Louis Esterhuizen - Vertaling in Engels
Louis Esterhuizen - Vertaal deur die outeur
In the beginning
Does the earth remember the force
that shaped it –
the mountains; can they still recall
the lava
And the rivers; do they remember
the spot where they leaked
through the earth’s
crust –
Can the soil still recall
the first fire
Does the statue still remember the stone
from which it was formed
and the pot; can the pot recall
the clay
And the flute; does it remember
the song for which it was
carved from a piece
of bone
Does the stone remember
the hand
And love, can love recall
the scars that brought it to the fore –
the breaking of bread, wine
changing into blood, the wounds
with which we choose
each other
Can love still remember
the void from before
Butterflies
The rain forms rust in the eyes of children
who stand begging with outstretched hands next to
the steamy odour of tarmac in the rain
and the rain takes your breath away, the breath of the wind
and all thoughts about trees lining the streets
while the shops display their products of temptation
with scantily dressed mannequins
in various frozen positions
of silence
and the rain forms rust in the eyes of children
while vehicles trickle the distance from traffic light
to traffic light, past
the slender hideaway of a bus stop, the shelter
where children sit bundled together, staring at the wind,
their thoughts, the trees, the streets,
the passing of a plastic bottle filled with glue, sniffing, sniffing,
the lines of colour, dissolving, the matters of form,
dissolving, the rhythm of water through dreamy windows,
the empty hands
around the bottlenecks filled with dope, the childish games
on the steps of the museum: Samson, yet again,
between his lofty pillars, again, the carcass of the lion
in back alleys, the riddle of that which is sweet
while in a back room, somewhere, there’s a mattress on the floor
and this girl with her eyes cast aside,
this slender vehicle of desire with her barely formed breasts,
this shadowy suspense of hair lower down,
this cleft at which the man, who is bending over her,
takes his aim with a soothing tone
and the rain, the rain, the rain,
the steamy odour of tarmac in the rain
and the rain takes your breath away, the breath of wind
and all thoughts about trees lining the streets,
thoughts about the blinding flight
of butterflies through the rusty eyes
of children
Drifting, afterwards
I know, love is to walk without defences
in the rain, without coat or umbrella,
without assurances
between the puddles of water, under trees –
I know, love is to walk bare faced
in the street
while time occupies itself somewhere else.
But what sound, nightly, your hand
over my body, what colour
when you hold me tightly, afterwards
and I begin to transform back into myself:
that which was excited and hard
becomes soft again, yes, everything
surrounding us changes back into a room
while my hands let go of you
and the walls
run into corners again, becoming a house
while time comes strolling down the corridor
while we listen to the rain in the gutter
outside, realising
meanwhile it has started to rain
meanwhile the darkness has shrouded itself
meanwhile the moon has disappeared
And we hold each other tight, remembering
that love is to walk without defences in the rain
without coat or umbrella
while time busies itself somewhere else –
the sound of a leaf in a stream
that hitches and shifts, hitches and
drifts, the warmth of your hand
on my body at night. This is our passport,
that I know –
but to which island
and with which boat
The knot without rope
The day will come, dearest, when time itself
will depart, and then we shall remember the hours
of our pastime, the playful days when we
could lie on top of each other like
a new pack of cards.
The day will come
and then you must not be afraid.
Think about the birds at the fountain
in our garden, morning’s first shimmering
in the tender folds of a leaf
and remember
those moments when we thought
that nothing ever would be lost.
The day will come
and then you must remember us
when time carries its coffined luggage
and you remain, on your own
like a knot
without memory or rope.
What is remembered by water
I
that somebody of greater fame
wrote before: the wind died down
in the bay, and all around,
in all the vacancies left by fear
a hurricane ripped the sea to shreds,
but strangely enough –
in the bay the wind died down
and in that indifferent hour of day,
when everybody was busy
somewhere else, a boy
pushed his patched up dinghy
from the quay
in order to drift past the point
of concern, so that even to this day
we still fail to comprehend
how destructive the silence was
inside the bay when fright
reigned supreme
and nobody
was to be found
II
that nobody dared to notice
how many deaths washed up
on the hidden beach –
not the kelp, nor slush,
not the rocks, beachcomber
nor surfer noticed
how rapidly the dead
are being replaced behind
the boulders
and how
without consolation
the clattering of stones
when the tide
retreats
into the distance
III
that you would turn to her, sometimes,
and say: I don’t deserve you,
as if value is of any importance, and that she
would turn to yóú, sometimes, and say
I don’t deserve yóú; obviously this leads
directly to bankruptcy,
because when two parties agree
not to be worthy of each other, everything
loses value, and yet, as such,
it becomes something of immense worth –
this over-estimation of each other
in a deal of transference
when the one treats the other
with utmost consideration,
in spite of the fact
that they have mutually agreed
not to be deserving
of each other
IV
that she lies sleeping next to you, no,
stated differently: that the sleep spreads
through her while the morning
sniffs like a dog at the door
towards the two of you, no, stated differently:
while the morning idles outside
the window, no, stated differently: the window
as the porthole through which you
look out to sea, the horizon folded out
while she is still sleeping and you, already
awake, no, stated differently:
to look out at the floating light
no, stated differently:
the immensity of silence
while she still
drifts
towards you
without any fear
The falconer
nothing remains to fear
and even this will destroy you, like the funnel
through which the water sucks you
to the bottom and you will
remember
the falcon that loses its grip on the wind
and begins to spiral further and further away
through the seamless banner of blue
while the falconer
remains standing, somewhat embarrassed,
with an empty hand and nothing
to tempt everything
back towards
him
