Louis Esterhuizen. Kubaanse digter wen gesogte Spaanse poësieprys

 

Via ‘n skakel by Poetry Foundation beland ek by NBC Latino se webblad waar berig word dat die relatief onbekende Kubaanse digter, Jozé Kozer (Havana, 1940), se werk vanjaar met die gesogte Pablo Neruda Ibero-American Poësieprys bekroon word. Die prysgeld beloop $60,000, plus ‘n medalje en sertifikaat, en dit is verlede Vrydag deur die Chileense president, Sebastián Piñera, aan hom oorhandig is. Die prys is die eerste keer in 2004 ingestel en word elke jaar op Pablo Neruda se verjaarsdag, 12 Julie, toegeken. Vorige pryswenners is onder andere Nicanor Parra, Juan Gelman, en Ernesto Cardenal.

Nietemin, volgens die keurpaneel word dié prys aan Kozer toegeken vir sy “vast and distinctive work (which) stands out for its innovation, passion and devotion to the craft.,” Hulle het ook sy “multilayered poems” beskryf as “an expression of the intricacies of memory, family history, multiculturalism, and the transforming experience of exile.”

Kozer se Joodse ouers het in 1940 vanuit Sentraal-Europa na Kuba gevlug waar hy gebore is. Twintig jaar later het hy egter dié eiland met slegs $50 in sy sak verlaat: “The island was becoming too small for my dreams and the Revolution disillusioned me pretty soon,” het hy aan NBC Latino gesê. “I’m the first Cuban Jew who left Cuba after Castro’s takeover.” Hierna het hy na New York verhuis waar hy steeds woon. “New York was my formative experience, the city where I lived everything after my adolescence.”

In reaksie het op die toekenning het Kozer die volgende opmerking gemaak: “But the really important thing is our work. That is what survives us.”

Op Jacket2 se webtuiste is daar ‘n paar van sy gedigte te lese. Vir jou leesplesier plaas ek een hieronder.

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General Cleaning

 

All of the shades of the house were drawn,

all of the neighborhood’s windows shuttered,

before the great door of Thursday could be opened

in all its glory.

And then they erased my grandfather’s contrite corpse

the sulphuric, the naphthalene, Abraham’s steps a portent

of my mother’s slippered progress through the rooms,

polishing the seven arms of the candelabra,

bringing order to the flatware for milk and for meat,

frying the foods of exodus and abundance

while outside was a tumult of inflamed mulattas

the street overflowing with the triple flame of the bongo

and three lovely Cubans, their cheeks quivering, swayed to the rhythm of a song

while my mother straightened the mirrors for once and all.

 

© José Kozer