Vertalings

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Vertaling in Afrikaans

Wednesday, January 20th, 2021

 

Versindaba kompetisie vir vertaalde gedigte (97)

 

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Vertaling van Duits in Afrikaans. Vefrt. deur Elisabeth Hentschel.

 

Windstilte op see

 

Diep stilte het op die water toegesak,

Roerloos rus die see,

Angstig kyk die skipper rond.

Nêrens ʼn rimpel op die kalm oppervlak,

Nêrens ʼn briesie!

Versmorend, die doodse stilte!

In die verre verte

Nêrens ʼn golfie.

 

***

 

Meeresstille

 

Tiefe Stille herrscht im Wasser,

Ohne Regung ruht das Meer,

Und bekümmert sieht der Schiffer

Glatte Fläche ringsumher.

Keine Luft von keiner Seite!

Todesstille fürchterlich!

In der ungeheuern Weite

Reget keine Welle sich.

 

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. 1960. Poetische Werke [Band 1–16], Band 1. Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag.

 

 

Mary Oliver. Vertaling in Afrikaans

Tuesday, January 19th, 2021

 

Versindaba kompetisie vir vertaalde gedigte (96)

 

Mary Oliver. Vertaling van Engels in Afrikaans. Vert. deur Janien Linde.

 

Wildeganse

 

Jy hoef nie goed te wees nie.

Jy hoef nie, al berouende, vir ’n honderd myl

op jou knieë deur die woestyn te loop nie.

Jy moet bloot die sagte dier van jou lyf

te laat liefhê wat dit liefhet.

Vertel my van jou smart, en ek vertel jou myne.

Intussen gaan die wêreld aan.

Intussen beweeg die son en helder reënklippies

oor landskappe, grasvlaktes en diep bome,

oor berge en riviere.

Intussen draai die wilde ganse huiswaarts,

hoog in die skoonblou lug.

Wie ook al, maak nie saak hoe eensaam,

die wêreld bied haar aan vir jou verbeelding,

roep jou, soos die wilde ganse, luid en opwindend –

kondig oor en oor jou plek aan

in die gemeenskap van dinge.

 

***

 

Wild Geese

Mary Oliver

 

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

 

Bronverwysing:

Oliver, Mary. 1986. “Wild Geese” in Dream Work. Bl. 14.

 

 

Babette Deutsch. Vertaling in Afrikaans

Tuesday, January 19th, 2021

 

Versindaba kompetisie vir vertaalde gedigte (95)

 

Babette Deutsch. Vertaling van Engls in Afrikaans. Vert. deur Marieta McGrath.

 

Stilswye

 

Saam met jou is die stilswye soos

Die glimlag van ‘n kind wat droom:

Delikaat, net ‘n suggestie van die wonder,

Die sagte, stadige wonderwerk van rus.

Saam met jou is die stilswye soos

‘n Vriendelike vertrek vanuit ‘n gekletter

En malende skares na groen weivelde

Onder een of ander bollende blouborswolk

Of om saans op die sand vasgehou te word

Terwyl die gety ooprol en hemel met see

vervloei

Om die veraf, windgebolde seile te verskans

As dit donker roer aan die rand van die nag.

 

***

 

Silence

Babette Deutsch

 

Silence with you is like the faint delicious

Smile of a child asleep, in dreams unguessed:

Only the hinted wonder of its dreaming,

The soft, slow-breathing miracle of rest.

Silence with you is like a kind departure

From iron clangor and the engulfing crowd

Into a wide and greenly barren meadow,

Under the bloom of some blue-bosomed cloud;

Or like one held upon the sands at evening,

When the drawn tide rolls out, and the mixed

light

Of sea and sky enshrouds the far, wind-bellowed

Sails that move darkly on the edge of night.

 

Bronverwysing:

Deutsch, Babette. 1919. BANNERS. New York: George H. Doran Company (p.52).

 

 

Lucas Malan. Vertaling in Engels

Tuesday, January 19th, 2021

 

Versindaba kompetisie vir vertaalde gedigte (94)

 

Lucas Malan. Vertaling van Afrikaans in Engels. Vert. deur Marieta McGrath.

 

Wary

 

Where someone dies, the sky tears,

the hour gasps and sighs: it’s

past. A door opens, the walls tremble

and somewhere a bird will tumble –

 

The day makes room, unobtrusively,

and trees bow in contemplation, flee

into their earthiness, again turn green,

to line the shady lanes and fields.

 

You’d barely notice by the trees or sky

when someone dies, a room is made

vacant, when like a sheet the pre-dawn tears –

but listen how it happens everywhere:

 

***

 

Lugtig

Lucas Malan

 

Waar iemand doodgaan, skeur die lug,

snak die uur na asem en dit sug: ver-

by. ‘n Deur gaan oop, die mure skud

en iewers gaan ‘n voël neerstort

 

Die dag ruim plek in, ongemerk,

en bome buig in nabetragting, vlug

hul aardsheid binne, word weer groen

‘n laning langs ‘n landery of straat.

 

Jy sou dit skaars aan lug of bome merk

as iemand doodgaan, stiptelik ‘n bed ont-

ruim, die voordag soos ‘n laken skeur

maar luister hoe dit oral oor gebeur:

 

Bronverwysing:

Brink, André P. (Samesteller). Groot Verseboek. 2008. Kaapstad: Tafelberg (p. 898).

 

 

Lucas Malan. Vertaling in Engels

Tuesday, January 19th, 2021

 

Versindaba kompetisie vir vertaalde gedigte (93)

 

Lucas Malan. Vertaling van Afrikaans in Engels. Vert. deur Marieta McGrath.

 

Growing

 

It can’t be helped:

the years pile exponentially,

you bend, become more grounded

and tend towards the earth;

 

It’s just as well

you carry all those scars

and as time grows,

soften to decay;

 

how else

could we be made

unrecognisably humane?

 

***

 

Groei

Lucas Malan

 

Hoe ook al:

die jare stapel in kwadraat,

mens buig jou langsaam grondiger

en kry ‘n neiging aarde toe;

 

net so wel

dat jy die letsels daarvan dra

en al hoe buigsamer verval

in vergelykings met die tyd;

 

hoe anders

sou ons onherkenbaar slyt

tot afgeronde menslikheid?

 

Bronverwysing:

Brink, André P. (Samesteller). Groot Verseboek. 2008. Kaapstad: Tafelberg (p. 898)

 

 

Hendrik J. Botha. Vertaling in Engels

Monday, January 18th, 2021

 

Versindaba kompetisie vir vertaalde gedigte (91)

 

Hendrik J. Botha. Vertaling van Afrikaans in Engels. Vert. deur Hendrik J. Botha.

 

Reaping

 

Barely ten years old, chasing a ball

you meet a taxi at breakneck speed.

 

All traffic halts at a theatre table

where sterile drapes and equipment prepared,

follow the line of faceless doctors, icibly able.

 

Your heart then shudders free, hovers like a bird

over liver and kidneys, cauterized and cut,

slivers of cornea peeled from your eyes.

 

Amid four walls, so serene,

you, your wound, dark dead eyes and I

– all to complete the macabre scene –

with no body left, but the one bereft

to hold a small still hand. Or mine.

 

***

 

Breindood

Hendrik J. Botha

 

Skaars tien jaar oud, onbesorg,

jaag jy ‘n bal tot voor die taxi op hellevaart.

 

Steriel op ‘n teatertafel afgedek,

Ventilator, monitors, oorplantingspan:

volledig opgestel.

 

‘n Hart fladderend bevry.

Lewer en niere sorgvuldig

afgeklem, losgesny.

Korneas geskil.

 

Na afloop van die makabere tafereel

tussen geteëlde mure, net ek en jy,

donker wond en dooie oë,

sonder iemand om tot slot

jou óf my hand vas te hou.

 

 

Botha, Hendrik J. Atropos. 2015. Kaapstad: Queillerie, NB Uitgewers. p. 33.

 

 

Hendrik J. Botha. Vertaling in Engels

Monday, January 18th, 2021

 

Versindaba kompetisie vir vertaalde gedigte (90)

 

Hendrik J. Botha. Vertaling van Afrikaans in Engels. Vert. deur Hendrik J. Botha.

 

Love bar none

 

For thirty years in Hammanskraal

you taught students to read and write,

wisened them in the arts of science and geography.

They looked up to you: schoolteacher, sage, hero.

 

But on a Saturday in September

the tables were abruptly turned:

a boy of ten with sun bleached hair,

alabaster–blue eyes with a gaze

of a different kind.

 

Three days after a hit and run

– a taxi without brakes, sirens and lights –

 

he grants you a kidney

in the blink of an eye.

 

***

 

Oor die kleurgrens

Hendrik Botha

‘n Liefdesgedig

 

Vir dertig jaar in Hammanskraal,

leer jy kinders lees en skryf,

maak hulle wys in wiskunde en geografie.

Kyk hulle op na jou, die skoolmeester en heer.

 

Op ‘n Saterdagaand in September

word die bordjies plotseling verhang:

‘n seun van tien, sonblond, oë albasterblou

kyk áf na jou.

 

Ná ‘n tref–en–trap drie dae terug

–‘n taxi sonder remme,

ligte, sirenes –

 

skenk hy

sonder om ‘n oog te knip,

vannag vir jou ‘n nier.

 

Bronverwysing:

Botha,  Hendrik J. Atropos. 2015. Kaapstad: Queillerie, NB Uitgewers. p. 34.

 

 

Elizabeth Bishop. Vertaling in Afrikaans

Sunday, January 17th, 2021

 

Versindaba kompetisie vir vertaalde gedigte (89)

 

Elizabeth Bishop. Vertaling van Engels in Afrikaans. Vert. deur Tom Dreyer.

 

Die vis

 

ek vang ‘n allemintige vis

en hou hom langs die boot

net-net bo die water

hoek in sy bek ingebed

hy spook nie meer nie het

ook nooit hy hang

kreunend en verinneweer

dog eerbiedwaardig huislik

selfs sy bruin vel druip plek-plek

in repe soos muurpapier verfraai

met ‘n verganklikheid van rose hy’s

seepok-gespikkel klein kalksteen

rosette en seeluis-geinfesteer

twee of drie wierslierte wieg

onder kieue wat fris en bloedbelaai

die gruwelike suurstof prosesseer

ek dink aan sy vlees ru

en wit en ingepak soos vere

om swemblaas en graat

en glinsterende ingewand

sy oë is groter as myne dog vlak

en geel en die holtes van sy irisse

is met foelie uitgevoer hulle gly

en sloer maar kyk nie na my nie

hulle is iets wat na die lig toe roer

en terwyl ek sy bot gesig bepeins

en die meganisme van sy kaak

sien ek aan sy onderlip

— as jy iets wat so gepantser

is ‘n lip kan noem –

vyf lengtes vislyn

of vier en ‘n swaar draadstrop

kompleet met swivel vyf medalje-

linte ‘n vyfhaar-wysheidsbaard een

groen lyn deur die breekslag uitgerafel

twee dikkes en een blinkswart

gekonfoes deur sy ontsnapping

my oorwinning tap my huurboot vol

ruimwater waarop ‘n olie-reënboog

vlam om die verroeste enjin en verslete

bankies om die roeimikke en die relings

totdat alles in ligtelaaie staan

– reënboog reënboog reënboog –

en ek laat die vis gaan

 

***

 

The fish

 Elizabeth Bishop

 

I caught a tremendous fish

and held him beside the boat

half out of water, with my hook

fast in a corner of his mouth.

He didn’t fight.

He hadn’t fought at all.

He hung a grunting weight,

battered and venerable

and homely. Here and there

his brown skin hung in strips

like ancient wallpaper,

and its pattern of darker brown

was like wallpaper:

shapes like full-blown roses

stained and lost through age.

He was speckled with barnacles,

fine rosettes of lime,

and infested

with tiny white sea-lice,

and underneath two or three

rags of green weed hung down.

While his gills were breathing in

the terrible oxygen

—the frightening gills,

fresh and crisp with blood,

that can cut so badly—

I thought of the coarse white flesh

packed in like feathers,

the big bones and the little bones,

the dramatic reds and blacks

of his shiny entrails,

and the pink swim-bladder

like a big peony.

I looked into his eyes

which were far larger than mine

but shallower, and yellowed,

the irises backed and packed

with tarnished tinfoil

seen through the lenses

of old scratched isinglass.

They shifted a little, but not

to return my stare.

—It was more like the tipping

of an object toward the light.

I admired his sullen face,

the mechanism of his jaw,

and then I saw

that from his lower lip

—if you could call it a lip—

grim, wet, and weaponlike,

hung five old pieces of fish-line,

or four and a wire leader

with the swivel still attached,

with all their five big hooks

grown firmly in his mouth.

A green line, frayed at the end

where he broke it, two heavier lines,

and a fine black thread

still crimped from the strain and snap

when it broke and he got away.

Like medals with their ribbons

frayed and wavering,

a five-haired beard of wisdom

trailing from his aching jaw.

I stared and stared

and victory filled up

the little rented boat,

from the pool of bilge

where oil had spread a rainbow

around the rusted engine

to the bailer rusted orange,

the sun-cracked thwarts,

the oarlocks on their strings,

the gunnels—until everything

was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!

And I let the fish go.

 

Bronverwysing:

Bishop, Elizabeth. 1946. North & South. Houghton Mifflin, Boston. p 46.

ISBN: 180216008

 

 

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