Nuuswekker

Nuuswekker. Die Jan H. Marais-prys: Nominasies sluit binnekort

Monday, January 16th, 2017

images

Op 30 Mei 2015 het die trustees van Het Marais-fonds, wat ook een van die borge is van Versindaba, bekend gemaak dat hulle ‘n nuwe prys, die Jan H. Marais-prys met ingang 2016 instel. Hierdie prys, wat in vennootskap met Media24 en die Universiteit Stellenbosch aangebied word, het as oogmerk die erkenning van ‘n uitstaande bydrae tot Afrikaans as wetenskapstaal deur wetenskaplike werk en publikasies op hoë vlak en van uitmuntende gehalte in Afrikaans.

Die prysgeld beloop ‘n halfmiljoen rand.

In 2016 is die Jan H. Marais-prys aan prof. Hermann Giliomee toegeken .

Tans word nominasies ingewag vir die toekenning vanjaar. Volgens die Suid-Afrikaanse Akademie vir Wetenskap en Kuns se webtuiste sluit die nominasies op 25 Januarie 2017. Die oorhandiging sal op 30 Mei te Stellenbosch geskied.

Besoek die Akademie se webtuiste vir meer inligting.

Vir jou leesplesier volg ‘n gedig deur die nimlike Ronnie Belcher. Dié gedig het hy tydens in Bekgeveg in toentertydse Dorpstraat Teaterkafee gepleeg.

*

Poësie-aand

 

Sal ek vanaand in Dorpstraat se kafee

my siel ontbloot for everyone to see?

Hier tussen die geskinder en gepraat

my siel ophang soos aan ‘n doringdraad?

Met ander se geroggel en gerook

my sielsgeheim met nikotien bestook?

Hier tussen al die waaiers en die fans

myself beskinder saam met also-rans?

Nee, eerder lieg en skurwe rympies maak

oor snaakse goed wat ander siele raak

soos ghoffels wat kafoefel op ‘n trein

and other dear souls crying in the rain.

Maar smokkel met my siel se brood-en-jêm

voor al dié vreemde wesens? Not-a-dêm!

 

(c) Ronnie Belcher (uit: Van heidebos en klip, Suider-Kollege, 2000)

Nuuswekker. Sluipdigter terroriseer supermark

Thursday, January 12th, 2017

bread-poetryjpg

 

Die winkelbestuurder van  die Tesco Supermark in Coventry (Engeland) sit met ‘n interessante probleem, naamlik ‘n sluipdigter wat gedigte op strategiese plekke in die winkel laat. Meestal met ‘n negatiewe konnotasie ten opsigte van die bepaalde produkte, soos die gedig “Deer” deur Kenneth Rexroth, met die trefreël: “They hurt no one but themselves” by die vleisafdeling gelaat is.

Vantevore is daar glo ook anonieme boodskappe op die rakke vir verslankingsprodukte gelaat wat proklameer: “You don’t need these chemicals” en: “STOP counting calories! YOU LOOK GREAT”.

Volgens die Coventry Telegraph is ‘n grootskaalse soektog van stapel gestuur na die sogenaamde  Supermark Shakespeare in hul midde. Aangesien die winkel in Cannon Park (Coventry) glo na aan die Warwick Universiteit geleë is, bestaan die vermoede dat studente vir die geïnspireerde foefie verantwoordelik is.

Mits dit natuurlik nie die winkelbestuurder self is wat buite die bottel begin dink het nie.

Nietemin, een van die gedigte wat groot opslae in die bakkery veroorsaak het, volg hieronder. Immers het die vigilante goeie smaak.

*

Bread

for Wendell Berry

 

Each face in the street is a slice of bread

wandering on

searching

 

somewhere in the light the true hunger

appears to be passing them by

they clutch

 

have they forgotten the pale caves

they dreamed of hiding in

their own caves

full of the waiting of their footprints

hung with the hollow marks of their groping

full of their sleep and their hiding

 

have they forgotten the ragged tunnels

they dreamed of following in out of the light

to hear step after step

 

the heart of bread

to be sustained by its dark breath

and emerge

 

to find themselves alone

before a wheat field

raising its radiance to the moon

 

© W. S. Merwin

Uit: The Second Four Books of Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 1993)

 

Nuuswekker. Jules Deelder skryf die geskenkbundel vir Poëzieweek 2017

Monday, January 9th, 2017
Jules Deelder

Jules Deelder

Januarie is in Nederland en Vlaandere die maand van die digkuns, want nie net is Poëzieweek 2017 geskeduleer vir die week vanaf Donderdag, 26 Januarie, nie, maar die jaarlikse “geskenkbundel” deur ‘n genomineerde digter is vanaf vandag gratis beskikbaar by alle goeie boekwinkels. Tydens die Poëzieweek word die digkuns op vele (en alle) maniere gevier: van spesiale blootstelling in die media, tot bykans elke dorp of stad of gehuggie wat die een of ander poësieprogram of gebeurtenis aanbied rondom vanjaar se tema: Humor.

En wie beter is daar om vir hierdie geskenkbundel te nomineer, as die enigmatiese Jules Deelder (1944), wanneer humor ter sprake is. Op die amptelike webtuiste van Poëzieweek 2017 word dié keuse soos volg gemotiveer: “Humor en poëzie? Jawel, zegt Jules Deelder, die het Poëziegeschenk 2017 zal schrijven. Met het thema humor in de Poëzieweek 2017 komt er aandacht voor gedichten die op de lachspieren werken, uit hilariteit, herkenbaarheid of uit ironie. Humor is in Deelders poëzie in ieder geval geen curiosum. Deze Nederlandse dichter van een omvangrijk oeuvre staat in binnen- en buitenland bekend om zijn memorabele performances, waarbij de Beat Generation nooit veraf lijkt.”

J.A. (Jules) Deelder is immers bekend as performance poet  en sy loopbaan strek terug tot  1966. Na sy debuut, Gloria Satoria (De Bezige Bij), volg daar vele publikasies, waarvan die meer onlangses die volgende is:  Tussentijds (2008), Ruisch (2011), Het graf van Descartes (2013) en Dag en nacht (2014). Deelder ontvang vir sy oeuvre die Anna Blaman Prijs (1988), die Johnny Van Doorn-prijs vir voordragkuns (1999), en die Tollensprijs (2005).

Vir jou leesplesier volg een van sy gedigte.

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Wonderland

 

Bij het pompstation
bleken acht van de negen
pompen super te leveren
en maar één normaal

Op m’n vraag of het geen
tijd werd de bordjes te ver-
hangen keek de pompbediende
mij niet begrijpend aan

Toen ik later in een
etalage op een bord las
dat men bij aanschaf van
vijf batterijen één

staaflantaarn cadeau gaf
begreep ik dat ik
in de omgekeerde wereld
was beland.

© Jules Deelder
Uit: ‘Interbellum‘ 1987.

 

Nuuswekker. Potgooi oor Paul Celan se “Corona”

Thursday, January 5th, 2017
paul-celan

Foto: Romanian Cultural Institute, London

Die webblad Jacket 2 is sekerlik een van die kuberruim se mees indrukwekkende tuistes vir die digkuns. Nie net is die verskeidenheid van hul aanbod indrukwekkend nie, maar so ook die gehalte van hul plasings. So is een van hul inisiatiewe Poem Talk, ‘n reeks potgooie van gesprekke deur ‘n groep kenners oor ‘n bepaalde gedig. Onlangs is Poem Talk # 107 geplaas en watter fassinerende gesprek is dit nie oor Paul Celan se beroemde gedig “Corona” nie.

Pierre Joris, Anna Strong en Ariel Resnikoff vorm die paneel terwyl Al Filreis as gespreksleier optree.

Wat my van die gesprek opgeval het, is die vraag of “Corona” uitsluitlik as liefdesvers gelees moet word, al dan nie. Vry algemeen word die gedig as liefdesvers beskou en dit was dan ook die mening van Pierre Joris. Sy beskouing baseer hy grootliks op die verhouding wat Celan met Ingeborg Bachman gehad het.

Daar is egter ook ‘n ánder interpretasie moontlik: “Or is it a poem about the dream of finally speaking out the truth, from a casement, to a gathering of the Austrian public, about hate’s annihilating effects?” Anna Strong en Ariel Resnikoff was die ondersteuners van hierdie beskouing.

Jy kan hier na die potgooi luister. Die regisseur daarvan is Zach Carduner.

Hieronder volg die gedig.

pt-celan-anna-strong-ariel-resnikoff-pierre-joris

Anna Strong, Pierre Joris en Ariel Resnikoff

*

Corona

Autumn is eating a leaf from my hand: we are friends.
We are picking time out of a nut, we teach it to run:
and time rushes back to its shell.

In the mirror it’s Sunday.
in dreams people sleep,
the mouth tells the truth.

My eye descends to the sex of my loved one,
we gaze at each other,
we whisper our darkness,
we love one another like poppies and memory,
we sleep like wine in a sea-shell,
like the sea in the moon’s bloody rays.

Embracing we stand in the window, they look up at us from the street:
it is time that they knew!
It is time that the stone grew accustomed to blooming,
that unrest formed a heart.
It is time it was time.

It is time.

 

© Paul Celan

Vertaal deur Jerome Rothenberg, 1959

 

Nuuswekker. Bloeityd vir die Griekse digkuns

Monday, April 11th, 2016

Griekeland

“For never is man so introspective as when he suffers,” het Luigi Pirandello al toendertyd beweer by monde van een van sy karakters in die grensverskuiwende drama Six Characters in Search of an Author. En dieselfde geld die digkuns, want wanneer dinge minder gunstig verloop in ‘n bepaalde land, bloei die digkuns, lyk dit my. Soos dit die geval is tans in Griekeland: “When there is less to go around, people fight, grab, get tough. Lately, Greece and the Balkans have been living with more than their share of less. Hunger, unemployment, slashed pensions and ruined businesses are rife in Athens. Electricity and water shortages reach levels associated with countries at war. More than 27% of Greeks are unemployed.” Aldus Karen van Dyck in The Guardian waar sy skryf oor haar onlangs verskene Austerity Measures: The New Greek Poetry (2016: Penguin).

Volgens haar het hierdie haglike toestand gelei tot ‘n ongekende opbloei in die Griekse digkuns: “Poetry, though, is one thing there is more of. Much more. Poets writing graffiti on walls, poets reading in public squares, theatres and empty lots, poets performing in slams, chanting slogans, and singing songs at rallies, poets blogging and posting on the internet, poets teaming up with artists and musicians, teaching workshops to school children and migrants. In all of the misery and mess, new poetry is everywhere, too large and various a body of writing to fit neatly on either side of any ideological rift. Even with bookshops closing and publishers unsure of paper supplies, poets are getting their poems out there. Established literary magazines are flourishing; small presses and new periodicals abound.”

Dit is ‘n lang, omvattende beskouing. Gaan lees dit gerus op The Guardian se webtuiste, maar by wyse van lusmaker, die volgende: “What most distinguishes the poetry of this new millennium from that which came before is, on the one hand, its diversity – there are no clear-cut schools or factions – and, on the other hand, the cultural conditions that it takes for granted […] The times are an invitation to speak out against dogma, division, and monolingualism – and also, often equally importantly, simply to register the lived experience of Greeks today, the news that stays new when headlines move on to cover other parts of the world.”

Vir jou leesplesier volg ‘n uitreksel uit ‘n gedig deur een van Griekeland se klassieke meesters.

Lekker lees.

LE

 

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Disobedient State

And I, my brothers dream
of a song for our state-
A song that will be like a house for the homeless
that will be like bread for the hungry
like justice for those who have been wronged-
A song like a table that has been spread
where you can set down
the bread and your glass
your fist, your elbows
your foreheads, your hope,
where you can set down
a vase of cold water with five red roses.
A song that will give birth to songs,
joy and trust,
a song that will be the child of our state,
a song that will hold our state under its arm…
A song that will help you
my brothers, to build happiness
a song that will make the world
more just more beautiful more strong
a song that will make the world free.”

 

© Yiannis Ritsos

(Vertaling deur Eva Johanos)

 

Nuuswekker. Pierre Joris – Die digter as jagter en as heler

Thursday, April 7th, 2016

Joris-Barzakh

‘n Interessante bespreking wat ek onlangs op Jacket 2 raakgelees het, is Norman Weinstein se bespreking van Pierre Joris se versamelde gedigte, Barzakh: Poems 2000–2012 (Black Widow Press 2014, 306 pages, $19.95, ISBN 996007924).

Pierre Joris (1946) is ‘n Franse digter, vertaler, bloemleser en essayis. Afgesien van sy eie bundels, is Joris veral bekend vir sy vertalings van Paul Celan se gedigte. (Breathturn into Timestead: The Collected Later Poetry of Paul Celan”, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2015). En, indien dit jou interesseer: ‘n onderhoud wat met Joris gevoer was tydens die verskyning van die Celan-vertalings kan hier gelees word. (Die titel van die onderhoud is “Paul Celan and the Meaning of Language”.)

Nietemin, wat my oog dadelik gevang het, is die treffende aanhaling waarmee Weinstein sy bespreking inlei: ““Nothing truer than fragment” — I’m quoting Robert Kelly — & I love the coupling of “truth” which in our Western culture is always associated with the simple, the whole, the complete with the notion of the fragment, which can only be incomplete, multiple, partial so that the notion of a “true fragment” is de facto oxymoronic” (“Maintenant #94 — Pierre Joris: An interview with Pierre Joris by S. J. Fowler)

Hierdie aanhaling volg Weinstein dan op met ‘n beskouing rondom die digter as “jagter” en dan meer spesifiek gerig op Joris as die “jagter na fragmente”: “What Joris does with fragments, with increasing acuity decade after decade in his poems, is search and sift among fragments with urgent speed and decisiveness — nomad on the run — to shape fragments so they coalesce into culturally vibrant patterns of meaning.” En dit is dan juis in daardie “sifting” en “shaping” van fragmente wat die digter se dualisme as “heler” na vore tree.

Volgens Weinstein dui die titel Barzakh op die volgende: “The Quran twice defines ‘barzakh’ as a barrier separating salt water from fresh, suggesting a liminal zone where a soul after the body’s demise finds quiescence before its final infernal or blissful destination. Joris comprehends the tentative in-between nature of healing and hunting poetry. Senses a force-field between Orion and Chiron in the night sky constellating. And advances in his poems in spite of that precarious tragic focus.

By wyse van illustrasie, ‘n uittreksel uit die langerige gedig An Ali Baa.

Mooi bly.

LE

 

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preamble to an alphabet

 

letters arose

says Abu al-Abbas Ahmed al-Bhuni

letters arose

from the light of the pen

inscribed the Grand Destiny

on the Sacred Table

 

after wandering through the universe

the light transformed

into the letter alif,

source of all the others.

 

another arrangement of letters

into words and words

into stories has it

that Allah created the angels

according to the name & number

of the letters so that they should

glorify him with an infinite

recitation of themselves as arranged

in the words of the Qu’ran.

 

and the letters prostrated themselves

and the first to do so was the alif

for which Allah appointed the alif to be

the first letter of His name & of the

alphabet.

 

© Pierre Joris (Uit: Barzakh: Poems 2000–2012)

 

 

Nuuswekker. David Morley wen die Ted Hughes prys vir nuwe werk

Tuesday, April 5th, 2016

ecologist-david-morley-you-tube

David Morley (foto), is ‘n ekoloog wat ‘n grensverskuiwende studie gedoen het oor die impak van suurreën op die Lake District in Engeland. Maar hy is ook ‘n digter. En so is dit enkele dae gelede bekend gemaak dat sy bundel The Invisible Gift: Selected Poems vanjaar se wenner is van die Ted Hughes-prys vir nuwe werk in die digkuns. Die prys beloop £5,000 en is deur die Britse Poet Laureate,  Carol Ann Duffy, ingestel. Die prysgeld word geneem uit as honorarium as Poet Laureate.

Volgens die Independent se berig, wissel die fokus van Morley se gedigte van die Romeinse geskiedenis en verhale tot politiese allegorie in ‘n gedigte “which evokes the enchantment and truth of the natural world and our place in it.”

Die beoordeelaars het die volgende in hul commendatio te sê gehad: “The Invisible Gift was like opening a box of fireworks; something theatrical happens when you open its pages, and a curtain is raised on a tradition that has been overlooked. In these poems, David Morley switches forms and registers to reveal the versatility of the voices and the liveliness of the Romani culture, arguing for a tradition which has been invisible and silent. Ted Hughes wrote about the natural magical and mythical world; The Invisible Gift is a natural successor.”

Nou ja, toe. Vir jou leesplesier volg een van David Morley se gedigte.

Worlds

It is pleasant as I have done today to stand
… and notice the objects around us

‘There is nothing in books on this’, cries Clare.
‘I do not read, brother’, states Wisdom smiling,
‘for I will not bother with Mystery.
Worlds move underfoot. Where lives Poetry?
Look’, hums Wisdom Smith, ‘in the inner domes
of ghost orchids – how the buzzing rhymers
read light with their tongues; or in this anthill –
nameless draughtsmen crafting low rooms, drawing
no fame – except the ravening yaffle,
or fledgy starlings bathing in their crawl.
I see these worlds – lit worlds. I live by them’.
The wood-ants sting. John Clare shifts foot to foot:
‘I did not know you gave me any thought’.
‘This? All this – is nothing, John’, laughs Wisdom.

 

© David Morley (Uit: The Gypsy and The Poet)

Nuuswekker. Die sterkste versreëls in die Engelse digkuns?

Sunday, April 3rd, 2016

world-poetry-day

Nou ja, kyk. Na ‘n onbetaamlike lang sabbatsverlof wat ons webmeester my gegun het, is dit nou weer tyd om ‘n terugkeer te maak. Uiteraard is daar ‘n hele kruiwavol nuusgebeure rondom die digkuns wat die afgelope maande by ons verby gegaan het, maar een waarop Nuuswekker, by wyse van terugkrabbeling, wel wil fokus is die Independent se inisiatief rondom UNESCO se World Poetry Day wat op 21 Maart 2016 plaasgevind het.

Hulle het naamlik 28 van die sterkste reëls uit die wêreld van Engelse digkuns geplaas. Volgens hul inleidende paragraaf die volgende: “The rhythm of the tongue brings wordless music into the air; it is in poetry that the human essence is refined to such ritualistic purity. It’s in the steady beats, the sonorous rise-and-fall of speech; for a moment it appears as if all the mysteries of the world have unlocked themselves to our private view …. In honour of these celebrations, here stands a small collection of singular lines, stanzas, and notions possessing of a power which springs the most moving of thoughts and feelings off of the page and into the humming imagination of its readers.”

Hieronder volg hul keuses. Maar hoe sal die Afrikaanse ekwivalent hiervan uitsien? Plaas gerus jou gunsteling versreëls by wyse van kommentaar.

Because I could not stop for Death, / He kindly stopped for me; / The carriage held but just ourselves / And Immortality
‘Because I could not stop for Death’, Emily Dickinson

And when wind and winter harden / All the loveless land, / It will whisper of the garden, / You will understand
‘To My Wife’, Oscar Wilde

But the dark pines of your mind dip deeper / And you are sinking, sinking, sleeper / In an elementary world; There is something down there and you want it told 
‘Dark Pines Under Water’, Gwendolyn MacEwen

This is the way the world ends / not with a bang but a whimper
‘The Hollow Men’, T.S Eliot

Out of the ash I rise / With my red hair / And I eat men like air
‘Lady Lazarus’, Sylvia Plath

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, / Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, / Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs / And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
‘Dulce et Decorum est’, Wilfred Owen

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved / in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
‘Sonnet XVII’, Neruda

I would like to be the air / that inhabits you for a moment / only. I would like to be that unnoticed / & that necessary
‘Variation on the Word Sleep’, Margaret Atwood

they speak whatever’s on their mind / they do whatever’s in their pants / the boys i mean are not refined / they shake the mountains when they dance
‘the boys i mean are not refined’, E. E. Cummings

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; / The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won
‘O Captain! My Captain!’, Walt Whitman

Don’t like the / fact that he learned to hide from the cops before he knew / how to read. Angrier that his survival depends more on his ability / to deal with the “authorities” than it does his own literacy
‘Cuz He’s Black’, Javon Johnson

The weight of the world / is love / Under the burden / of solitude, / under the burden / of dissatisfaction / the weight, / the weight we carry / is love
‘Song’, Allen Ginsberg

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill/ Of things unknown but longed for still/ And his tune is heard on the distant hill/ For the caged bird sings of freedom
‘I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings’, Maya Angelou

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere / The ceremony of innocence is drowned; / The best lack all conviction, while the worst  / Are full of passionate intensity ‘
The Second Coming’, William Butler Yeats

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave / Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; / Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. / I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned
‘Dirge Without Music’, Edna St. Vincent Millay

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love / If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles
‘Leaves of Grass’, Walt Whitman

How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot! / The world forgetting, by the world forgot. / Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! / Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d
‘Eloisa to Abelard’, Alexander Pope

Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, / Or bends with the remover to remove: / O no; it is an ever-fixed mark, / That looks on tempests, and is never shake
‘Sonnet 116’, William Shakespeare

Tree you are, / Moss you are, / You are violets with wind above them. / A child – so high – you are, / And all this is folly to the world
‘A Girl’, Ezra Pound

You may write me down in history / With your bitter, twisted lies, / You may trod me in the very dirt / But still, like dust, I’ll rise
‘Still I Rise’, Maya Angelou

you are much more than simply dead/  I am a dish for your ashes / I am a fist for your vanished air / the most terrible thing about life/ is finding it gone
‘The Unblinking Grief’, Charles Bukowski

At twenty I tried to die / And get back, back, back to you. / I thought even the bones would do./ But they pulled me out of the sack, / And they stuck me together with glue
‘Daddy’, Sylvia Plath

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, / dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix / angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night
‘Howl’, Allan Ginsberg

She had blue skin,/ and so did he./ He kept it hid/ and so did she./ They looked for blue/ their whole life through./ Then passed right by–/ and never knew
‘Masks’, Shel Silverstein

Do not go gentle into that good night, / Old age should burn and rave at close of day; / Rage, rage against the dying of the light
‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night’, Dylan Thomas

Water, water, every where, / And all the boards did shrink; / Water, water, every where / Nor any drop to drink
‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’, Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart / I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars / I am the red man driven from the land, / I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek – / And finding only the same old stupid plan / Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak
‘Let America Be America Again’, Langston Hughes

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye / Who cheer when soldier lads march by, / Sneak home and pray you’ll never know / The hell where youth and laughter go
‘Suicide in the Trenches’, Siegfried Sassoon

 

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