Posts Tagged ‘Ada Limón vertaling in Afrikaans’

Ada Limón. Vertaling in Afrikaans

Wednesday, December 9th, 2020

 

Versindaba kompetisie vir vertaalde gedigte (43)

 

Ada Limón. Vertaling van Engels in Afrikaans. Vert. deur Bester Meyer.

 

Die Leiband

 

Ná die baring van bomme—vertakkings en vrees

die verwoede outomatiese masjiengewere ont-bind,

die sproeireën van koeëls ʼn skare in wat hande vashou,

dié dierlike hemel wat open in ʼn leiklip maag van metaal

wat slegs die onsegbare in elk van ons verslind, wat bly

oor? Selfs die verskuilde rivier-na-nêrens is vergiftig

oranje en versuur deur steenkoolmyn. Mens kan

nie anders as om mensdom te vrees nie, want om

die fondament van bog en die dodelike water in eie

longe op te doem, is vergiftigend?   Leser, ek wil sê:

Moetnie-doodnie! Selfs wanneer silwerig—vis na vis

pens op kom en die land afpeil op ʼn knetterende knater van haat,

is daar nie steeds iets wat sing nie? Waarheid is: Ek weet nie.

Maar partykeer—sweer-ek-hoor-dit—die wond maak toe

soos ʼn ou geroeste garage deur, en ek kan nog steeds sonder

te veel pyn my lewende ledemate die wêreld in beweeg,

ek kan my steeds verstom aan die hond wat nekbreek uitdaag

en reguit pad vat in die rigting van die storttrokke

want sy dink sy het hulle lief –

sy dink – sonder twyfel – die hard-dreunende goeters

sal haar óók lief hê—haar brose klein self vol lewe met begeerte

om haar godverdomde entoesiasme te deel

totdat ek – reddend – haar leiband terugpluk

want ek wil sy moet vir altyd oorleef. Moetnie-doodnie, sê ek,

en ons besluit om ʼn wyle langer te loop, stroombrekers

hoog en koorsagtig bo ons, winter op pad

om haar koue kadawer op hierdie stukkie grond neer te lê.

Miskien bons ons altyd ons liggame

in die rigting van dit wat vernietig, smekend vir liefde

vanuit hierdie vlietende verbygang van tyd, om net miskien,

soos dié hond gehoorsaam op my hakke, vreed-saam

te kan stap—ten minste tot die volgende trok ver-skyn.

 

***

 

The Leash

Ada Limón

 

After the birthing of bombs of forks and fear

the frantic automatic weapons unleashed,

the spray of bullets into a crowd holding hands,

that brute sky opening in a slate metal maw

that swallows only the unsayable in each of us, what’s

left? Even the hidden nowhere river is poisoned

orange and acidic by a coal mine. How can

you not fear humanity, want to lick the creek

bottom dry, to suck the deadly water up into

your own lungs, like venom? Reader, I want to

say: Don’t die. Even when silvery fish after fish

comes back belly up, and the country plummets

into a crepitating crater of hatred, isn’t there still

something singing? The truth is: I don’t know.

But sometimes, I swear I hear it, the wound closing

like a rusted-over garage door, and I can still move

my living limbs into the world without too much

pain, can still marvel at how the dog runs straight

toward the pickup trucks break-necking down

the road, because she thinks she loves them,

because she’s sure, without a doubt, that the loud

roaring things will love her back, her soft small self

alive with desire to share her goddamn enthusiasm,

until I yank the leash back to save her because

I want her to survive forever. Don’t die, I say,

and we decide to walk for a bit longer, starlings

high and fevered above us, winter coming to lay

her cold corpse down upon this little plot of earth.

Perhaps we are always hurtling our body towards

the thing that will obliterate us, begging for love

from the speeding passage of time, and so maybe,

like the dog obedient at my heels, we can walk together

peacefully, at least until the next truck comes.

 

 Bronverwysing:

Limón, A. 2018.The Carrying. Milkweed Editions.