Wilhelm Knobel – vertaal deur Tony Ullyatt
carry it carefully over the stony road
he’ll shift in the coffin just now
and try to sit upright with his crushed-in chest
it must be stifling to lie so still
without being able to breathe
and all that earth above you perhaps
only when it’s night
can he leave his quiet resting-place
and amble over the land
and allow his eye to go over the cattle
but before daybreak begins to glow over the yard
and the first sparrows begin chirping in the orchard
he must return
and assume the prescribed position
stately
stretched out
with his hands crossed over his chest
and only a grass seed on his pajama leg
as witness to his nocturnal wandering
Wilhelm Knobel (26.10.1935-06.01.1974)
Six translations for the 36th anniversary of his death
Interior
a small swallow flies around the room
the woman in the black frock sits at the machine and works
now that he is dead the house is still
the flowers on the grave have long since wilted
day by day visitors become fewer
the small swallow flies round the room desperately
the woman in the black frock feeds material feverishly to the needle
just now she can drink a pill with her tea
but the day is so long
in the quiet house
the cherry tree in front of the window is almost stripped bare
by weaver birds:
one day soon it will be autumn
the telephone rings and rings
the woman in the black frock weeps
you didn’t have a great deal when you began
you didn’t have a great deal when you began
a dog a lovely girl and a horse
and then you got everything
through years of hard work too, yes,
but above all inspiration and promise
the lovely girl became a woman
and children filled your house
neither of you always understood each other
but insight really comes with the years
and then, on the day of your death, you were alone
more than in the beginning
or did there perhaps for one merciful moment
flash through your brain the comforting image of
your horse and your girl and your dog
I wear a suit a waistcoat and a tie of yours
I wear a suit a waistcoat and a tie of yours
If anyone complements me on the choice of the
dark green and ochre tie
then I think contentedly
we had good taste
my father and I
because didn’t I give it to him on his last birthday
and didn’t he wear it
And when I see the slightly darker spots on the pockets
of the suit
then it does me good to know:
sometimes you also put a sweet in your pocket . . .
for later
and then forgot it
until it threaded stickily through the cloth
But mornings
as I put on the beige waistcoat
and feel its warmth through the day
I wonder
how cold you are now
or does warmth still stream out
from the idea of the fabric tight against my body
Archilochos of Paros is sick
Archilochus of Paros is sick
of living on figs and fish
and then there’s his engagement with Neoboule:
her father has long known he’s a bastard
but still without warning he
sent him on his way one day,
(there was much talk of a richer lover
but no one bothers much about rumours)
would he storm into the house with his sword
and cleave the old man’s flabby belly open
or exit suddenly for some Far Eastern lands
to forget his heart’s passion with exotic women?
you don’t have that much energy
if you have to live on figs and fish
so only satire remains:
the beautiful Neoboule with her slender body
became, in his poems, a faded courtesan
whose charms bewitched no man any longer
and then as if this didn’t satisfy his piqued reputation
he turned her into a fat prostitute
who used cheap perfume too lavishly
Now her honour is avenged
– Neoboule and her father killed themselves
to escape his scathing pen –
life on Paros is even duller now
mornings he wakes with Neoboule’s name on his lips
and evenings the seagulls on the beach call, tormenting him
Neoboule! Neoboule!
in recognition of an old friend
for Doctor Con
there was a time you said
as I sat with a glass of jeripigo in my hand
on an autumn night in Stellenbosch
it isn’t the great agonies that gnaw at a person’s life
but every day’s small frustrations
have you forgotten the small joys?
the languid sparkle of rust-brown jeripigo
the music of Vivaldi in the Boland autumn
time and again
as a new love is smothered
or a deceitful friendship stuns the heart
the familiar music brushes the curtain softly
the fragrance of decaying leaves hangs in the room
and the taste of the wine revives the tongue
distilling the pain
[Nagelate Gedigte (1975). Johannesburg: Perskor-Uitgewery, p. 79]
we thank you for your application
we thank you for your application to be our representative
in Postmasburg
but we doubt whether in that god-forsaken dorp
we want to be represented again
our last representative’s oranges often shrivelled on the rack
and if one or other old maid got it into her head to make marmalade
and she hammered him about not being able to satisfy her needs
should it be us who are in for it and who must pay the doctor’s bills
if we may offer you some advice, keep some frozen concentrated
orange juice in cans
now the old maids must learn once and for all
a glass of pure diluted orange juice in the morning is almost as delicious
and healthier
and if you experience problems with sales early on
you can tell people about the health benefits of citrus
and how important Vitamin C is for the daily diet
and on big occasions
– like the opening of the new school hall or when the mayor’s wife has a baby –
serve citrus instead of wine with the cheese
it’s cheaper
and its refreshing taste exactly the right thing
for the blazing heat of Postmasburg