ik nam mijn vedel, liet me 't raam uitglijden,
Sloop door den boomgaard, telkens omziend naar
Het venster, open in den klimop, waar
Jij met een glimlach droomt dat wij nooit /
   scheiden.

Droom dan, als in een sprookje, honderd jaar:
Droom dat je met mij zwierf en met me bij de
Herbergen speelde en dansen begeleidde—

Adieu. Wellicht maakt ginds een tovenaar
Een blonden prins van dezen vedelaar
Wiens kus je wekt, en zijn wij nooit gescheiden.

   Martinus Nijhoff
(1894-1953)
Adieu

At least dream then that we never separated,
We dreamed it so often, child, next to each other.
Now I have kissed, as you slept, for the last time
the silken fragrant abundance of your wild hair.

I took my fiddle, let myself slip out the window,
Trod through the orchard, looking back repeatedly
At the window, open amidst the ivy, where
You with your smile dreamed that we never /
   separated.

Dream then, as in a fairy tale, for a hundred years:
Dream that you wandered with me and with me
Played and dances accompanied at the taverns—

Adieu. Perhaps there a sorcerer shall
Make a blonde prince of this old fiddler, whose
Kiss awakens you, and we were never separated.





Het Moet Groeien

Het moet groeien
het moet groot worden

deze geschreven woorden
moet het kunnen spreken, straks

het moet de vliezen die het nu omsluiten
in het boek kunnen nalezen en
naamgeven

het moet groot worden, niet om
de wereld groter te maken
maar kleiner

het moet gewoon handen hebben
die als een volmaakte machine
bijna volmaakt zijn, een een hoofd
dat zich denkend neerlegt
als het grijs en tijd is -

  Gerrit Kouwenaar
(1923)
It Needs to Grow

It needs to grow
it needs to grow up

these written words
it should be able to speak, in a while

it should be able to read in a book
the thin layer of tissue that covers it now
and give it a name

it needs to grow up, not to
make the world bigger, but
smaller

it should simply have hands
that like a perfect machine
are almost perfect, and a head
that lies down in reflection
when it's gray and it's time -





Vrouwen

Vrouwen
zijn diepe drenkelingen
mistiger en meer
onopgemerkt verdwijnend
dan mannen
die aan het oppervlak
van hun ogen meestal
leesbaar zijn

Lizzy Sara May
(1918-1988)
uit: Blues voor voetstappen (1956)
Women

Women
are ones deeply drowned
misty and more
unnoticed in disappearing
than men
who on the surface
of their eyes usually
can be read





Het Einde

Oud de tijd en vele vogels sneeuwen
In de leegte in de verte
Wordt men moe en de stemmen
Staan stijf om zelfs de zuiverste lippen

Ruw en laag wandelt de regen
Waarheen zijn de lichte dagen gegaan
Waar zijn de wolken gebleven
Alles is stom en van steen

Alleen in zijn engte de elementen telde
Buigend bevend als geselgeslagen
Geeft het laatste geluid: het lied
Heeft het eeuwige leven

Lucebert
(1924-1995)
The End

Old is the time and many birds are snowing
In the emptiness in the distance
One becomes tired and the voices
Are stiff as nails on even the purest of lips

Rough and low roams the rain
Where have the days of light gone
Where to are the clouds now
Everything is mute and of stone

Alone is his weirdness counting the elements
Bending trembling like a lashing
Giving the last sound: the song
Has the life eternal





Clown

Met blauw-papieren pijlen op mijn wangen
En op mijn hoofd een gele ster geplakt,
Blijf ik, terwijl een aap mijn handen pakt,
Onderste-boven aan een rekstok hangen.

Mijn meester wil de wereld vroolijk maken,
—,,Satans Apostel'' noemt mij 't aanplakbord—
En 't volk, een optocht gekke pelgrims, wordt
Hierheen gestuurd, en ik moet het vermaken.

Het lacht om alles wat mijn waanzin doet,
Ik speel voor hond, voor mensch, voor olifant:
Ik blaf, ik schreeuw, ik daver met mijn snuit—

Laat in den nacht stroomt het de tent weer uit:
Ik leun op 't plein, waar de lantaren brandt,
Tegen den paal, en keur mijn daden goed.


   Martinus Nijhoff
(1894-1953)
  
uit: De wandelaar (1916)
Clown

With blue-paper arrows on my cheeks
And a yellow star stuck to my head,
I stay, as a monkey takes my hand,
hanging upside-down on a balancing beam.

My master wants to make the world happy,
—"Satan's Apostle" I'm called by my sign—
And the people, a procession of mad pilgrims,
are sent here, and I am to entertain them.

They laugh at everything my craziness does,
I play dog, play human, play elephant:
I bark, I cry, I dig around with my snout—

Late at night the tent empties itself:
On the plain, where the lanterns are burning,
I lean against a pole, and call my deeds good.


   (all tr. Cliff Crego)

   from:
The Wanderer (1916)





Below is a little slideshow
featuring my English translations
of Rainer Maria Rilke, presented together
with a collection of images from the Alps,
very close to where much of his later poetry was composed
.






Please follow r2c {Straight ROADS.
Slow RIVERS. Deep CLAY.]
on twitter . . .







| view / print Picture/Poem Poster: Clown (86 K) | or download as PDF |


See
also:

"Straight roads,
Slow rivers,
Deep clay."
A collection of contemporary Dutch poetry
in English translation, with commentary
and photographs
by Cliff Crego


| See also a selection of recent Picture/Poem "Rilke in translation" features at the Rilke Archive.

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


| # listen to other recordings in English and German of eight poems from
The Book of Images
at The Rilke Download Page (# Includes instructions)
|
| back to r2c | back to Picture/Poems: Central Display |
| Map | TOC: I-IV | TOC: V-VIII | Image Index | Index | Text OnlyDownload Page | Newsletter | About P/P | About Cliff Crego |


Photograph/Texts of Translations © 2001 Cliff Crego
(created
IV.I.2001) (revised  IV.3.2002; II.29.2012)
Special thanks to Anne-Marie Mineur
of the Lowlands for catching a mistake in
an earlier version I did of Nijhoff's Clown