Posts Tagged ‘Helize van Vuuren’

/xam. vertaling in afrikaans

Wednesday, October 31st, 2018

/Xam-vertalings – deur Helize van Vuuren (na brokstukke by voorbeeldsinne uit DF Bleek se A Bushman Dictionary, 1956)

 

vuur-taal

(ter gedagtenis, Sydney Clouts)

 

vuur-wurm

vuur-vlieg

 

taren-taal

 

*

 

/i tata

 

/i kuko

/i /ka/ka

 

//kannatata

 

*

 

vraag

 

‘n tou gevleg

‘n strik gespan,

mense vra:

“en wát vir ‘n tou

het jul hier gebruik nóú?”

 

*

 

tutu

 

z //kana /kwi,

a //kau,

!k’e kukúiten /k”e:

“!hau: tixa a:,

u/ki ?kija a: a?”

 

*

 

bidsprinkaan

 

springbokke was ons eens,

ons wat Boesmans is,

tot die bidsprinkaan

ons

skiet

 

*

 

/kaggen

 

si e /xam-ka !k’e

si ha oa e: whai:,

he kakka ha /ne /xi

si

/kaggen

 

*

 

om te lek

 

leeu lek

sy

leeutrane

 

*

 

/kai: ‘i

 

//kha: n /kai: ‘i

ha tsaxaxáiten-ta

!khweten

 

*

 

wolk

 

ons raak weg in ‘n wolk,

ons bloed rook,

want dit voel soos mis

dít waarin mense

na ons skiet

 

*

 

/kwa: gen

 

i ta /kwa:gen

i !gau:gen /ne !khu:!khu:,

o hin ta: //ka ti e:,

//ko:e /ki a /ne !khu:

 

*

 

om te kry

 

sterwend van honger

staan die kinders voor my

jy wil my nie optrek

sodat die kinders kos kan kry

van my

 

*

 

/na

 

!kauken do a /a: !kheja ke,

a:, o //kan, o aken k’’auki do a ka á

/ki //kai:ten //e n

 

!kauken se /na:

ke ha

 

 

***

George Seferis. Vertaling in Afrikaans

Sunday, May 20th, 2018

George Seferis – vertaling deur Helize van Vuuren

*

 

Ons son

            

Die son was myne en joune; ons het dit gedeel.

Wie ly agter die goue sy, wie gaan dood?

Slanend op haar droë bors, het ‘n vrou uitgeroep: ‘Lafaards,

hulle het my kinders gevat en flenters geskeur, jul het hul

doodgemaak

turend na vuurvliegies in die skemer met ‘n snaakse blik,

verlore in blinde gedagtes.’

Die bloed was aan’t verdroë op ‘n hand vergroen deur ‘n boom,

‘n vegter aan’t slaap, vasklouend die lans wat lig gewerp het

teen sy sy.

 

Dit was ons s’n, die son, ons het niks gesien agter die goue

borduursel

toe het die boodskappers gekom, vuil en uitasem,

stotterend aan onverstaanbare woorde

twintig dae en nagte op die barre grond slegs met dorings

twintig dae en nagte met die buike van die perde

aan’t bloei

en nie ’n oomblik se rus vir reënwater drink.

‘Rus eers en praat dan’ het jy gesê, deur die lig

verblind.

Hulle het gesterf, prewelend ‘Daar is geen tyd’, rakend aan enkele strale

van die son.

Jy’t vergeet dat niemand rus.

 

‘n Vrou het geskreeu ‘Lafaards’, soos ‘n hond in die nag.

Eens moes sy mooi gewees het soos jy

met ‘n nat mond, are polsend onder die vel,

van liefde.

***

Die son was ons s’n; julle het alles gehou, jy wou

my nie volg.

En dit was toe dat ek uitgevind het van die dinge agter

die goud en die sy:

ons het geen tyd. Die boodskappers was reg.

 

.

George Seferis – uit Logbook I, 1940.  [vert. Helize van Vuuren, Mei 2018]

             ______

 

Hier eindig die werke van die see, die werke van liefde.

Hulle wat eendag hier sal lewe waar ons eindig –

as die bloed sou verdonker in hul geheue en

oorloop –

laat hul ons nie vergeet nie, die swak siele daar tussen die affodille,

laat hul die slagoffers se koppe draai na Erebus:

 

Ons wat niks had sal hul leer van kalmte.

 

Desember 1933-Desember 1934

George Seferis – uit Mythistorema, 1935 [vert. Helize van Vuuren, Mei                                                                                                                   2018]

_____________________________________________

 

Helize van Vuuren. Die atoombom, sensuur en ’n geheime publikasie.

Friday, August 5th, 2016

Monument_of_the_A-bombed_Teachers_and_Students_of_National_Elementary_Schools

Monument vir die gebombardeerde nasionale skole
in Hiroshima.

 

Shinoe Shoda se versameling tradisionele tanka-verse, geskryf om die gruwels van die 1945 atoombombardering van Hiroshima te herdenk, en in die geheim gepubliseer tydens die Geallieerde Besetting, is ontdek in ‘n tempel in die Hirosjima-omgewing. So is vandag berig in The Japan News, van Woensdag 3 Augustus 2016 (bladsy 2).

n-poetry-a-20160730

Die versameling, Sange, ‘n Boeddhistiese term wat “jammerte, belydenis, boetedoening” beteken, is op 26 Julie geskenk aan die Hirosjima Vredesherdenkings museum. Vantevore was slegs een kopie van die bloemlesing, “’n kosbare en rare geskrewe stuk”, bekend. Shoda het die atoombombardering in haar huis ervaar, slegs 1.7 kilometer vanaf “grond zero”. Die bloemlesing bevat 100 tanka-verse wat grafiese beskrywings bied van wat sy self ervaar het of gehoor het van ander hibakusha atoombom oorlewendes. Een tanka lees:

 

die swaar beendere

moet die onderwyser wees

en daarnaas

klein skedeltjies

vergader

 

In 1947, die jaar toe die versameling gepubliseer is, was Japan beset deur Amerikaans-begeleide Geallieerde Magte. Ernstige beperkings is geplaas op publikasie en beriggewing oor die atoombombarderings van Hirosjima en Nagasaki, volgens Hirosjima-stadsbeheerders.

 

Ander tankas:

 

Tanka (I)

 

In madness

a woman cries

“I left my child in the flames.

Now all I have

is my own life.”

 

Tanka (II)

 

I wonder

if there is an operation

that removes memories.

Where is a cure

for my pain-filled heart?

 

_______________________________________

 

Shinoe Shoda (正田篠 Shoda Shinoe, december 1910 – 15 juni 1965) was een Japanse dichter en schrijver bekend om haar atoombom literatuur.

Shoda werd geboren in Etajima in Hiroshima in 1910.  Rond 1920 verhuisde haar familie naar Ujina, net buiten Hiroshima, en in 1925 schreef ze zich in bij een Jōdo Shinshū middelbare school voor meisjes, waar zij afstuderen in 1929.

In de late jaren 1920 begon ze met het publiceren van poëzie in Koran, een maandelijks literair tijdschrift.

Shoda trouwde met ingenieur Takamoto Suematsu en ze hadden een zoon, Shin’ichirō.  In 1940 overleed haar man en in 1945 werd haar ouderlijk huis verwoest, waardoor de familie zich verplaatsen na de stad Hiroshima.  Op 6 augustus 1945 werd de stad verwoest door de atoombom aanval. Shoda was thuis op dat moment, slechts twee kilometer van ground zero. In februari van het volgende jaar is haar vader overleden aan darmkanker en later viel haar zoon ook ziek.

Naar aanleiding van de Japanse overgave, begonnen Shoda met het schrijven van traditionele tanka gedichten op het thema van de atoombom.  Ze had moeite met het publiceren, zowel vanwege het onderwerp en vanwege haar relatieve gebrek aan ervaring.  In 1946 slaagde ze in het publiceren van 39 van haar gedichten in het Shida tijdschrift Fuschichō. In 1947, om censuur te ontwijk, heeft ze Sange (“berouw” of “Repentance” in het geheim gepubliceerd), een tanka bloemlezing. 150 exemplaren van het boek waren gestencild door een klerk in de gevangenis van Hiroshima en door Shoda persoonlijk uitgedeeld aan de slachtoffers van de ontploffing.

Ze publiceerde weinig na Sange tot in de jaren 1960, toen zij in 1962  haar autobiografie, Een oorsuizen, publiceerde.  Kort na de publicatie werd ze ziek met borstkanker en haar gezondheid ging snel achteruit.  Zij overleed op 15 juni 1965, het jaar vóór de publicatie van haar tweede tanka collectie, Sarusuberi ( “krip mirte”), in 1966. “Reiko” samen met “Chanchako Bachan” (“Oude vrouw in chanchako, of een gewatteerde mouwloze jas”), werd postuum gepubliceerd in Dokyumento Nihonjin (“Document van de Japanse ‘) in 1969. Pikakko-chan bevat zeven verhalen, met inbegrip van “Reiko” en “Chanchako Bachan”.

Een van haar gedichten uit Sange verschijnt op het Monument van de A-gebombardeerde docenten en studenten van de Nationale Basisscholen in Hiroshima.

Referenties

–         John Whittier Treat (1996). Writing Ground Zero: Japanese Literature and the Atomic Bomb. University of Chicago Press. pp. 189–197.

–         Kenzaburo Oe; Kenzaburō Ōe; David L. Swain; Toshi Yonezawa (1996). Hiroshima Notes. Grove Press. p. 165.

–         Masamoto Nasu (1991). Children of the Paper Crane. M.E. Sharpe. p. 98.

–         “Social Damages”. AtomicBombMuseum.org. 2006.

–         Kaushik, Devendra (1970). Under the Mushroom Cloud of Death. Rachna Publishers. p. 17.

–         Roach Pierson, Ruth (1987). Women and peace: theoretical, historical, and practical perspectives. Croom Helm. p. 227.

(Nederlandse vertaling van https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shinoe_Shōda)

Helize van Vuuren

 

Breyten Breytenbach – vertaling in Engels

Friday, November 21st, 2014

 Breyten Breytenbach – vertaal deur die outeur (en ander) /translated by the author (and others)

 

 

poem

take me through a zone of snow
farmlands with bales of hay in summertime
where birds eat the patches of words
then swarm to rhythms in motion
towards clearness, towards some clearness

take me back over the courses of a life
where loved ones lie with decayed faces
in cribs of dust
show me the purpose of the tortoise tracks in the sand
let me see the stars another final
first time blessing the earth
with clearness, with thirsty clearness

let me grasp how the wind hangs out
flags and joys for the fluttering
in the tremor of tree tops
let me hear the child cry
the boy’s laugh on his way to school
the lament of the hailer of darkness at night
for clearness, for the dream of clearness

let me stretch this body for a while yet
over the folds and the sighs of a woman
let the quivering of the spinal column be a flame
it’s all right that dark like day against the window glass
sheds the recalled in seed of forgetting
and that love and grief were mentioned
for the sake of clearness, for the sake of the silent song of clearness

take me to the highest mountain
let me carry stones in my trouser pockets
fit the wings of plastic across my shoulders
that I might soar where everything blue crackles
and only the empty level sea-mirror glitters
of clearness, of the blinding quality of clearness

lower me into the deepest well
where walls are damp from the searching of hands
for the moon that like a thought
is bobbing faceless in the deep’s dark
string the flow of words like a rope around my neck
and let me hang from the raw intertwinement of clearness

but let me sit squatting in silence
let it all come and go
let me forget and be absorbed in coming and passing away
let me hear the heart swobbling in the void
as it is a journey, a space of breath
of clearness, oh the clearness

 

(©Tr. by Waldemar Gouws / 2015 of the unpublished poem “gedig” of Breyten Breytenbach)

 

*

 

(n)oneness

“Move on!”[1] : Breyten Breytenbach

 

You will see, dear reader (have seen and read)

that for long I’ve been trying to turn so many seasons and years and cycles

into poetry

to set up a description or experience

(to kiss and to bless)

that could have been on a par with this world

 

O, not of the same kind – for inherently

something else subject to processes peculiar

to the nature of that other foot rule – writing –

and even less as gloss or fleeciness to cover that

(the fish of a different flesh)

which begs description

 

However, then rather a membrane to convey

the throbbing faithfully: to live

is really very much like living

en route to degeneration, obscuration, substitution, oblivion

 

So: not to pass off words

on whatever vibrates within or outside around you,

also not as addition to the all-around

which is without early or late or any jointing,

what is is not

 

But to learn to move. To tremble

at first light. To know (clarify)

nothing explains the bird’s piping

because it is already completely clear.

To help prevent that the again and again

not merely constitutes the multiplication of folly:

 

Disintegration really happens to be the only defence

against mortality.

 

And then to sift through the words every night

for the sake of the overriding knowledge that everything

is nonpresence

and to know you are living alongside your own

survival like a spot of shadow in the dark

 

All journeys have a beginning: even though

the final one has no end

 

Until the squall arrives or the sun splits

and you, stripped of all appearance and being, realize

it was of no avail,

the writing a fluttering

of which broken-winged birds dream,

no hem on the seamless garment

of what was lived through,

my writing that couldn’t even stir a leaf

or make a lizard sing

 

O reader – now isn’t it liberating

to could have lived for nothing

in the never-ending silent moving?

 

(c) Tr. by Waldemar Gouws / 2015 of the unpublished poem “(n)oneness” by Breyten Breytenbach

 

*

in the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince

going down on the left side

thus the Luxembourg Gardens side

where nightly little twigs are burnt by the sun

to nestle scrochingly in the trees

and this bridescake of the Odeon Theatre

that used to be a honey house of freedom

so long ago already in May sixty-eight

 

in the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince

is the restaurant where we precisely

at nine o’clock and not a day later

will meet

you will recognize me because I shall

again have a beard

even if of cheap silver

or a tree of burnt-out twigs

and the Algerian boss-cum-chef

with the mustache in the nest of red cheeks

will put his arm full of bees around my shoulder

to say

alors, mon frére – ca fait bien long temps…

 

will we order couscous mouton for two –

I can already taste the crumbly snow-yellow grains

and the bit of butter – ?

and a flask of very dark Sidi Brahim

with the taste of the sun and the sea

of the Maghreb’s vineyards?

 

what do you say to a thé à la menthe

measured in glowing glasses with little flowers

and some of that sweet stuff

which is heavy and light of honey?

 

listen how the same wind

calls through Paris’s old-old streets

 

you are my darling and I am so glad

 

(my seventy six)

 

Breyten Breytenbach (from/uit Die ongedanste dans, 2005:100-101. Lewendood, 1985; vertaling/translation Helize van Vuuren)


Breyten Breytenbach

Breyten Breytenbach is a distinguished poet, painter, novelist, playwriter, essayist and human rights activist. He is considered one of the greatest living poets in Afrikaans.  His literary work has been translated into many languages and he has been honoured with numerous literary and art awards.  Having exhibited worldwide he is also a recognized painter, portraying surreal human and animal imagery.  He was born on 16 September 1939 in Bonnievale and studied art at the Michaelis Art School in Cape Town.  In 1960 he left South Africa and went to Paris where he married Yolande Ngo Thi Hoang Lien (Yellow Lotus), a French woman of Vietnamese origin.  But he could not return to South Africa because of the Mixed Marriages Act, which classified Yolande as Coloured.  A committed opponent of apartheid in South Africa, Breytenbach established the resistance group Okela, and from 1975-1982 he was a political prisoner in South African prisons serving two terms of solitary confinement.  Both his paintings and his literary work include the notions of nomadism, values of the outsider, incarceration, death and decay, pain, movement, social criticism, memory, identity and consciousness.  Breytenbach made his debut with a collection of innovative poems in 1964 with the publication of Die ysterkoei moet sweet.  In his latest collection of poetry he engaged in a nomadic conversation with his friend, the late Palestine poet, Mahmoud Darwish.  He received the Protea Prize, Mahmoud Darwish Prize and for the French translation of Oorblyfsels/ Voice over, the Max Jacob Prize. His latest volume of poetry, forty five twilight songs, appeared with Human & Rousseau in 2014.

 

 

the opening poem

(“in the beginning there is love”)

 

to her with the tiny feet like tamed pigeons

to her whose warm breath will be strung from your mouth

as the bunting of a pleasure cruiser

to her with the mother-spot a morning star

burning next to the scar under the breast

to her for whom the crest is a barely discernible sigh

to her with the black buttocks but purple flames

in the small of the back

to her who is the consort of a king enjoying you from up high

to her who is fresh snow between the sheets

to her with the slanted eyes and the bashful nether mouth

to her who laughs at your puny haft

to her who spits in your face in a foreign tongue

to her with the long grey memory and the wrinkles

the dim sight and the initiate’s know-how

to her who chases you away like a dog

to her who gurgles when stiffening in a jerk

like a body hanged from the rope of pleasure and pain

to her who takes all the Holy Names in vain

to her with the frog between the legs

to her with the pudendum like a green guitar

swollen and smooth

never yet plucked by a singing finger

to her who thought you had wings

to her with the pitch dark mouth and the powdered tits

to her who takes you for a dead lover

to her with the erotic hands

to her who killed herself

to her who murdered you

to her whose belly is a banked fire

to her who quite still turns her head away

so that you might not taste the tears

to her with the dorsal vertebrae like a ladder of notes

praying through the fingers

to her who relishes humble pie

to her who whispers unbelievable unlawfulnesses

in your ear at first

only to spout a sudden inkwell

to her with the brown body like a master violin

to her who talks to darkness

to her who like a snake

will let all of you slither down a smooth throat

to her who has forgotten you

to her who has never heard of you

to her for whom you write dedications like nuptial dances

 

to her, for all of her

this poem

 

(From: Lady one:Of love and Other Poems, Harcourt, 2002)

(Tr. by the author)

 

 

the way back

 

then Wordfool told the woman and the child

come let us squat on our haunches

here against the climb

and look down on the smoking city

to take stock-

we remain tied to the road

as the place of origin

even though we’ve forgotten the people’s names

 

then Wordfool told the woman and the child

we are free

I know it is hard

and once every year it is good

to turn around

and look back

on the journeys and the state of the dead

 

once every year

the season goes dark

and the time is right

and ripe to bring the pumpkin

a celestial fruit of eternal life

to market

 

come let us sing

 

how shall we preserve the flesh?

in crypts mummies nod their heads

heavy with the travels of decay

moths and blight darken their coats with holes

 

how shall we exorcise distance?

we stuff the trips and the tides

with desert honey and locust meat

and forgotten remembrances of the Old Country-

that a good fragrance may come from the hills

and keep book in the dust

 

then Wordfool told the woman and the child

let’s imagine ourselves as scouts

gather wood and light the fire

to signal to the dwellers

of the dead city

that we wish to entice the moon

from her dark hollows

to reconcile with the pumpkin

 

moreover Wordfool told the woman and the child

forgive me please

one makes poems also from sticks and seeds

to capture the soft words

one is always looking for measure and rhyme

and then the combustion of incarnation

you mustn’t tell anybody

 

(From: Windcatcher: New & Selected Poems, 1964-2006, Harcourt, 2007)

(Tr. by the author)

 

 

for Michael Fried: Paris, December 21, 2004

 

we live in dark times

birds of heaven are poisoned

we roam through brightly lit halls

stare myopically at exhibitions

of grey imaginaries, encyclopaedias of passing

meticulously annotated absences of sense

 

the emptier the contents the more painfully

perfection and the perfidy of looking will flow

as the world completes itself through us

and we see corpse camps, genocide, man

abjuring his skein of belonging

in a desperate wing-beat to be

 

free of death

the birds of heaven are poisoned

and we live in dark times

 

and somewhere on fetid waters of holy rivers

burning effigies of dark-faced goddesses bob

they’ve long since stopped singing to us

 

in closet spaces we stare myopically

at the skinned life of the writer

naked like a soft dragon on the floor

to kiss a black tongue to the shoe

of his cruel beloved

the spine a curve of cursed words

and we see death camps, genocide, troughs

stuffed with corpses, man

jeering at his rope of legitimacy

in a thrashing wing-thrust

to be free of passing

has long since stopped singing to us

 

“finally, when I shave my sombre morning face

I have the impression of shaving

my cadaver before it is put on its bier

and let to water

in the putrid river of oblivion”

 

from the void comes incarnation

comes dark wind

will the wind be a wound

and signal the blind child

 

in twilit cellar chambers

we eat salad and lard and bread

suddenly recall the stories of illicit ancestors

how clumsily our mouths fold around deceased tongues

to elicit murmurs of forgetting

man relinquishes the illumination

of ever again being mad and clear

 

and out there the clear city rises

magnificent ruin of man’s monstrous imagination

where much love was committed

and murders often done by knife

while the writer sang

of incandescent rivers where goddesses bathe

the water dragon naked and blind

 

to the left a high moon slips

as petrified subconsciousness

chafed pale by dust of space and time

 

tomorrow paper snow will litter and letter

the roof-map and the nest of streets

and from gutters icy drops will drip

on dark faces of shivering wanderers

 

(From: Windcatcher: New & Selected Poems, 1964-2006, Harcourt, 2007)

(Tr. by the author)

 

 

midmorning in heaven

 

midmorning in heaven above West Hill

with moon a perforated dipper

of light       dredged from time

bone-bleached by gospel tides

of verbs become verbiage

to stool in stone the size of a dream

 

which only goes to show

that since the outset of stellar configurations

there’s been a door to life in the dark out there

 

oh watchmen, you lying low in the lee of your blindness

to leer at the light in our salt

and the shimmering of rose roosting our wounds:

if you were to gaze on the gazetted faces of the dead

you’d remember gossamer mothers in gas chambers

and know: this is not the way

to recover your identity

 

you standing in the doorways of our demure dwellings:

come inside from the blind binding out there

come darken our thresholds

come rest your whitened eyes

so that we may know ourselves

as people just like you

 

come, come drink Arabic coffee with us

and you will see us weep

and fit into coffins just like you do

 

(From: Voice Over: A Nomadic Conversation with Mahmoud Darwish, Archipelago Books, 2009)

(Tr. by the author)

 

 

measures

 

you can’t let a drunken man hold a pen

he will try to tack and sail against history

you can’t let a drunken man leave the house

before dawn

when streetlights are still green

he will go to the quay to bellow at the wind

you can’t ask a drunken man to think straight

he will tell you all about rodents in Siberia

you can’t let a drunken man walk through town

where women have long and sly eyes

he will stumble over his words and his feet

and go piss behind the laurel bush in the park

with a shiver down his spine

truly, you can’t ask a drunken man what about a poem

he will pull faces by the window at passers-by

and pretend he’s looking to rhyme with fold

you can’t believe a drunken man

when he says he has flown

even if he’s covered in bumps and bruises

and though a dirty pair of underpants

be slapping from the flagpole on city hall

you cannot ask a drunken man after the whereabouts of God

he will intimate that his underpants have been stolen

you can’t allow a drunken man to work on the roof

he will tell you he knows the ins and outs of the sound of singing

while in his naked skin listening to the greediest secrets

whispered in chimney flues

you can’t question him at all about love

for as drunken suitor he will stumble

when he offers you his heart as bag of rotten tomatoes

while his mouth is still red

you can’t expect a drunken man

to snitch on dead friends

he has a knife with a white blade in the pocket

you can’t inquire of a drunken man

if he ever thinks of death

he splutters too much when he curses and laughs

verily, I say to you

you can’t have a drunken man

cry on paper

it becomes a shitting of flies

with tears and snot

      and old wine stains

here

 

(Uncollected)

(Tr. by the author)

 

***

Other:

Breyten Breytenbach – translated by Tony Ullyatt

 

26 November 1975

May trees remain ever green
and all the stars white,
and may there always be people
who without shyness can look
each other in the eye –
because life is only one breath long
and all the stars of the Nether Regions dark –

 

I shall die and go to my father

I shall die and go to my father
in Wellington with long legs
shining in the light
where the rooms are dark and heavy
where stars sit on the roof’s ridge
and angels dig for worms in the garden
I shall die and with little baggage
hit the road
over the Wellington mountains
between the trees and the dusk
and go to my father;

The sun will beat on the earth
the wind’s waves cause the joints to creak
we hear the tenants’
abrasive shuffle above our head
we will play draughts on the back stoop
– old father cheating –
and over the radio
listen to the night’s news.

Friends, dying’s cohorts,
do not hesitate; now life hangs
still like flesh on our bodies
but death does not disappoint
we come and we go
are like water out the tap so
like sounds from the mouth
as we come and we go
our bones will know freedom –
Come with me
in my death in me go to my father
to Wellington where the angels
angle with worms for stars from heaven
let us die and perish and be cheerful:
my father has a huge boarding house.

 

[Untitled]

and the poem is the meaning
of the poem

 

(Tr. by Tony Ullyatt)

Verslag. Joan Hambidge oor vanjaar se DJ Opperman-gedenklesing

Sunday, September 29th, 2013

(Op die foto verskyn van links na regs: Ingrid Winterbach, Joan Hambidge, Ronel de Goede,

Louise Viljoen, Helize van Vuuren en Marlene Van Niekerk. Foto geneem deur: Mariheca Otto)

*

Donderdagaand, 26 September, het Helize van Vuuren die DJ Opperman-gedenklesing gelewer.  Dit was ‘n inspirerende lesing oor die betekenis van laatwerk en Van Vuuren, ‘n ingeligte en  deurwinterde literator,  het Opperman se “Vuurbees” op ‘n briljante en sinryke wyse ontleed. Van Vuuren het deur die jare veral bekendheid verwerf vir haar speurtogte: verwysings in Tristia, onder meer. 

‘n Paar punte:

Van Vuuren het belangrike aspekte van Celan se ondeurdringbare verse vir die leser “oopgemaak”. Sy het Lacoue-Labarthe en Szondi gebruik om die komplekse leesproses te verduidelik. Sy betrek Said se On late style, Adorno en Clark om laatwerk te verduidelik en Komas uit ‘n bamboesstok vir die toehoorder op ‘n ander manier te bekyk.

By Opperman is die laatwerk egter nie pessimisties nie – hier beweeg hy weg van die pessimisme wat “laatwerk” kenmerk. Daar is egter in Dolosse egter sprake van die katabasis of afbeweeg in die hel. Op ‘n briljante wyse analiseer sy die Hertzog-prys-debakel toe Tristia bó Dolosse bekroon is en die opmerkings van Lindenberg oor lg. Hoe belaglik blyk dit na al die jare om hierdie twee tekste teen mekaar af te speel.

Sy verwys ook na Picasso en die motief van Pompeï en Dionisiese orgies, die teruggaan na neolitiese kunsvorme en die reis deur miljoene jare se geskiedenis van die mensdom  in Opperman se Dolosse.

Ons sien ook ‘n video van Lascaux en Altamira om die grottonele te verduidelik – Van Vuuren op haar beste! Speurder Van Vuuren ontdek in die dokumente-sentrum ‘n artikel wat DJ Opperman gelees het: Loren Eisely wat die “Vuurbees” op ‘n ander manier ontsluit. Ook Jacques Perk se gedigtesiklus oor die grotte van Han betrek sy – ‘n reeks waarvan DJO beslis kennis geneem het. Die gesprek met Blum en natuurlik,  Wilma Stockenström word eweneens onder die loep geneem:

 

Wat ek met berge gemeen het

 

Grot is ek: bewaarder van geslagte

se skreeuende gebeentes en hopies klip.

Grot ek: die berghaan se klankversterker.

Die berghaan draal. Hy sleep skalks

sy klein stompstertskadu deur my,

en met die skaduprent op my tong

 

stamel ek my ganse leegheid.

 

(Uit: (Monsterverse, 1984:32

 

Opperman het inderdaad die grotte van Han besoek. Die Laatfase by Opperman staan egter in die teken van anabasis – ‘n positiewe proses.

Ook het Van Vuuren kommentaar gelewer – n.a.v. ‘n besoek aan die ICLA-kongres aan die Sorbonne – oor die impak van BDE of byna-dood-ervarings.

 *

Die opkoms was uitstekend en met vraetyd het die misverstane debat oor Opperman en die filosofie opnuut aan die orde gekom: Opperman – het ekself en Lina Spies beklemtoon – was nie teen die filosofie nie. Hy het egter as mentor jong studente aangeraai om met hul sintuie te werk: sintuie is werktuie. Gaan lees Kannemeyer se biografie gerus vir die bewys as jy nie die voorreg had om dit in die laboratorium te hoor nie!

Opperman het immers oor etlike filosofiese onderwerpe gedig.

Dit is goed om ‘n uitstekende literator en akademikus aan te hoor by ‘n gesogte lesing.

 

Joan Hambidge / 29.09.2013

 

 

 

Huldeblyke. Barend J. Toerien

Thursday, September 10th, 2009

Barend J Toerien (24.03.21-04.09.09)

Barend J Toerien (24.03.21-04.09.09)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ter ere van die ontslape digter is die volgende huldeblyk ontvang.

HENNIE AUCAMP

Wat ek die duidelikste omtrent Barend Toerien onthou, is sy pragtige oë, die blouste blou denkbaar; seemens-oë.  Ek is bly Breyten het dit ook opgelet; sienersoë is nie volop nie.

En wat hierdie oë nie alles aanskou het nie.  Groot toneelopvoerings en musiekuitvoerings in New York, landskappe die wêreld oor, maar veral die Portervillese veldblommeprag.  Ná ‘n verblyf in die vreemde haal Barend sy hart op aan die veldblomme van die Kaapse blomverkopers, en probeer die volksname vir al dié blomme uitvind.  “Wat noem julle dié een?” vra hy, en beduie na ‘n wit watsonia.  “O”, sê die blomverkoopster rats, “dié een noem ons white sonia, maar daar is ook pienk sonias.”  Barend het dié grappie graag vertel, en dan geëindig met:  “Natuurlik ‘n nooienspypie, maar dit het ek eers later uitgevind.”

Van Barend Toerien se mooiste verse is jeug-evokasies.  Hy dig oor die dinge op Onder-Steenwerp se werf, en ook oor die mense en gebruike van sy kindertyd.  Maar as wêreldburger het hy ‘n wye enigmatiese register gehad.  Hy het byvoorbeeld oor Olie Frank, die vader van Anne Frank, gedig, lank voordat die media die Franks opgeëis het.  Hy het ‘n verruklike gedig oor berkebome geskryf, en hulde aan sy eie voël gebring, maar met so ‘n vanselfsprekenheid dat niemand aanstoot daaraan kon neem nie.

Dis Louise Viljoen wat Barend Toerien vir die poësieleser herwin het, met haar keur uit sy verse, Om te onthou.  Volgens my behoort Barend Toerien by die ewige seuns in die Afrikaanse letterkunde:  By Leipoldt, Boerneef en Uys Krige, digters wat nooit hul aard en aarde verloën het nie.

Barend Toerien was moedswillig, kwaslerig, maar end-uit voluit mens.  En dit kan nie van alle mense gesê word nie.

 

Gaan lees ook toepaslike huldeblyke by die volgende skakels:

 

Willem de Vries (Die Burger, 04/09/09)

Herman Lategan (LitNet, 07/09/09)

Herman Toerien (Die Beeld, 07/09/09)

Helize van Vuuren (Die Burger, 09/09/09)

Helize van Vuuren (LitNet, 10/09/09)