Gedigte vir die luister

Met goeie rede word Lyrikline gesien as die grootpapa van alle poësie webtuistes. So spog dié indrukwekkende webblad, wat in November 1999 op die internet gevestig is, reeds met 6,534 gedigte deur 724 digters wat in 55 tale geskryf en na 52 ander tale vertaal is. Die aantal gedigte wat jy in vertaling op Lyrikline kan lees, beloop tans 7,991. (Ja, liewe leser, so iets ís moontlik en dit bestaan wel.)

Nietemin, onlangs het hulle met nogals beskeie geskal nog ‘n nuwe inisiatief aangekondig: naamlik om waar moontlik ook voorlesings deur die betrokke digters in hul onderskeie moedertale op te neem en op die webblad beskikbaar te stel. Volgens die aankondiging op die hoofblad die volgende motivering, spesiaal vir diegene wat glo dat die voordrag van ‘n gedig die gedig vermink: “Poems should be read out loud and listened to. It is then that they reveal their innate musical quality. No matter what language a poem is written in and no matter where it is read in the world, it is immediately recognizable as a poem, as language fashioned into a distinctive structure, as a concert of words. Lyrikline.org has successfully addressed the seemingly impossible task of linking poetry, the oldest literary art form there is, with the newest form of communication, the Internet. At the push of a button it is now possible to listen to poems read by the author in his or her native tongue. When spoken by the human voice, the sound, melody and rhythm of a poem are transformed into music.”

Wat ‘n enorme prestasie! ‘n Mens kan maar net hoop dat daar binne ‘n jaar of wat dalk ook ‘n sterker Afrikaanse teenwoordigheid in dié sterbelaaide webblad se gedigtekamers sal wees … Maar nou, ja. Die hoop beskaam nie. Of wat praat ek nou?!

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Sedert gister het Desmond Painter ‘n nuwe blog geplaas; ‘n stuk waarin hy vertel van ‘n besonderse geleentheid waar hy en Danie Marais opgetree het. Met Seamus Heaney wat oor hul skouer loer en saggies in sy mou lag … Uit pure stuitigheid plaas ek sommer weer my gunsteling Heaney-gedig hier onder.

Geniet dit alles. Die naweek is op hande en Nuuswekker hervat weer Maandag.

Mooi bly.

LE

 

Digging

 
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

© Seamus Heaney  (Uit: Death of a Naturalist, 1966: Faber & Faber)