Dit is vry algemeen bekend dat die Poolse digkuns van die mees dinamiese en gewilde in die wêreld is, en sonder twyfel is die Nobelpryswenner, Wisława Szymborska, die helderste juweel in hul kroon. ‘n Mens kan jou wel afvra waarom dit die geval is aangesien die meeste van haar mees entoesiastiese ondersteunings haar gedigte net in vertaling kan lees. Een verklaring is moontlik die volgende, soos verwoord deur Scott Spires: “Polish poets tend to be less word-drunk than their Russian counterparts, perhaps due to the differing qualities of their respective languages, and Szymborska is one of the most sober of all in this regard. Her work is unpretentious, free of unnecessary adornment, and invariably thoughtful. Language is her assistant, rather than a selfish entity which always wants to be the center of attention.”
By Szymborska gaan dit dus primêr oor die “idee” en nié soseer oor die spel met woorde nie. En dít verklaar na alle waarskynlikheid waarom haar verse so maklik (en goed) vertaalbaar is. Daarom ook dat daar etlike bloemlesings met haar poësie in vertaling in die handel beskikbaar is, maar die een wat my telkens winduit slaan, is die tweetalige Sounds, Feelings, Thoughts – Seventy poems by Wislawa Szymborska, wat deur Magnus J. Krynski en Robert A. Maguire vertaal is en deur die Princeton University Press uitgegee is. Wat hierdie bloemlesing verder besonders maak, is dat dit uitsluitlik haar vroeëre poësie, 1957 tot 1979, byeenbring.
Die waarde van dié besonderse publikasie word myns insiens besonder goed weerspieël deur twee anonieme kommentare op Amazon.com se webblad waar ek gaan snuffel het na meer inligting oor die boek: “Wisława Szymborska writes with the wit and freshness of the American beat poets, layered with the sence of history and emotional depth that can only come from living through the last seventy years of turmoil in Europe. She has a very musical style. She begins by building descriptive lines, then rises to a staccato rediscovery of her subject, then resloving each poem with a kind of rational passion that is rare in even the most accomplished poets. More poems are offered in View with a Grain of Sand, but not with the level of quality of translation. Highly recommened for those who do not want sentimentality, endless rhyming and dull subject matter. Szymborska is deserving off all of the attention she is finally receiving, and more.” En dan ook nog – “Of all the compilations, I prefer this one as it gives you both the original Polish as well as the translated English. So if you are feeling ambitious, you can take a stab at the Polish. This is the best translation of her work by far – it retains the lyrical intent of the author without being too literal. The poetry dances off your toungue and into your mind.”
En daarvoor kan ek nie anders as om hande te klap nie.
Inderdaad, ‘n wonderlike, leesbare vertaling.
Soos gebruiklik volg ‘n gedig onder aan vanoggend se Nuuswekker vir jou leesplesier.
***
Nuut op die weblad vanoggend is nuwe blogs deur Desmond Painter en Adolph van Coller, asook twee nuwe gedigte deur Ilse van Staden. In Brieweboks is daar ook nog die vers as huldeblyk wat Floris Brown ter herinnering aan Leonard Koza, wat onlangs oorlede is, geskryf het.
En dan verjaar twee digters vandag, te wete Charles Fryer en Loftus Marais, terwyl Lina Spies, wie se keur Die skyn van tuiskoms vroeër vandeesweek by die Woordfees bekend gestel is, môre verjaar. Veels geluk, julle. Mag die nuwe lewensjaar julle telkens verras met vreugde en onvergeetlike gedigte.
Mooi bly.
LE
Under a certain little star
My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.
My apologies to necessity if I’m mistaken, after all.
Please, don’t be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.
May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.
My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.
My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
I apologize for my record of minutes to those who cry from
the depths.
I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep
today at five a.m.
Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.
Pardon me, deserts, that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful
of water.
And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the
same cage,
your gaze always fixed on the same point in space,
forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.
My apologies to the felled tree for the table’s four legs.
My apologies to great questions for small answers.
Truth, please don’t pay me much attention.
Dignity, please be magnanimous.
Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional
thread from your train.
Soul, don’t take offense that I’ve only got you now and then.
My apologies to everything that I can’t be everywhere at once.
My apologies to everyone that I can’t be each woman and
each man.
I know I won’t be justfied as long as I live,
since I myself stand in my own way.
Don’t bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,
then labor heavily so that they may seem light.
© Wisława Zsymborska