Seamus Heaney. Vertaling in Afrikaans
Friday, December 4th, 2020
Versindaba kompetisie vir vertaalde gedigte (38)
Seamus Heaney. Vertaling van Engels in Afrikaans. Vert. deur Charl-Pierre Naudé.
Dood van ʼn natuurkundige
Heeljaar lank het die vlasdam in die hart
van die hoewe geëtter; swaar koppe groen vlas
was reeds vrot daar; afgetrek deur reusagtige klodders.
En daagliks het die strawwe son dit laat verwelk.
Borreltjies het delikaat geskuim terwyl brommers
ʼn sterk gaas van klank om die stank weef.
Daar was naaldekokers, en skoenlappers met kolle,
maar die beste van alles was die lou, dik slym
paddakuit wat soos geklonte water
in die skadu van die oewers gegroei het.
Elke lente by die huis het ek konfytflesse vol
van die gestippelde kwab op vensterbanke gerankskik
en op rakke by die skool, om dop te hou, en gewag
vir die vetter wordende spikkels om oop te sweer
tot ratse paddavissies wat rondswem. Juffrou Walls
het vertel hoe die pappapadda ʼn brulpadda
heet en hoe hy kwaak, hoe die mammapadda
honderde eiertjies lê en dié was mos
die paddakuit. Jy kon weervoorspellings maak
deur na paddas te kyk, wat geel in die son
en bruin in die reën is.
En een warm dag toe die veld geil van die koeimis
in die gras geruik het, besluit die paddas
om die vlasdam te bestorm; deur die heg het ek
geduik om ʼn gekwaak te hoor soos nooit
tevore nie. Die lug was ruig van die baskoor.
Groot boepenspaddas het die lengte van die dam
afgekleim en was oorgehaal vir aksie op hul kluite;
die los nekvelle het gepuls soos bolseile.
Sommiges het gespring: die geflap-en-plons
was obsene dreigemente. Ander
het soos moddergranate gereed gesit
en gepoep met hul stomp koppe.
Ek was naar, moes omdraai en hardloop. Die groot
slymkonings was daar vergader vir wraak
en ek het geweet as ek my hand
in die water doop sal die kuit daarna gryp.
***
Death of a Naturalist
Seamus Heaney
All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.
Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.
Bronverwysing:
Heaney, Seamus. 1966. Uit: Death of a Naturalist. Faber & Faber.
