Joan Hambidge Vertaling van Afrikaans in Engels. Vert. deur Bester Meyer.
Dreams divulge scars
As in a scene similar
to an Etienne Leroux novel
there is a party with men being penguined.
I am a guest, uninvited,
I am drinking champagne and wine
at a round table, everything arranged
like the deckchairs on the Titanic
(remember, it is only a dream).
I am not seeing the hostess,
but I see her husband. Another woman
whose face I cannot recognise
is commenting on the
feculent nature of everything. I am leaving
the merriment without notice and at the hotel
right next to the celebration
a carpet is glowing with distorted design.
I am wearing an animal mask;
nobody has yet recognised me.
When I try taking the poem back
to its place of origin,
my friend warns:
“Take heed, the poem
divulges your fingerprints.”
The whole night it haunted me.
Who is this poem belonging to?
Is it me or to this surrealistic dream?
There are no dreams, only nightmares,
it’s chiselled against a wall somewhere.
Death of a ladies’ man (1934−2016)
My feculent love relationships
syncopate with your dream-diffluent songs.
At first the black lingering records
in so long Marianne
and your longing for her,
and the equally unknown Suzanne;
and later, the grey tapes crinkling
breaking from too much rewind,
until CDs with their crystal-clear recordings
which danced us until the end of love …
Your waltzes becoming mine
in the Tower of Song.
There is a crack (a crack) in everything
you sing − that’s how the light gets in.
It becomes a cure, a motto.
Between so many vassals
my poem is a helpless calque
of your timeless words.
Ring the bells that still can ring.
I am greeting you, mister Cohen,
lifting my fedora up to you:
the unique troubadour
of the melancholic word
with your gritty, subsonic voice.
*
Drome verklap letsels
In ʼn tafereel nes
Sewe dae by die Silbersteins
is daar ʼn party met mans gepikkewyn.
Ek is ʼn gas, ongenooid,
ek drink van die sjampanje en wyn
op ʼn ronde tafel, als gerangskik
soos die dekstoele op die Titanic
(onthou, dit is net ʼn droom).
Die gasvrou sien ek nie,
haar man wel. ʼn Ander vrou
sonder herkenbare gesig
lewer kommentaar
op die troebel aard van als. Ek verlaat
die feestelikheid ongesiens en by die hotel
langs die viering
gloei daar ʼn mat me skewe patrone.
Ek het ʼn dieremasker op;
niemand het my nog gewaar nie.
Toe ek die gedig wil terugneem
na die plek van oorsprong,
waarsku my vriend:
Oppas, die vers
verklap jou vingerafdrukke.”
Die hele nag lank kwel dit my.
Aan wie behoort hierdie gedig?
Aan my of aan die surrealistiese droom?
Daar is geen drome nie, net nagmerries,
staan daar teen ʼn muur gebeitel.
Death of a ladies’ man (1934−2016)
My troebel liefdesverhoudings
sinkopeer met jou droomvervloeide songs.
Eers die swart langspeelplate dralend
in ʼn vaarwel aan Marianne
en jou versugting na haar,
daardie ewe onbekende Suzanne;
dan later die grys tapes wat frommel
en breek van te veel rewind,
tot die CD’s met helder klankopnames
waarop ons dans tot aan die einde, die einde …
Jou walse word my eie
in die Toring van Sang.
Daar was ʼn kraak in alles,
maar dis hoe die lig
kon deurbreek, so sing jy.
Dit word ʼn kuur, ʼn devies.
Tussen soveel vasalle
is my gedig ʼn onbeholpe calque
van jou tydlose woorde,
Lui die klokke wat steeds kan lui.
Ek groet jou, meneer Cohen,
lig my fedora vir jou:
eenmalige troebadoer
van die mankolieke woord
met jou grinterige, subsoniese stem.
Bron: Hambidge, J. Konfessies, Kaarte en Konterfeitsels, Imprimatur 2021.