December: The Fall Umbel's Small Universe
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"O Heart, find here your counterpoise! As darkness lies for you in waiting, Be by God's goodness inspired, That closes for you the dark abyss Around the small universe of the poem." from H.W.J.M. Keuls, The Small Universe of the Poem This week, an image of an Umbel of Water Hemlock, detail. Also: seven new translations of Lowland poems. |
Zeven Gedichten; Seven Poems
The guest poems for this week are new English
translations of a set of seven Dutch pieces.
The featured poets are, H.W.J.M.
Keuls,,Jacob Winkler Prins, Martinus
Nijhoff,
Paul van Ostaijen, Guido Gezelle, Hieronymus van Alphen
and J.C.
Bloem.
The Fall Umbel's Small
Universe
Space! When we ponder
the image of the Water Hemlock umbel pictured above,
its spatial structure is in outline immediately clear to us. Out of a central
point on
the stem, the flower stalks seem to burst forth, radiating in all directions
at once.
(This is indeed how an umbel, sharing the same Latin root as umbrella,
is botanically
defined.) But what is more is that the same pattern is repeated on a smaller
scale,
with each of the stalks ending in a similar but much smaller cluster which
carries
the seeds. Notice that the photograph reveals to us this key feature of natural
space,
that is, that all similarities and differences of form are co-present. They
are all there
at the same time. But notice also that when we actually experience them,
either in
the field in the composition, and later, we shall see, in a poem, there is
an important
temporal aspect. The eye seems to wander on its own journey, of discovery,
moving
from one salient feature or center to the next.
Now if we were to imagine this wonderfully complex nested structure not as
we
see it in a photograph, with all its features co-present, but as slowly unfolding
in
time, we can begin to sense how we experience the imaginary qualities of
space
conjured up in a piece of music or a poem. Here, space is revealed to us
not all at
once, but rather step by step, as it were, each of which is remembered like
tracks
in the fresh snow of memory as composite pattern and texture. We are dealing
with a very subtle aspect of our perceptual experience. It is subtle in that,
in my view,
it is extremely real and vitally important, yet at the same time, unlike
the photograph
above, the trace it leaves is entirely "inward", that is, it can only be
described and
not actually physically displayed like we do with a photograph. This is evidently
one of the things that makes both poetry and music so difficult to get a
hold of
when we for what ever reason stop the actual flow and try to set down our
thoughts
in words.
Each of the seven Lowland poems presented this here in translation creates
its own
unique quality of such space. In H.W.J.M. Keuls' classic little
The Small Universe
of the Poem the magic of poetic space has become
the subject itself: "A space in
which are finely woven /All accentsreaching to the light." And then in
Jacob Winkler
Prins' charming Outside and
Inside, the space described in the poem has
become
the space between us, the readers, and the poet himself: "You see from
outside through
the curtain, So in between the screen and shade, / From every object a glance
uncertain,
Each appearance indefinite made!" So he's telling us we have to slow
down a bit to
actually enter properly a poem's space. With Martinus Nijhoff's
The Dance, we
have
yet another inside/outside poem, but this time about the poet himself, about
some quality
of being which is struggling to get out: "Under my skin lives a captive
animal /That wildly
moves and bites his way outside, / His dark blood throbs, his terse muscles
/Tremble in
such cramped bondage."
Next, with Fall
Landscape by Paul van Ostaijen, we sense how
in the manner of a
Rembrandt sketch, with but a few words, a kind of timeless space is called
into being. We
are there, not in the much harder objective sense of the black and white
photograph, but
actually standing there, watching: "Behind the wagon drifts lantern light
/ a thin wedge of
clarity along the dark and deep way."
With Song of the
Hearth, by Guido Gezelle, we are back in a
more light-hearted
way to our inside/outside theme, now with the poet happily seated in front
of a fire and
prepared for whatever the elements might bring: "Welcome Winter, how cracks
your ice? /
Fills your snow the valleys? / I have here spring thaw at the hearth /And
no fire to fetch./
Blow you storm, through the firmament? / Wall and roof can bare it."
In The Faded
Rose, a famous little poem by Hieronymus van
Alphen, by contrast,
we're given a comic spatial setting of the great and hardy poetic perennials:
decay, loss,
death: "Why for fades the rose so fast? / Asked John: could it not different
be!"
Homeward Traveler, by J.C. Bloem, brings
our sequence of seven poems to a more
serious conclusion. Here, we are presented with one spatial image after the
other. He
begins with the matter of fact, "In a train." Although this would
most likely work less
strongly with North American readers, any Eurpean is instantly transported
to the unique
quality of space and movement so characteristic of train travel: a kind of
gently rocking,
almost floating movement; the strong sense of forward momentum rushing towards
a
central goal, yet at the same time passive—one need do nothing, the
mind is free to wander,
observe. And this is the journey, then, which we are privileged to take together
with
another in the space which the poem creates both for and with us: "O I
cannot make my
heart believe /--Heart, grown use to every absence-- / That a moment can
extinguish /
That for which a life is not too long":
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Het Klein Helaal van het
Gedicht Het klein heelal van het gedicht: De aanvang is een zacht ontroeren, Een ruimte, die zich in wil snoeren, Beklemming reikend naar het licht. Dan toonen woorden hun gezicht En stamelende stemmen voeren In 't klein heelal van het gedicht. O hart, vind hier uw evenwicht! Als duisternissen op u loeren, Laat van Gods goedheid u beroeren, Die sluit voor u den afgrond dicht Om 't klein heelal van 't gedicht. H.W.J.M. Keuls (1883-1968) |
The Small Universe of the Poem The small universe of the poem: The beginning is so gently moving, A space in which are finely woven All accents reaching to the light. Then show the words their friendly faces That faltering voices do impart In the small universe of the poem. O Heart, find here your counterpoise! As darkness lies for you in waiting, Be by God's goodness inspired, That closes for you the dark abyss Around the small universe of the poem. |
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Buiten en
Binnen 't Is met de verzen van den dichter Als met zijn huis, dat ge in wilt spiên: Al schijnt de zon, al blinkt het licht er, Kunt ge in 't voorbijgaan weinig zien. Ge ziet van buiten door 't gordijntje, Zoo tusschen hor en valgordijn, Van ieder voorwerp slechts een schijntje, Een onbepaalden schemerschijn! Leest gij zijn verzen zoo eens even, Zoo tusschen droom en waken in, Dan speurt ge er in geen licht, geen leven, Zelfs geen begrijpelijken zin. 't Blijft alles flauw en scheemrig, donker; — Doch kom eens binnen, rust een poos: Gij ziet er beeld- en kleurgeflonker En op zijn tafel geurt een roos! Jacob Winkler Prins (1849-1907) |
Outside and Inside So it is with those who verses write As with his house, in which you peep: Tho' shines the sun, tho' blinks a light, In merely passing you but little keep. You see from outside through the curtain, So in between the screen and shade, From every object a glance uncertain, Each appearance indefinite made! When you read his verses slightly, So in between dream and awakening, That you sense not light, not life, Not even a phrase with understanding. All remains so dull and misty, obscure;— Yet come inside and yourself compose: You'll see there picture— a spark of color, And at his table the scent of rose! |
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De
Danser Onder mijn huid leeft een gevangen dier Dat wild beweegt en zich naar buiten bijt, Zijn donker bloed bonst, zijn gedrongen spier Trilt in krampachtige gebondenheid. Totdat zijn pijn als warmte door mij glijdt En dwingt naar 't worden van gebaren wier Beheerschte haast en vastgehouden zwier Zijn vaart nog spannen eer hij zich bevrijdt. Men moet gepoederd zijn, dat in 't gelaat Alleen het zwart der openschroeiende oogen Den waanzin van 't inwendig dier verraadt. De mond moet, roodgeverfd en opgebogen, Zoo god'lijk trots zijn, dat hij weten laat Dat zich zijn breeden lach heeft volgezogen. Martinus Nijhoff (1894-1953) uit: Vormen (1924) |
The Dancer Under my skin lives a captive animal That wildly moves and bites his way outside, His dark blood throbs, his terse muscles Tremble in such cramped bondage. Until his pain as warmth glides through me And forces the birth of gestures, whose Hardly mastered and determined elegance, Strains his momentum before he himself has freed. One must be made up, that in one's countenance Only the blackness of eyes singed opened The insanity of the interior beast betrays. The mouth, painted red and upturned, must Be so heavenly proud, that he lets it be known That his wide laugh has been fully realized. |
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Herfstlandschap In de mist is trage een os met een ossewagen stappend naast de mist nooit mist zijn maat de os van de ossewagen Uit de mist in de mist met de hortende wagen dut de wagenvoerder zich niet vast in een spoorloze slaap Achter aan de wagen drijft lantaarnlicht een geringe wig van klaarte in de donkerdiepstraat Paul van Ostaijen (1896-1926) |
Fall Landscape In the mist moves slowly an ox and an ox car stepping next to the mist never missing his cadence the ox and the ox car Out of the mist in the mist with the jerking wagon the wagon driver lightly naps in a traceless sleep Behind the wagon drifts lantern light a thin wedge of clarity along the dark and deep way. |
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Zang bij den
Haard Welkom, Winter! kraakt uw ijs? Vult uw sneeuw de dalen? 'k Heb hier dooiweêr aan den haard, En geen brand te halen. Blaast gij storm, door 't vliegend zwerk? Muur en dak kan 't lijden. Giet gij vocht in stroomen neêr? 't Valt mijn glas bezijden. Krimpt de dag? te minder nood, Om bij licht te gapen. Rekt de nacht? het komt hem wel, Die gepaard mag slapen. Laat de hof geen sappig ooft Op mijn tafel blinken? Drooge spijs teert even goed, Bij wat ruimer drinken. Plas dan, Winter, met uw nat; Storm en vries daar buiten; Jaag uw ligte vlokken rond, Voor mijn digte ruiten; Geef ons half rantsoen van dag, En een schotel minder; Welgemoed, bij zang en wijn, Klaag ik van geen hinder. Guido Gezelle (1830-1899) |
Song of the Hearth Welcome Winter, how cracks your ice? Fills your snow the valleys? I have here spring thaw at the hearth And no fire to fetch. Blow you storm, through the firmament? Wall and roof can bare it. Pour you dampness down in streams? My glass shall aside it put. Shrinks the day? then less necessity By light to yawn. Stretches the night? then suits him well Who together will sleep. Does the garden no sappy fruit On my table shine? Dry fare does just as well digest, With more ample drink. Pour then, Winter, with your damp; Storm and freeze outside; Drive your light flakes around, In front of my closed windows; Give us but half our rations this day, And one dish less; High-spirited, with song and wine, Of no hinder I complain. |
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De Verwelkte
Roos Waarom verwelkt de roos zo ras? Zei Jantjen: och of 't anders was! God wierd ook, dunktme, meer geprezen Zoo 't roosje langer bleef in wezen. Al denktge, datge 't wel doorziet, Mijn lieve Jan! het is zo niet. De Schepper weet het best van allen, Waarom 't zo schielijk af moet vallen; En wil ook, datge gadeslaat, Hoe ras het aardsche schoon vergaat. De Schepper, dien 't ons past te vreezen Wordt door bedillen nooit geprezen. Hieronymus van Alphen (1746-1803) |
The Faded Rose Why for fades the rose so fast? Asked John: could it not different be! God then be more praised, thought he, If before it goes more days had past. And you thought, that you had seen, My dear John! but life is not what it seems. The Creator knows best of all, Why the rose must so shortly fall; And wishes too, that you consider How earthly virtues soon disappear. The Creator, serves us first to dread When by finders of fault all praise is dead. |
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Huiswaarts
Reizende In de trein. De tijd vergaat met dromen. Op de ruitjes wiegelt avondrood. Als ik bij U ben gekomen, Ben ik weer wat nader bij mijn dood. Maar daar zal ik neder zijn gezeten In verzadigdheid en lampenschijn. Alles zal ik zijn vergeten Dan dit enige: bij U te zijn. Deze liefde kent geen gaan en keren, Kent geen afstand en gewiekten tijd; De ene drang van haar begeren In haar hongeren naar eeuwigheid. O ik kan mijn hart niet doen geloven --Hart, dat zich gewende aan elk gemis-- Dat een ogenblik kan doven Waar een leven niet te lang voor is. J.C. Bloem (1887-1966) |
Homeward Traveler In the train. Time passes with dream. Upon the panes sways the sunset hour. Once I have arrived at your door, Shall I once again be closer to my death. But there I shall have sat me down in satiety and in the lamps soft glow. Everything I shall have forgotten But this one thing: to be with you. This love knows neither turn nor going, Knows not distance and fleeting hour; The one forced by its desire In its hunger for eternity. O I cannot make my heart believe --Heart, grown use to every absence-- That a moment can extinguish That for which a life is not too long. (all tr. Cliff Crego) |
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See also: new |
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"Straight
roads, Slow rivers, Deep clay." |
A collection of contemporary Dutch poetry in English translation, with commentary and photographs by Cliff Crego |
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See also another website by Cliff Crego: The Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke |
A presentation of 80 of the best poems of Rilke in both German and new English translations: biography, links, posters |