Desmond Painter. Szymborska se kat

Szymborska

Szymborska

Ek het op 5 Augustus laasjaar ‘n gedig van Wislawa Szymborska op my blog geplaas, ‘On Death, Without Exaggeration’. Sy eindig daardie gedig so: “There’s no life / that couldn’t be immortal / if only for a moment. // Death / always arrives by that very moment too late. // In vain it tugs at the knob / of the invisible door. / As far as you’ve come / can’t be undone.”

Sy is gister in die ouderdom van 88 jaar oorlede, en sy laat iets agter wat beslis nie ongedaan gemaak kan word nie. Onsterflik, op ‘n manier. En op ‘n ander manier ook nie. Vir jou kat is jy immers meer as ‘n digter.

 

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Cat in an empty apartment – Wislawa Szymborska

 

Die — You can’t do that to a cat.

Since what can a cat do

in an empty apartment?

Climb the walls?

Rub up against the furniture?

Nothing seems different here,

but nothing is the same.

Nothing has been moved,

but there’s more space.

And at nighttime no lamps are lit.

 

Footsteps on the staircase,

but they’re new ones.

The hand that puts fish on the saucer

has changed, too.

 

Something doesn’t start

at its usual time.

Something doesn’t happen

as it should. Someone was always, always here,

then suddenly disappeared

and stubbornly stays disappeared.  

 

 

 

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3 Kommentare op “Desmond Painter. Szymborska se kat”

  1. Andries Bezuidenhout :

    Dis ‘n pragtige foto van haar Desmond, soveel mooier as die een in die New York Times waarin sy die Nobelprysmedalje vashou.

  2. Johann de Lange :

    Desmond, hier is die volledige gedig.

    Cat in an empty apartment
    Wislawa Szymborska

    Die—you can’t do that to a cat.
    Since what can a cat do
    in an empty apartment?
    Climb the walls?
    Rub up against the furniture?
    Nothing seems different here
    but nothing is the same.
    Nothing’s been moved
    but there’s more space.
    And at nighttime no lamps are lit.

    Footsteps on the staircase,
    but they’re new ones.
    The hand that puts fish on the saucer
    has changed, too.

    Something doesn’t start
    at its usual time.
    Something doesn’t happen
    as it should.
    Someone was always, always here,
    then suddenly disappeared
    and stubbornly stays disappeared.

    Every closet’s been examined.
    Every shelf has been explored.
    Excavations under the carpet turned up nothing.
    A commandment was even broken:
    papers scattered everywhere.
    What remains to be done.
    Just sleep and wait.

    Just wait till he turns up,
    just let him show his face.
    Will he ever get a lesson
    on what not to do to a cat.
    Sidle toward him
    as if unwilling
    and ever so slow
    on visibly offended paws,
    and no leaps or squeals at least to start.

    [Tr. by Dr. Cavanagh and Mr. Baranczak]

  3. Desmond :

    Dankie Johann. Ek het te vinnig gegryp van die internet vanoggend. Pragtige gedig. Toe ek vanmiddag effe later as gewoonlik by die huis aankom het my kat my vies ingewag by die deur…

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