Johan Myburg – vertaal deur/ translated by Charl JF Cilliers
- Johan Myburg
Johan Myburg published his first volume of poems Vlugskrif in 1984, to be followed ten years later by Kontrafak which won the Eugene Marais Prize. Kamermusiek was published by Lapa in 2008. In this volume the room is the central space in which events occur. But the room also includes spaces above and beyond the living space. In the room recorded journeys are transformed into poetry. Apart from his poetic output, Myburg is also a journalist and art critic. He lives and works in Johannesburg, studied philosophy, psychology and theology, and is at present engaged in post-graduate studies in the visual arts.
Los Veranos de la Villa
In Madrid it never snows; it is always
summer. Do not believe the claims of weather
charts, they’re all untrue. Where I am sitting
summer geraniums bloom in pots warm as soil
lushly dangling from balconies; the city drones
sonorously; the beautiful bodies of madrileños wear
the sun, parading rhythmically along the Gran Via,
down Fuencarral, in Augusto Figueroa, from club
to club. In Madrid it never snows; the weather
is never inclement. Every night it stays light until at least
nine o’clock; sultry nights ooze the sweet fragrance
of privets. Where I now sit staring at photos
the dreamer still clings to that intrepid glow.
In my album, in Madrid it’s always high summer now.
(From: Kamermusiek, Lapa, 2008)
(Tr. by Charl JF Cilliers)
Full Moon
Half-moon over the azul sea –
in my ears the sea’s melancholic murmur
over thousands of tiny egg-like stones – were I
brave I could breezily say: time
to go on is half-way here.
Now with a magic spell I would have
liked to fix the round moon to a finial;
to stop the sweet rose’s
ultimate unfolding;
to strip a mast of every frill
and wrap in red and yellow
the ticking tower clock as ornament.
This evening on Santa Eulalia
Square my tongue is too indolent.
Salamanca
16 July 2000
(From: Kamermusiek, Lapa, 2008)
(Tr. by Charl JF Cilliers)
Of Rage and Remembrance
John Corigliano
Symphony No 1
The door opens onto a party
at the home of a gallant pair.
Music carries guests through a hallway,
through several rooms where
people are dancing rhythmically, with
superficial talk and uninhibited bright
laughter, coquettish flirting; through sliding doors
out into the night,
onto the terrace where exuberant
guests – who, being dead,
had not been invited – move shadow-like
against the walls like huge dread
lizards. Deeper into the garden
faintly far away a piano
remembers the wistful melody
of Albeniz’s tango.
(From: Kamermusiek, Lapa, 2008)
(Tr. by Charl JF Cilliers)
Intimate Letters
Dear Leonard, because I have kept track,
my whole life long,
of various demons doggedly on my spoor
I am now writing back.
Intend to write about Death. But thin
as a worm Life keeps burrowing in.
VW
.
That you are so far
away tonight and all meanings are
as endlessly arbitrary as a star,
of this I am and will remain aware.
If I should write: “I love you”,
is it forever or just for now?
Is it with the tackiness of convention
that we stick together with a vow?
.
And if I say: “I love you”,
am I perhaps saying more
about me, about me, than about you?
.
So easy to think
that I know you: to describe
how every morning you swing
your legs out of bed — lay
patterns down, pre-empt what you say –
how at night, tired of reading,
you douse the light and curl up
like a fetus under the blankets.
Why do I specifically notice that;
add that to my list?
How much do I fail to notice?
All that I understand
of you is solely my portrayal, a pursuit
of an adventure I have planned.
.
Tonight in this hesitant house
your dog and I sleep together
interdependently.
Tried to explain that you were
living somewhere else. Tried
to convince him that separation was
a given; tried to teach him that being
is eventually relinquished.
LW
.
Dear L
There is so much that I have to tell.
You’re right. From here on, no
more suicide notes. So
do we begin from scratch? If I upset
you, I offer my sincere regret.
It was never my intention. Be
aware (as before, that is what’s funny!)
that alone I cannot make it. I would deceive
myself if I thought I could. Believe
me when I tell you that I need you so.
More than you can ever know.
You’re good for me. Through thick
and thin you’ve always been quick
to adjust to my whims, my anxiety
and obsessions. You were beside me
through the madness with its endless pain.
Oh, can we then not start again?
So much that I still want to write
NB. If in an unguarded moment I were to…
Please promise to burn all my letters to you
.
instead of feeling I would rather
write, jot down, make lists
of feeling in the past tense: could
would, should. Use words like those.
perhaps. more tenuous tentative
symbols that make room for certainties
of loss. perhaps a grammar
of reproach. syntax of succumbing.
.
fear losing
my senses
in a nursery rhyme
.
Orlando,
Did you feel a little tug
as if your neck had snapped
that Friday at five to ten
time of death stoppage elision…
Must rewrite everything now
everything lying around: disjointed unbearable impossible
feel the nausea rising. Will
my feeling for you change now?
Lived in you for so long
What will the outcome really be?
Did you ever exist?
Did I just imagine you?
.
(From: Kamermusiek, Lapa, 2008)
(Tr. by Charl JF Cilliers)
Spinning Song
sail wide, my dearest, sail deep
across boundless seas, plow
your bowsprit through waves, ride too
the tide and underwater streams
set your sails to the wind
or to signals of lustful gods.
listen, dearest, to the voices
that drive you. listen to sirens’
songs. make plans, you
and your men – bind yourselves
with ropes, plug your ears with wax.
sail wide, my dearest, sail deep.
call in at islands, drink
wine, soak up the sun, tarry
and regain your strength for more
adventures. sail wide, my dearest,
sail deep across the ocean: tanned
and hardened by deprivation.
pursue stars, plan your journey
without a map and free, let horizons
guide you. sail wide, my dearest,
sail deep. i wash the fleece spin
billowing wool to thread, weave
flax to dishcloths, weave blankets.
i imprint you on a series
of tapestries. sail wide, my dearest.
i pen you in my weaver’s loom.
(From: Kamermusiek, Lapa, 2008)
(Tr. by Charl JF Cilliers)
Birthday Letters
And now, reading Ted Hughes,
a fish falls from the pages
shaped from binding wire one day
when we were still fishing, were flesh.
The wire left a mark, small
indentations in paper. Strange
that I kept something like that in a book
was always so careful with books
“That day the solar system married us
Whether we knew it or not”
Behind the ink my fingers feel, engraved
in the grain, the message in Braille
of the meteorite through our chimney
with our names written on it
(From: Kamermusiek, Lapa, 2008)
(Tr. by Charl JF Cilliers)
Translator:
Charl JF Cilliers was born in 1941 in Cape Town. Initially he went into the field of electronics and lectured for 4 years. He then joined Parliament as a translator in 1968 and retired in 1998 as Editor of Hansard. His first volume of poems West-Falling Light appeared in 1971, to be followed by Has Winter No Wisdom in 1978. His Collected Poems 1960 – 2008 appeared in 2008 and The Journey in 2010. His latest volume of poetry , A momentary stay. was published in 2011. He also published a volume of children’s poems, Fireflies Facing The Moon, in 2008. He has retired to the Cape West Coast where he continues to write.
Uittogboek 
