Marcel Van Maele

Yesterday there was an opening of an exhibition De Tuin van Marcel in Gent, Belgium. Marcel van Maele was an experimental, free spirit and great poet:
A translation auhtorised by Marcel:

And when he spoke

And when he spoke
it was time and he thought
I’ll celebrate the years with water and fire
stalk heaven and earth.

A handful of sounds,
muffled cries, mumbles
of Tartarians and barbarians,
comments of prophets.
Moldered gestures and ten fingers
to see.

Rumble of clouded tongues of fire and we
hardly awaiting our survival
hopefully sit on a dry limb while
the omnipotent magic man dances for rain.

With the crack of thunder all is stilled
a petrified salute
a frozen spring breeze.
The poplars standing there, stare
at the full moon, a green longing
covered with a sheen of seemingness.

Rhymed sonnet

Paul Gellings, a Dutch poet, novelist and French specialist and literary translator was visiting. I had translated the following sonnet from his Amsterdam poems in an unrhymed version. He preferred a rhymed version. I am showing here the steps of the translation process. First you find the Dutch original poem.

DE NACHTWACHT
Glans en daglicht langzaamaan geoxideerd
tot avond met een ander, dieper perspectief
in de alkoven thuis had men elkander lief
en bij de hoeren werd het vlees geëerd

in gezelschap van het vroeg gestorven kind
in ons ontwaken wij nog steeds om twaalf uur
nu er op uit! het feest is slechts van korte duur!
gelukkig kent onze kapitein de route blind

men hoort de lansen op de Kloveniersburgwal
men ziet de vlammen op de toortsen trillen
en kijk, daar is de Dam, het Damrak al

dan verstrakken wij weer wanneer in de prille
zon de vensters hier opeens gaan zinderen
en wij alleen nog leven in het oog van kinderen

The first translation was without rhyme:
NIGHTWATCH

Luster and daylight slowly oxidize
into evening with a different, deeper perspective
in the alcoves at home one loved each other
and with the whores the flesh was celebrated

in the company of a prematurely dead child
in us we still wake up at twelve
now let's go! the party doesn't last!
luckily our captain knows the road blindfolded

one hears the lances on the Kolveniersbrugwal
one sees the flames tremble on the torches
and look, already there is the Dam, the Damrak

then we tighten up again when in the earliest
sun the windows here suddenly shimmer
and we only live in the eyes of children

In the next version Paul Gellings came up with some rhyme words. He showed me this way how far I could go in taking liberties with his original. He choose a few silly/strange rhymes to alleviate my uneasiness with the process.
His didactic translation of his NIGHTWATCH:

Luster and daylight slowly oxidize
into in evening with its deeper inner size
in the alcoves at home one procreated
and with the whores the flesh was celebrated

in the company of the prematurely dead child
in us we still wake up in the heat of the night
now let's go! the party will be short and wild
luckily the captain's road is always right

one hears the lances on the canal side
one sees the torches flames have fun
and look, already there is the Dam, the city's pride

then we tighten up again when in the morning sun
the darkness in the windows dies
and we only live in children's eyes

This lead to the following result after 1 AM, going yoo far away from the original and finding a way back. Fun process.

Nightwatch

Luster and daylight slowly oxidized
into an evening with a different deeper side
in alcoves we loved behind closed doors
while the flesh was celebrated with the whores

in the company of our child, too soon dead and past
we still wake up at twelve at night
now let's go! The feast wont last
luckily the captain's road is always right

listen to the lances singing over Shooter's wall
see the flames on torches where they run
now look there is the Dam, the Damrak, see it all

so we return to stillness in the budding sun
the windows now ablaze
alive only in our children's gaze

Sometimes we only need a bit of encouragement, a free rein and the trust of the author.

Die ewige See * The eternal sea

This is a poem by Fred Schywek, poet from the Lower Rhine. This is a preview of Hafenklänge, Havenklanken, Sounds of Harbour, Sons du Port, by world internet books production. 

*

Six poets write about harbours, wind, the sea and longing... To be published September 2010. Presentation in Antwerp during The 1st European Festival of Poetry.

Die ewige See

Die Seele

allein auf

weiten Horizonten

so weit geht

meine Liebe

Marsmenschen landen

traurig und scharf

mit rostroten Segeln

und schwarzen Mast

über dunklen unbekannten

Wassern vom Ozean

zwischen mir und tot

liegt eine dünne Feder

und zwei Hohe Augen

Monster erklären

die Geschichten

verschluckt im Krug

die ewige Frau

oh du sailor

dell the truth

Spiegel dich

Fliegender Kapitän

vom Deck

Scheiß auf Wind

Fluch es weg

Laß uns segeln

bis zum Ende der Tage

ohne je zu sterben

Fred Schywek

*

The eternal sea

The soul

alone on

wide horizons

so far goes

my love

Martians land

sad and sharp

with rust red sails

and black mast

over dark unknown

waters of the Ocean

between me and dead

lies a thin feather

and two High Eyes

monsters explain

the stories

swallowed in the goblet

the eternal woman

oh you skipper

dell the truth

Mirror yourself

Flying Captain

of the Deck

Shit on the wind

curse it away

let’s sail

till the end of days

without ever dying

Fred Schywek

treaties would be signed...

A poem of James Welch based on his Blackfoot family stories told during his childhood. He is better know as a great novelist.

James Welch

The end came easy for most of us.
Packed away in our crude beginnings
in some far corner of a flat world,
we didn't expect much more
than firewood and buffalo robes
to keep us warm. The man came down,
a sloughing dwarf with rainwater eyes,
and spoke to us. He promised
that life would go on as usual,
that treaties would be signed, and everyone -
man, women, and child - would be inoculated
against a world in which we had no part,
a world of money, promise and disease.

Het einde was makkelijk voor de meesten van ons.
Weggestopt in onze grove oorsprongen
in een verre hoek van een platte wereld,
verwachtten we niet veel meer
dan brandhout en bizonvesten
om ons warm te houden. De man kwam hierheen,
een gebogen dwerg met regenwaterogen,
en hij sprak tot ons. Hij beloofde
dat verdragen zouden worden getekend, en iedereen -
man, vrouw en kind - zou worden ingeënt
tegen een wereld waarin we geen rol spelen,
een wereld van geld, beloften en ziekte.

Harbors

A lot of people are intrigued by water, streams, seas and cities on a stream, cities with a harbor. The writing about it is very diverse. Our current house guest is one of the poets participating in the 1st European Festival of the Art of Poetry Wilfried Bienek. Here follows one of his harbor poems in German and Brittish English.

Nie ohne Hafen

Ohne Hafen wüssten Schiffe nicht wohin.

Zugang von Wasser zu Land, von Meer zum Zuhaus.
Grauer Städte Mauern. Zuhaus hinter Kais. Die feste Burg.
Die Hafenstadt aus Menschen an lebenslangen Ankern.

Stinkend steht der Fisch im Wasser, riecht nie sich selbst.
Möwen fischen aus trübem Dunst wie Gespenster nach ihren Schiffen. Nach jeder Sintflut Ebbe mit neuer Besatzung.

Ratten bleiben, doch Menschen sinken von Bord in den Boden.
Der Seemann hisst seine Bräute neben dem Schiff. Dann facht er an den Sturm in Herzen, die noch nicht schlagen, für bald.

Nimm mich mit Kapitän auf Container. Macht nicht der Hafen
alle satt? Stumme Maschinen. Menschen unter Dampf. Schiffe
mit Himmelbetten und Tötungsgerät frei Villa Kunterbunt.

Jenseits oder Längsseits. Wer nicht untergehen will, geht
unter Menschen und wer will dito. Versicherte Robinsons warten
auf Freitag der niemals verlässt, was er ist: eine Insel.

Ohne Hafen wüssten Schiffe nicht wohin.

Never without harbour

Without harbours boats wouldn’t know where to go.

Access from water to land, from sea to the home.
Gray city walls. Home behind quays. The steadfast fortress.
The harbour city of people on lifelong anchors.

Stinging the fish stands in the water, never smells itself.
Seagulls fish out of turbid vapours, ghosts after their ships. After each
flood low tide with a new crew.

Rats stay, but people sink off board to the bottom.
The seaman hoists his brides next to the ship. Then he fans the storm in
the hearts, not yet beating, for soon.

Take me along captain on container. Doesn’t the harbour
fill all? Silent machines. People under steam. Ships
with canopies and killing equipment port free Villa Villekulla.

The other side or long side. Who doesn’t want to go down, goes
among people and who wants dito. Insured Robinsons wait
for Friday who never leaves what he is: an island.

Without harbours boats wouldn’t know where to go.

Wilfried Bienek is a Poet against War. Right on!

How much reality?

I am reading a long interview with Christa Wolff, a German author, formerly East-Germany (GDR). I am intrigued that in speaking about her latest book Stadt der Engel oder The Overcoat of Dr. Freud that she wanted to create a texture that was as close of possible to the stark reality of her Stasi past. Her frustration is the split between how we think and how we write: three thoughts interwoven, circling, flashing, stopping, noisy in our head and on the other hand being unhappy because writing is a linear activity... Is it? Maybe it is different for poetry, maybe I am influenced by the translation process of poetry which to me isn't linear at all. And then I wonder is sincerity and being as close as possible to the truth the same? Is emotionality the truth? I must agree with Mary McCarthy in her essay On Madame Bovary that probably Flaubert's friends "suggested her case to him as the subject for a novel, on the writing course principle of 'Write about what you know' " So what is the difference between a chronicle, a good piece of historical writing and a novel? What is happening to imagination in novels? Is the truth and nothing but the truth possible in autobiographical writing? Should it matter? Or is the importance an interesting, well written book, whether true or not? In other words do novels have to stand the test of truth commissions?

We AIM Not to Please

One more poem for Unciya and Hakate, now in the Indian scouting camp.

We AIM not to please, a poem by Dennis Banks

They call us the New Indians.
Hell, we are the Old Indians,
the landlords of this continent,
coming to collect the rent.

Zij noemen ons de nieuwe indianen
verduveld wij zijn de oude indianen
de huisbaas van dit continent
die de huur komen ontvangen