“Peter Quince At the clavier” vertaal van Engels in Afrikaans. Vert. deur Hein Viljoen
Peter Quince at the clavier – Wallace Stevens
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the selfsame sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna.
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering,
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned –
A cymbal crashed,
And roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
The wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps’ uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind —
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body’s beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden’s choral.
Susanna’s music touched the bawdy strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death’s ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
Wallace Stevens (Uit: The collected poems of Wallace Stevens. New York, Vintage, 1990)
Peter Quince voor die klawerbord – Wallace Stevens
I
Net soos my vingers op hierdie klawers
musiek maak, so maak dieselfde klanke
in my siel ook ʼn soort musiek.
Musiek is dus gevoel, nie klank nie;
en daarom is dit wat ek voel,
hier in hierdie kamer, vol begeerte,
denkend aan jou blou-gevlekte sy
ook musiek. Dit is soos die spanning
gewek in die ouderlinge toe Susanna
een groen aand, helder en warm,
in haar stil tuin gaan bad het, terwyl
die ouderlinge wat rooi-oog loer,
die basse van hulle bestaan voel klop
van aanloklike akkoorde, en hulle dun bloed
van hosannas pizzicati voel pols het.
II
In die groen water, helder en warm,
lê Susanna.
Sy voel-voel
na die streling van fonteine,
en ontdek
geheime fantasieë.
Sy sug
van soveel melodie.
Op die wal gaan sy staan
die sterk emosie
afgekoel.
Sy voel, tussen die blare,
die dou
van ou verbintenisse.
Toe stap sy oor die gras
nog bewerig.
Die winde voel asof haar maagde
op skugter voete
vir haar geweefde serpe aandra,
vol huiwering.
ʼn Briesie op haar hand
versag die nag.
Sy draai om –
ʼn simbaal knars,
en horings skal.
III
Weldra, met ‘n geluid soos tamboeryne
verskyn haar dienende bisantyne.
Hulle wonder waarom Susanna huil
teen die ouderlinge aan haar sy;
en hulle gefluister was die refrein
van ʼn wilgerboom in reën wat swiep.
Hulle lig die vlam van hulle lampe,
ontbloot Susanna en haar skande.
En toe vlug die giggelende bisantyne
weg met ‘n geluid soos tamboeryne.
IV
Skoonheid flits ʼn oomblik deur die brein –
die gebroke natekening van ʼn deurgang –
maar in die vlees is dit onsterflik
Die liggaam sterf; liggaamskoonheid leef.
Netso sterf aande, hulle groen uitbloei
ʼn golf wat sonder ophou vloei.
Netso sterf tuine, hulle sagte asem geurend
deur winter se monnikskap, sonder berou.
Netso sterf meisies, douvoordag,
onder die jubeling van ʼn meisieskoraal.
Susanna se musiek streel die skunnige snare
van dié ou wit ouderlinge maar ontsnap
en laat die Dood agter, ironies aan die skraap.
En nou, in onsterflikheid, stryk dit
uit die helder viola van haar gedagtenis,
ʼn onwrikbare sakrament tot haar lof.