The year 1947
A new ball game
We played
with our ball
outside the seaside flat,
he three, I five.
Not far away we could hear
the sea talking
like grown-ups about things
we were not supposed to hear.
Two Indian boys drove
their horse-drawn cart past,
laden with fruit and vegetables,
that slurped up the sunlight
through their technicolours.
A horse! Excitement
spurted through my arm.
I threw the ball in a high arc.
It landed among tomatoes
the colour of fresh blood.
The boys talked rapidly
to each other.
One picked up the ball
and put it in his pocket.
They drove off.
The sunshine became dry
like an old newspaper
dated 1947.
In two years' time I would go to school,
there would be a new government.
Read more poems here
Tranströmer se gedig oor 'n egpaar
Die paar
Hulle skakel die lamp af en die wit bol
gloei 'n oomblik terwyl dit oplos
soos 'n pil in 'n glas donkerte. Dan opstyg.
Die hotelmure skuif op in die donker lug.
Die hartstog het bedaar en hulle slaap nou
maar hulle geheime gedagtes sal ontmoet
soos wanneer twee kleure ontmoet en inmekaar vloei
op die nat papier van 'n kind se tekenboek.
Dis oral donker en stil. Maar die stad krimp nader
in die nag. Vensters word uitgewis. Huise kom nader.
Hulle staan saamgedring en wag, baie naby
'n klomp mense met uitdrukkinglose gesigte.
Uit Sweeds vertaal deur De Waal Venter
Paret
Tomas Tranströmer
De släcker lampan och dess vita kup skomrar
ett ögonblick innan den löses upp
som en tablett i ett glas mörker. Sedan lyftas.
Hotellets väggar skjuter upp i himmelsmörkret.
Kärlekens rörelser har mojnat och de sover
men deras hemligaste tankar möts
som när två färger möts och flyter in i varann
på det våta papperet i en skolpojksmålning.
Det är mörkt och tyst. Men staden har ryckt närmare
i natt. Med släckta fönster. Husen kom.
De står i hopträngd väntan mycket nära,
en folkmassa med uttryckslösa ansikten.
Lees nog gedigte hier
Praying in this day and age
Jose Clemente Orozco painting "Gods of The Modern World" portrays the elites of Higher Education in all their costume and Garb, of both American and European dress as being dead or nearly dead men. Page Smith uses Orozco's painting (which adorns a wall in the library of Dartmouth College) on the cover of his book Killing The Spirit, a most powerful and complimentary Union. The imagery based on the theme of the book would draw one to conclude that these skeletal elites in Education have "killed" things "spiritual" which leaves death. The painting illustrates a vain attempt to bring forth life from that which is dead. What symbolism lay behind the fetus like figures upon whose skulls we find the adorning of a graduation cap?
Praying is becoming very technical
The old gods
gave body to our rages,
to our wisdom, our jealousies;
they gave love a face,
they soothed our bodies
when we were wounded,
when we were ill.
It now seems
we have new gods –
who rebuild our bodies,
explain our loves and hates,
help us to kill
with uninhibited violence.
They whisper in our ears
that we can leave the earth
and come back
without dying.
Our new gods
help us to pry
into the soul of life,
to understand how to reassemble
our bodies.
But we do not know
on whose side
these new gods are.
Read more poems hereGood citizens
The satirist addresses the Civic Association
Ladies and gentlemen,
I will now ride roughshod
over your beliefs, conventions and emotions
on my satirical high horse
since you invited me to do so.
Churches, the houses of the meek,
are built with astounding lack of taste,
some more hideous
than the architectural nightmares
the nouveau riche regard as chic.
Frequenters of these premises
shop in malls
in ways that point
mockingly to their worst characteristics:
swelling stomachs, fat legs, ungainly gaits,
hackneyed postures, greasy skins;
their hair burned with dyes,
cut in styles defiant of belief.
These are the people who believe
in the good nature of their fellows
when they harbour only
contempt and some fear of each other.
Do you have a saving grace,
ladies and gentlemen?
I think so;
you will generally not do something criminal
if you think you will be caught.
Read more poems here
Do hairy mammoths roam on Tuesdays?
Tuesday morning
Galaxies drift
past my window,
or is it morning fog?
That is certainly the shape
of a hairy mammoth
dissolving at the end of the garden;
do they eat tomatoes?
The hull of a sailing ship
takes a while
to slide past;
I caught a glimpse of a bearded face
in the canon port
next to the piece.
A melodious foghorn,
can it be?
Or is it a dove
hypnotised by the grey
flowing universe this Tuesday?
The smell of a woman's hands
that worked with onions and parsley,
an orange cut, tear-dropping juice
across the dial that tells
us this morning will last
only till the end.
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Time passes and time passes
Once a whole cup
The sun has warmed
the sherd,
a piece of white porcelain,
part of an ear still attached.
It is partially buried in the soil,
not even close
to a house
in the veld.
It is all that is left
of the life
of a family,
a father. mother, two daughters
three sons.
Who broke the cup
that was once overflowing?
It was broken
by the tidy steps of seconds,
the tiny feet of time.
Great grandchildren
cannot remember
their great grandmother's love,
their great grandfather's helping hands.
The cup is broken.
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Rymdwang kry 'n joppie in 'n groen gedig
Jagter, anders as uil, en ook jakkals
Jakkals glip
deur my ore.
Sy neus ruik
nat vleis, rooi.
Jakkals draf
tussen die lang bene
van die gras.
Ek kyk en sien
hoe jakkals wag,
sy nagse glimlag.
Eenkant die uil
se doringpunt oog,
steek vas
op die mys se sagte vleis.
Jakkals los
party van die vleis,
laat hulle weghol,
hy't net een maag.
Uil vang net vir stadige mys
want hy's wys.
Ek nou?
Ek kan baie doodmaak.
Lees nog gedigte hier
Distant women
Woman troubles
Sigmund closes his eyes
as he listens to Niels
describe the massive tumbling about
of a grain of sand
he had found in a woman's hand.
It is about nine hundred micron long,
Niels thinks and adds
that he wants to measure it precisely
as soon as he has set up the apparatus.
Quartzite is Niels' description of it,
primitive sand crystallised
over many millions of years.
The mass of it he puts at roughly a tenth of a gram,
and is willing to debate the figure after the decimal point.
The point he is trying to make,
and he wants Sigmund to listen carefully,
is that this massive object
consists of predominantly, abundantly nothing:
silicon atoms hanging around
bound only weakly by forces,
out of sight of each other.
Niels' thoughts take a tumble.
The lady I told you about …
Sigmund nods.
She's like those atoms,
almost out of sight.
Is it natural to be much closer? Sigmund asks.
Yes, how close should a man and a woman be?
Niels wonders.
………………..
Sigmund Freud born Sigismund Schlomo Freud (6 May 1856 – 23 September 1939), was an Austrian neurologist who founded the psychoanalytic school of psychology.
Niels Henrik David Bohr 7 October 1885 – 18 November 1962) was a Danish physicist who made fundamental contributions to understanding atomic structure and quantum mechanics, for which he received the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1922.
Read more poems here
Noorweë se groen digter
Op wiele – (al in die rondte)
In die meganiese stad
waar alles op wiele loop
om gou te kan geniet
en geld te maak om alles te koop
daar ken niemand mekaar meer nie
want hulle het nie tyd nie
want hulle loop op wiele
en koop lekker dinge
om dit te kan geniet
en jongmense sorg vir hulle eie plesier
en oumense gaan lê om te sterf
want niemand het tyd en niemand lewenswysheid
want dit gaan oor vergeet en om gou te geniet
terwyl die ligte rooi flits en groen flits
loop alles op wiele
al in die rondte
om en om
ens. ens ........
Uit Noorweegs vertaal deur De Waal Venter
RULLE RUNDT - (OG RUNDT)
I den tekniske byen
hvor alle ruller rundt på hjul
så de kan bli glade fort
og få penger så de kan kjøpe alt
der kjenner ingen hverandre mer
for de har ikke tid
for de skal rulle rundt på hjul
og kjøpe morsomme ting
så de kan bli glade fort
så alle barn kan passe seg selv
og alle gamle må legge seg og dø
for ingen har tid og ingen vet levende råd
for det gjelder å glemme og det gjelder
å bli glade fort
mens lysene blinker rødt og blinker
grønt
ruller alle rundt på hjul
ruller rundt
og rundt og rundt
osv. osv……
Universiteit van Stellenbosch se Woordfees van 2 tot 11 Mart se tema vanjaar is Groen. Die soort groen wat te doen het met die bewaring van ons ekologie en die besinning oor die bedreiging van ons omgewing.
Ons is natuurlik nie die enigste land wat diep dink hieroor nie. Vandag se gedig is deur een van Noorweë se bekendste digters, Rolf Jacobsen. Hy staan bekend as Noorweë se "Groen" digter.
Rolf Jacobsen (March 8, 1907—1994) could be said to be the first modernist writer in Norway. Jacobsen's career as a writer spanned more than fifty years. He is one of Scandinavia’s most distinguished poets, who launched poetic modernism in Norway with his first book, Jord og jern (Earth and Iron) in 1933. Jacobsen's work has been translated into over twenty languages. The central theme in his work is the balance between nature and technology - he was called "the Green Poet" in Norwegian literature.
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Jacobsen often expressed ironically his doubts about technology, and praised the blessings of little joys. Sometimes he used humor, sometimes his poems had hymnlike solemnity. In Hamar, Jacobsen lived in an old wooden house near Lake Mjøsa and the railroad. These surroundings he also described in his poems. Jacobsen's later books include Pass for dørene - dørene lukkes (1972), Pusteøvelse (1975), and Tenk på noe annet (1979).
Jacobsen died on February 20, 1994.
Lees nog gedigte hier
Die Noorweegse digter Jon Fosse
Die berg hou sy asem in
daar was 'n diep asemteug
en toe staan die berg daar
toe staan die berge daar
en so staan die berge daar
en buig neer
en neer
in hulleself
en hou hulle asem in
terwyl hemel en see
stoot en stu
hou die berg sy asem in
Uit Noorweegs vertaal deur De Waal Venter
FJELLET HELD ANDEN
anden vart trekt djupt
og så stod fjellet der
så stod fjella der
og slik står fjella der
og nedover
i seg sjølv
og held anden medan himmel og hav
stryk og slår
held fjellet anden
Luister hier na 'n voorlesing van die gedig in Noorweegs.
Jon Fosse
(Norway, 1959)
“Flotsam and jetsam” is how the Norwegian author Jon Fosse labels his poetry – something that happens to float past in the course of the writing process. It’s an image that fits with Fosse; he grew up on the banks of the Hardangerfjord, a landscape full of undulating lines, water and wind, rocks and rain. This scenery is a recurring motif in his work.
The greatest common denominator in Fosse’s work is repetition. His language is musical, working suggestively through simple, unelaborate word choices and a repetitive rhythm. Particularly in his novels and novellas, the story is propelled along by that rhythm, continuously, and without the interruption of full stops, if necessary. Though challenging to the reader, putting the work aside is pointless, you’ll simply pick up the book again, caught in the melody.
For Fosse himself, the message and meaning of the art isn’t important, rather it’s what he calls “the silent voice”: an insight, something experienced between the lines, behind the words, in the existential silences amongst the undulating lines, water and wind, rocks and rain . . .
