Posts Tagged ‘Gyorgi Petri’

Desmond Painter. Gyorgi Petri leer my ‘n bietjie dankbaarheid

Tuesday, January 18th, 2011
Gyorgy Petri

Gyorgi Petri

Hierdie tyd van die jaar doen mense soos ek, universiteitsdosente, ernstige beplanning vir die modules wat gedurende die semester aangebied moet word. Daar’s ‘n duisend-en-een dinge om aan te dink; ‘n duisend-en-twee wat verkeerd kan loop.

Een van my grootste kopsere in hierdie verband is openbare vakansiedae en lang neweke. Hulle maak dit nie net moeilik om werk betyds af te handel nie, maar ook om verskillende groepe studente se lesings en tutoriale te sinchroniseer. Veral as jy, soos ons in sielkunde, groot getalle studente het en lesings dus moet herhaal. Ek sit en staar nou al twee weke lank na die almanak, en meer spesifiek na die logistieke nagmerrie wat April 2011 beloof om te wees… Elke tweede dag van daardie maand is hierdie jaar klaarblyklik ‘n openbare vakansiedag! Chaos!

Maar net toe ek vanoggend weer wil begin gal braak oor die administratiewe las wat hierdie nasionale lyfwegsteek te weeg gaan bring, ontdek ek heel toevallig ‘n heel relevante en boonop pragtige gedig van die Hongaarse digter Gyorgi Petri – een om te memoriseer en in April vir myself te sit en prewel…

 

 

Gratitude – Gyorgi Petri

 

The idiotic silence of state holidays

is no different

from that of Catholic Sundays.

People in collective idleness

is even more repellent

than they are when purpose has harnessed them.

 

Today I will not

in my old ungrateful way

let gratuitous love decay in me.

In the vacuum of streets

what helps me to escape

is the memory of your face and thighs,

your warmth,

the fish-death smell of your groin.

 

You looked for a bathroom in vain.

The bed was uncomfortable

like a roof ridge.

The mattress smelt of insecticide,

the new scent of your body mingling with it.

 

I woke to a cannonade

(a round number of years ago

something happened). You were still asleep.

Your glasses, your patent leather bag

on the floor, your dress on the window-catch

hung inside out – so practical.

 

One strap of your black slip

had slithered off.

And a gentle light was wavering

on the downs of your neck, on your collar-bones,

as the cannon went on booming

 

and on a spring poking through

the armchair’s cover

fine dust was trembling.

Desmond Painter. Drie koppies oggendkoffie

Tuesday, May 25th, 2010

Die nuwe dag aandurf sonder daardie eerste koppie oggendkoffie? Vergeet daarvan. Die eerste ding wat ek doen wanneer ek uit die bed opstaan is om die ketel aan te skakel. Soms volg daar ‘n tweede en ‘n derde koppie… Soos Bob Dylan gesing het: “One more cup of coffee before I go… to the valley below.” En nie een van daardie koppies koffie is heeltemal dieselfde nie. Hier, vir jou leesgenot, volg drie gedigte oor oggendkoffie, en oor die gedagtes wat hulle vergesel:

 

 

Morning Coffee – Gyorgi Petri

 

I like the cold rooms of autumn, sitting

early in the morning at an open window,

or on the roof, dressing-gown drawn close,

the valley and the morning coffee glowing –

this cooling, that warming.

 

Red and yellow multiply, but the green

wanes, and into the mud the leaves

fall – fall in heaps,

the devalued currency of summer:

so much of it, so worthless!

 

Gradually the sky’s

downy grey turns blue, the slight

chill dies down. The tide

of day comes rolling in –

in waves, gigantic, patient, barreling.

 

I can start to carry on. I give myself up

to an impersonal imperative.

 

 

Happiness – Raymond Carver

 

So early it’s still almost dark out.

I’m near the window with coffee,

and the usual early morning stuff

that passes for thought.

 

When I see the boy and his friend

walking up the road

to deliver the newspaper.

 

They wear caps and sweaters,

and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.

They are so happy

they aren’t saying anything, these boys.

 

I think if they could, they would take

each other’s arm.

It’s early in the morning,

and they are doing this thing together.

 

They come on, slowly.

The sky is taking on light,

though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

 

Such beauty that for a minute

death and ambition, even love,

doesn’t enter into this.

 

Happiness. It comes on

unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,

any early morning talk about it.

 

 

in die vroegte probeer ek ‘n deuntjie dink – Boerneef

 

in die vroegte probeer ek ‘n deuntjie dink

wat ‘n man kan neurie as jy koffie drink

dis nie hoekom nie dis nie daarom nie

willie hotom nie willie haarom nie

smaak my ek sal my draai verloor

die deuntjie wat ek in die vroegte dink

hoekom moet hy tog so inskottel klink

dis nie hoekom nie dis nie daarom nie

kan nie hotom nie kan nie haarom nie

ek is seker ek het my draai verloor

 

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