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Fri 1 May, 2009 06:19 pm
Hugo Claus (died 2008) is no less than our flemish national poet, and yet I like only a few of his poems. Such as the following that I feel as incredibly tender and melancholic. I made a literal translation of this little gem, and I wonder whether anything of it will survive my translation and whether this text can strike a cord with the american public. Two footnotes: Ostend is an old aristocratic town on the belgian coast, and the "master" refers to a bronze bust of James Ensor, painter-of-the-dead and citizen of Ostend. And of course it is the poet himself. Any reactions?
Ostend.
Here my existence began to decay.
I was 19, I slept
in the Hotel de Londres on the highest floor.
The mailboat passed under my window.
Each night the town abandoned itself to
the waves.
I was 19, I played cards
with the fishermen from the Icelandic.
They came in from the Great Cold,
ears and eyelashes full of salt, and
they bite in lumps of raw
pig meat.
Ah the clicking of the dice! In those times
of darts and dice I always won.
Then at dawn past the cathedral,
that stone texture of fear,
past the empty dike, the casino,
the night-cafes
with the hollow-eyed croupiers,
the bankrupt bankers,
the english girls with tuberculosis.
And from the turquoise sea
the cruel screaming of the sea-gulls.
"Come inside, mister Wind!"
Shouts an exuberant child.
And over Ostend blows a cloud of sand
from the invisible other side,
from misty England
and the Sahara.
Past the windows of the drugstores,
where in those days condoms were sold whispering,
past the pier and the breakwaters,
the fish market and its sea-monsters,
the races where on a certain Sunday
I no longer won.
Sundays that came and went.
Nights in the Hotel of the Thermes
where I was frightened by her moaning,
her sighs, her singing,
that sound still haunts my
memories.
Other islands, seas, deserts,
I have known, Istambul that castle-in-the-air,
Chien-Mai with its landmines,
Zanzibar in the heath of cinnamon,
the slow slow Tage. They disappear
slowly.
Sharper in the light of the North
I see the childlike face
of the Master of Ostend hidden in his beard.
He was once of bone,
then of wax,
now of bronze,
the bronze in which he
smiles for his stone-dead youth.
? Hugo Claus
Translation Catchabula
@Catchabula,
Just adding that when the Poet died at the age of 78 he wanted his ashes to be dispersed before the coast of Ostend. There was a little fuzz about this as it could not be done on the beach and a boat had to be chartered. Love is a many splendored thing...
@Catchabula,
with the fishermen from the Icelandic.
(should be)
with the fishermen from Iceland.
they bite in lumps of raw
pig meat.
(should say)
they bit into lumps of raw
pork.
(pig meat is ok, but not quite correct)
where in those days condoms were sold whispering,
(should be)
where in those days condoms were sold in whispers,
(perhaps)
where in those days condoms were sold while whispering,
or else it sounds like it is the condom that is whispering
poetic license?
Istambul
(Istanbul)
a lovely poem, so lovely in fact, i had to help with the translation
the poem and poet deserve the respect
@Catchabula,
Thanks a lot, Poseidon. As God of the Sea you will appreciate the melancholic beauty of the town of Ostend, and of course of this poem. I saw a few mistakes in it myself but after 24 hrs. or so it seems impossible to change your contribution in this section. Well, if it IS possible I haven't found out how to do it yet. But if it could access my own writings again I would correct and/or change quite a few things. A poem like this with a grammatical mistake in it is like a beautiful girl, smiling and showing awfully bad teeth. Thanks again for being the dentist ;-) .
@Catchabula,
It is very reminiscent of English windswept east coast town.It makes me feel very nostalgic and brings back memories of Ostend,me waisting time waiting for a ferry in the 60s.A duke box playing an old ww2 record of Vera Lynn.That certain silent atmosphere of a coastal town and the constant smell of the sea.Thanks Catch..
@Catchabula,
Yes, catchabula, I am like a fish out of water whenever the sea not in walking distance.
Do you have nice teeth? Mine are ugly!
xris:
Another poem springs to mind:
Quote:
Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn?
Remember how she said that
We would meet again
Some sunny day
Vera! Vera!
What has become of you?
Does anybody else in here
Feel the way I do ?
@Catchabula,
Poems and women, and the passing of time. You don't know what you started ;-)
All things transitory
But as symbols are sent;
Earths' Insufficiency
Here grows to Event;
The Indescribable,
Here it is done:
The Woman-Soul leadeth us
Upward and on!
Goethe, Chorus Mysticus in Faust
Translation Bayard Taylor.
@Catchabula,
Themes, of the ocean and how it evokes a sense of loss, perhaps, catchabula?
[CENTER]
Earth-blue wishes
in the summer-hued trees
of Rigel's slumber
Planet Wyveniah
comfort & suture
The lemon skies, &
soft-gold molten seas :
light to swim in
as the distant bronze
of glinting mountains
hint the breeze
so clear & light-light
you can easily fly there,
flapping a couple of leaves
so these blue-blue soft & lofty,
leafy-wings, remind me of
my forgotten birth & lifelong losses
the full-weeping memory
of love mosses & Earth
under a blue sun
a gold sea glosses,
then,
unquenches,
my pining thirst
.
http://www.2010-south-africa.org/cyber-art-images/blue-gold-fractal-radience.htm
from
Fractal Space Poetry[/CENTER]
@Catchabula,
Of course I was thinking of John Masefield for this kind of themes. Melancholy and the Sea? Read the Poet Laureate...
It's not the way to end it all. I'm old, and nearly blind,,
And an old man's past's a strange thing, for it never leaves his mind.
And I see in dreams, awhiles, the beach, the sun's disc dipping red,
And the tall ship, under topsails, swaying in past Nigger Head.
But do I understand well that you cite your own work? Ok, let's see what I can dig up here ;-)
@Poseidon,
Poseidon;66463 wrote:they bite in lumps of raw
pig meat.
(should say)
they bit into lumps of raw
pork.
(pig meat is ok, but not quite correct)
The Dutch/Vlaams word for "pork" is probably cognate with German "Schweinfleisch," (pig meat), that's probably why he wrote it like that
EDIT - it's "varkensvlees", I was close, "vlees" is cognate with "Fleisch"
(And note: likewise, meat from a cow is called "beef" rather than "cow meat")
@Catchabula,
Amazing. You have quite some sense for languages, Odenskrigare. But like the fishermen I like pig meat more than pork. Imho "pork" isn't very suggestive, it's a bit of an anticlimax while "pig meat" keeps it strong and vital. So if it doesn't seem a blatant mistake I'll stick to "pig meat", I mean in the translation of course. It almost makes us feel as if the pig was eaten alive. Wouldn't surprise me a moment with those rough guys ;-)
@Catchabula,
I find it interesting how the enslaved Saxons working in the fields gave the name to animals while the conquering Normans gave the name to the meat on the table.Pig Saxon pork Norman..calf, veal..cow,beef..sheep ,mutton..deer, venison...
Catch its not like you to be so gory in your quest for poetic reason.
@Catchabula,
Yes, I see that pig meat has a certain rawness to it.
Better than pork for its purpose here.
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