In ‘n vorige Nuuswekker het ek berig dat ‘n gedenkplaat ter ere van Ted Hughes aangebring is in die befaamde Poets’ Corner te Wesminster Abbey. Nou blyk dit dat ‘n soortgelyke eer Sylvia Path te beurt geval het, behalwe dat dit ‘n gedenkplaat in die American Poets’ Corner te Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine in New York is. Die inhuldiging was verlede Sondagaand en tydens dié geleentheid is haar bekende vers “The Moon and the Yew Tree” voorgelees.
Die huldigingsprogram het etlike deelnemers betrek, waaronder Karen Kukil, redakteur van die Sylvia Plath-joernale, en ook die bekende Amerikaanse digter, Annie Finch, wat na Plath se retorika verwys het as synde “”rough magic: a righteous and intentional cacophony of sounds.” Volgens die berig op The New Yorker se webblad was ‘n besonderse moment egter toe Paul Muldoon, redakteur vir poësie by dié publikasie, Plath se gedig “Daddy” voorgelees het: “The idea of a male poet (and father) reading lines like ‘Every woman loves a Fascist / the boot in the face, the brute / the brute heart of a brute like you,’ struck one as awkward, but in execution Muldoon’s Irish lilt intensified the unique rhythm and ‘oo’ sounds of the poem-illuminating its brilliance in a new way.”
Inderdaad ‘n besonderse verering vir ‘n begaafde digter wat nog kort voor haar dood die volgende profetiese woorde aan haar ma geskryf het: “I am writing the best poems of my life. They will make my name.” Die gedigte waarna sy verwys het, was die gedigte wat in die postume bundel “Ariel opgeneem is en wat ongetwyfeld die rede daarvoor is dat sy as een van die vernaamste digters in die moderne era gereken word.
Vir jou leesplesier plaas ek die gedig “The Moon and the Yew Tree” onder aan vanoggend se Nuuswekker.
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Sedert gister het daar net een nuwe plasing bygekom en dit is Chris Coolsma se tweede aflewering oor jazz; met drie besonderse vertalings van gedigte van Billy Collins daarby. Dan maak ons ook bekend dat Francis Lubbe by ons span buiteblikkers aangesluit het. Soos jy uit haar biografiese skets kan aflei, is Francis ‘n veelsydige persoon met wye belangstellings wat tans by die uitgewersbedryf in Londen betrokke is.
Mooi bly.
LE
The Moon and the Yew Tree
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky —
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness –
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.
© Sylvia Plath