Today’s poem is chosen and introduced by Teacher of English and History, Ms Geussens.
“We have had some brilliant poems in translation featured in the FHS Poem of the Day. Of course, I cannot not let this go on any longer without representing some Dutch poetry. Today’s poem is by M. Vasalis, one of the most celebrated 20th-century poets of the Netherlands. M. Vasalis was her pen name; Margaretha Leenmans translated her own last name, which means something like “vassal”, into Latin, so that she could establish a kind of poetic persona of her own, separate from her busy life as a mother and practising psychiatrist.
Translation is a fascinating poetic issue. What should a translator focus on? The meaning of words? The sound of the poem? The tone created? All of the above, ideally, but sometimes choices have to be made, and there is no guarantee that you and the translator even agree on the meaning, the sound, or the tone. Does that mean, then, that a translation is an entirely new piece of work?
I love reading the winners of the Spender Prize every year (scroll down for the ‘booklets’). Any language is eligible, and there are under-18 and under-14 categories. The deadline is 17 July 2020; perhaps some of you will be interested.
The following poem has been one of my favourites since I was young. It is a fantastical dream vision, scary and beautiful, with a deliberately tense and awkward rhythm. I was reminded of it because, under lockdown, it does seem like time has become both more fluid and more rigid. The days pass similarly, even as world-changing events happen; we continue to grow and change, even as we are stuck in place. Luckily, Vasalis is only dreaming, and we too will wake up – albeit with a new perspective.”
TIME
M. Vasalis
I dreamt that I lived very slowly,
slower than the oldest rock…
It was horrific: surrounded wholly
by shooting upwards, shudder, shock
of former quiet things. I could see
tree trunks urgently wringing
out of the earth, their hoarse and halting singing;
as seasons hurtled through the nation
with streaks of rainbow colouration…
I saw the tremor of the sea,
its swelling and then quickly shrinking,
almost like a huge throat drinking.
And days and night in turn expire,
flare up then out: a flickering fire.
– The great despair and eloquence
in the gesticulation of all matter
that seemed so still, their frightened scatter,
their breathless strife for precedence…
How could I not have seen it yet,
not seen it in my ignorance?
How am I ever to forget?
The original text:
TIJD
Ik droomde, dat ik langzaam leefde ….
langzamer dan de oudste steen.
Het was verschrikkelijk: om mij heen
schoot alles op, schokte of beefde,
wat stil lijkt. ‘k Zag de drang waarmee
de bomen zich uit de aarde wrongen
terwijl ze hees en hortend zongen;
terwijl de jaargetijden vlogen
verkleurende als regenbogen …..
Ik zag de tremor van de zee,
zijn zwellen en weer haastig slinken,
zoals een grote keel kan drinken.
En dag en nacht van korte duur
vlammen en doven: flakkrend vuur.
– De wanhoop en welsprekendheid
in de gebaren van de dingen,
die anders star zijn, en hun dringen,
hun ademloze, wrede strijd ….
Hoe kón ik dat niet eerder weten,
niet beter zien in vroeger tijd ?
Hoe moet ik het weer ooit vergeten ?
