Posts Tagged ‘Joan Hambidge vertaling in Engels’

Joan Hambidge. Vertaling in Engels

Monday, July 26th, 2021

 

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.