P/P | r2c | July: Flowforms in Granite and the Poetry of Place
P/P | r2c | July: Flowforms in Granite and the Poetry of Place
 |
"As Orpheus with his lyre sang the stones began to move, the branches of powerful oaks wanted to reach out to each other with hands, the wild animals of the forest appeared who in listening nestled down near to him..." from Orpheus, a poem by Ida Gerhardt This week, an image of Flowforms in Granite: Also: eight new translations of Lowland poems.
|
Flowforms in Granite and the Poetry of Place
(listen to Intro in RealAudio c. 4')
What I find so striking about the sometimes marvelously fantastic forms
of river rocks is the way their contours so perfectly reflect the movements
of fast-flowing water. We sense that such a stone is completely at home in
its place in the world. Even if the stone were to be taken away from its river,
or if the water were for some reason silenced, say, because of a dam, we
would still sense in the manifest shape—almost feel or hear—the forces
that brought it into existence.
In a similar fashion, one can easily imagine an art or a poetry which is
shaped by the no less real, albeit less palpable, spirit of a place. At the same
time, much of the culture of the present era disappoints in especially this regard.
So one could say that, instead of reflecting in a subtle, indirect way, something
of the character of a place, much of contemporary art reflects more our
rootlessness and resulting disorientation.
This is perhaps one of the primary reasons why poetry in translation can be
so revealing. We are, after all, exposed to a place—and, of course, a language—
with which we are largely unfamiliar. But then, how is Dutch poetry different
from English? Instead of approaching the question directly, I think perhaps a
movement of circumambulation, one which follows each individual poet and
poem individually, might be more appropriate. This week's poems when taken
together as an octet, lead us through a confusion of modern images, grammars,
and landscapes. From a dreamy Orpheus and Mozart, we move on to the more
certain ground of old-fashioned lyrics about the highly desirable daughters of
rich ladies and the fancy-free ways of the vagabond. (Notice that the two Vaga-
bond pieces are the only poems of the set of eight that are firmly situated out-of-
doors.) Then there's the beautiful piece by Jan Hanlo, Not Unlike, where he
compares the features of a beloved to the movements and trajectories of flying
birds. The sequence ends with a powerful poem by Ida Gerhardt, marking the
death of her fellow poet, Gerrit Achterberg. Here she gives voice to this uneasy,
uniquely contemporary feeling that many artists experience when forced by the
turning-point events of life—birth, marriage or death, say—to reenter the vestigial
holy places of a culture which they largely see as bankrupt.
Indeed, pondering the smooth surfaces of waterworn granite may well help us
make sense of this art which is so distinctly shaped by both the dark and the
lighter, more lively and exhilarating aspects of such chaos:
| De Herschepping Als Orpheus bij de lier zong gingen stenen bewegen, takken van machtige eiken wilden met handen naar elkander reiken, de wilde dieren van het bos verschenen, die luisterend zich bij hem nedervlijden en bomen kwamen nader op de tenen. Een witte wolk is daar zómaar gedaald. Dit had mijn ouder zusje mij verhaald; zij zei: `hij zingt het, maar het heeft géén woorden.' En die nacht droomde ik van een groot geruis, en dat, terwijl ik Orpheus spelen hoorde, mijn ouders wandelden door het trappenhuis. Ida Gerhardt (1905-1997) |
The Transformation As Orpheus with his lyre sang, the stones began to move, the branches of powerful oaks wanted to reach out to each other with hands, the wild animals of the forest appeared who in listening nestled down near to him and trees came all the way to his toes. A white cloud descended out of nowhere. My older sister told me this; she said: "he is singing, but the song has no words." And that night I dreamt of a great noise, and that, as I heard Orpheus play, my parents journeyed along the staircase. * |
| Eine Kleine Nachtmusik Terwijl hij onder de vleugel sliep alsof geen morgen hem meer riep, begonnen zacht op 't wit en zwart van 't doodstil glanzend mechaniek de snelle maten van het lied dat in zichzelf verdronken sliep, dat in zichzelf verzonken zag naar wie het riep met klare, jubelende kracht. Haastig en diep gelukkig schiep Mozart zijn kleine nachtmuziek. Gerrit Achterberg (1905-1962) uit: Eiland der Ziel (1939) |
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik While he slept beneath the piano as if no morning would ever call to him, began softly upon the white and black of the deadly quiet glistening keys the quick measures of the song that in itself was drowned in sleep that in itself submerged had seen he who it called with clear, joyous power. Hastily and deeply happy Mozart created his little night music. from: Suffering of the Soul (1939) |
| Biecht De dikke dames eten taarten bij Lensvelt achter 't winkelraam. Des avonds gaan zij samen kaarten bij kennissen van goede naam. De dikke dames hebben mannen met bank en rekening-courant, en ieder jaar vacantieplannen, voor wintersport in 't buitenland. De dochters van de dikke dames studeren kunstgeschiedenis, maar nimmer deden zij examens daar wetenschap hun doel niet is. Ach, dikke dames met uw duiten, uw dochters en uw volle bord, ik sta bij Lensvelt voor de ruiten en hoop dat ik uw schoonzoon word. B.J. Pot |
Confession The portly ladies are eating cake at Lensvelt behind the shop window. In the evening they'll play cards together at the homes of affluent friends. The portly ladies all have husbands with big bank accounts and ample credit, and every year plans for vacation, and for going skiing in the Alps. The daughters of the portly ladies are all studying the history of Art, but hardly ever take the exams since knowledge is not their goal. Ah, portly ladies with your farthings, your daughters and your replete plates, I stand at Lensvelt in front of the windows and hope your son-in-law to be. |
| De Vagebond Van morgen woei de wind uit 't Zuiden, Van middag woei het uit de hel Ach! dat heeft niet veel te beduiden, Wij leven ons leventje wel! Van middag was het wel wat treurig, Maar nou komt mijn hart uit de plooi! - Ach, leven we niet te kieskeurig, Wat duivel! het leven is mooi! En van avond melk ik mijn koetjes, Die geven geen melk en geen room! - Ach mijn hart! mijn hart! maak dat 'k zoetjes Van nacht van iets gelukkigs droom! C.S. Adama van Scheltema (1877-1924) uit: Van Zon en Zomer |
The Vagabond This morning the wind blew from the South, This afternoon it blew from Hell Ah! that doesn't mean all that much. We live our little lives so well! This afternoon it was a bit sad, But come now my heart out of the fold!— Ah! let's not live too persnickety, May the devil care! life is not so bad! And this evening I'll milk my cows, They give no milk and no cream!— Ah my heart! my heart! make that I sweetly Tonight about something happy dream! from: Of Sun and Summer |
| Niet Ongelijk Niet ongelijk is de lijn van je ogen aan de lijnen van meeuwen of vooral die van visdiefjes Toeval? Een romantisch bewijs voor één Schepper? Ik weet niet Wel weet ik dat je ogen al lang weer verweg zijn gevlogen Zonder spoor of contact zomin als kiekendieven of de langzaam maar / zekere tochten van spitsgevleugelde valken iets te maken hebben met de treinen die ze passeren Jan Hanlo (1912-1969) |
Not Unlike Not unlike the line of your eyes are the lines of seagulls or especially terns Chance? A romantic proof of one Creator? I don't know I do know that your eyes have flown far away again Without a trace or contact just as little as harriers or the slow but / sure turns of sharp-winged falcons have something to do with the trains that they pass by. |
| Droomlot Je toonde me vannacht de kamers weer; geheel dezelfde. 't Werd de eerste keer dat ik ze zag van duizend malen meer. Jij was toen nog mevrouw en ik meneer. We stonden waar wij later zouden leven. Er was nog niets over ons heen geweven. Zo is het tussen ons een tijd gebleven en daarna kwam je voornaam op een keer. In deze doodsslaap heb ik terug gekund door andere adressen voor te geven en weg te gaan eer ik ontwaken zou. Dan was ik nu misschien handelsagent of bij mijn vader op het dorp gebleven en trouwde later een gewone vrouw. Mar nu ik wakker ben is om het even wat op die drempel wankelde en wou en heeft het noodlot mij geen stap gegund. Gerrit Achterberg (1905-1962) |
Dream-fate You showed me tonight the rooms again; everything the same. It was again the first time among a thousand others that I saw them. You were still Mrs. and I Mr. We stood where we later would live. Nothing had yet passed between us. This is how it remained for a time and after this your first name came up. In this death-sleep I've been able to return by giving out other addresses and going away before I wake up. Then I was now perhaps a salesman or I stayed with my father in the village and married later an ordinary woman. But now that I'm awake it is about what wobbled on that threshold and wished and that fate did not grant me but one step. |
| De Vagebond Zij wikken en wegen hun geld en hun god, en kanten zich tegen mijn vluchtiger lot, omdat ik mijn handen en oogen leeg door hunne landen omdroeg, en zweeg in hun geschillen, en ging als blind om der eenzame wille van sterren en wind. A. Roland Holst (1888-1976) uit: Voorbij de Wegen (1920) |
The Vagabond They weigh the pros and cons their money and their god and are set to resist my flight of fate, because my hands and eyes are empty carried through their lands, and remained silent in their differences, and went as blind for the solitary will of wind and stars. from: Passed the Ways (1920) |
| Begrafenis van Gerrit Achterberg voor C. Achterberg-van Baak Te armoedig nog om bij elkaar te horen en in onszelf en in elkaar verward, waren wij daar, een hand litteratoren. Toen de familie in het kerkezwart en met een boerse waardigheid verscheen, werd onze vaalheid nog meer openbaar. De bloemen overdekten kist en baar. Daar was hij die ons niet meer nodig had. Ik zag terzijde van het middenpad zijn vader, ouder dan Methusalem, zijn schouders haast gekromd tot aan zijn kruis. O, toen hij opzag, hoe geleek hij hem die schreef:'daar woonden wij met man en muis.' Hij hield de handen om zijn doornen stok. Maar toen de stoet opstommelde en vertrok, bleef hij alleen. De doornstok in zijn hand begon te schrijven op het blauw plavuis. God sta ons bij. – 'En Jezus schreef in het zand.' Ida Gerhardt (1905-1997) uit: De slechtvalk, 1966 |
Funeral of Gerrit Achterberg for C. Achterberg-van Baak Still too poor to belong together and confused in ourselves and in one another, there we were, but a handful of literary people. When the family, dressed in church black, and with the dignity of farmers, appeared, our sallowness became all the more evident. The flowers covered coffin and stretcher. There he was, the one who no longer needed us. I saw to the side of the middleway, his father, older than Methuselah, his shoulders bent down almost to his crotch. O, when he looked up, how he resembled he who wrote: 'there we lived with man and mouse.' He held his hands about his thorny stick. But when the cortège stumbled up and departed, he alone remained. The thorny stick in his hand, he began to write upon the blue flagstones. God be with us.— 'And Jesus wrote in the sand.' (all tr. by Cliff Crego) |
| See also: new |
 |
"Straight roads, Slow rivers, Deep clay." |
A collection of contemporary Dutch poetry in English translation, with commentary and photographs by Cliff Crego |
 |
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 |
