In de serie Favorieten van Meandermedewerkers de drie lievelingsgedichten van Kamiel Choi.
for the anniversary of my death
–
Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveller
Like the beam of a lightless star
–
Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what
–
W.S. Merwin, The Second Four Books of Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 1993)
–
Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveller
Like the beam of a lightless star
–
Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what
–
W.S. Merwin, The Second Four Books of Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 1993)
AUTOPSICOGRAFIA
–
O poeta é um fingidor
Finge tão completamente
Que chega a fingir que é dor
A dor que deveras sente.
–
E os que lêem o que escreve,
Na dor lida sentem bem,
Não as duas que ele teve,
Mas só a que eles não têm.
–
E assim nas calhas de roda
Gira, a entreter a razão,
Esse comboio de corda
Que se chama coração.
–
Fernando Pessoa, 1ª publ. in Presença, nº 36 (Coimbra: Nov. 1932)
–
en in de vertaling van Kamiel Choi:
–
Een dichter veinst wat hij vindt.
Door de fantasie die hij met zich torst
Wordt zelfs de pijn die hij verzint
Voelbaar in zijn eigen borst.
–
En zij die lezen wat hij heeft geschreven,
Voelen niet deze gefingeerde pijn,
Zij die denken te lijden met het dichtersleven
Voelen alleen de pijn die niet van hen zal zijn.
–
En de wielen draaien, hunkerend naar de schijn
En wij zijn eeuwig tot vermaak verdoemd
Want nooit stopt deze oude opwindtrein
Die voor het gemak het hart wordt genoemd.
–
O poeta é um fingidor
Finge tão completamente
Que chega a fingir que é dor
A dor que deveras sente.
–
E os que lêem o que escreve,
Na dor lida sentem bem,
Não as duas que ele teve,
Mas só a que eles não têm.
–
E assim nas calhas de roda
Gira, a entreter a razão,
Esse comboio de corda
Que se chama coração.
–
Fernando Pessoa, 1ª publ. in Presença, nº 36 (Coimbra: Nov. 1932)
–
en in de vertaling van Kamiel Choi:
–
Een dichter veinst wat hij vindt.
Door de fantasie die hij met zich torst
Wordt zelfs de pijn die hij verzint
Voelbaar in zijn eigen borst.
–
En zij die lezen wat hij heeft geschreven,
Voelen niet deze gefingeerde pijn,
Zij die denken te lijden met het dichtersleven
Voelen alleen de pijn die niet van hen zal zijn.
–
En de wielen draaien, hunkerend naar de schijn
En wij zijn eeuwig tot vermaak verdoemd
Want nooit stopt deze oude opwindtrein
Die voor het gemak het hart wordt genoemd.
Morning song
–
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
–
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
–
I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.
–
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
–
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square
–
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.
–
Sylvia Plath, From Ariel (Harper & Row, 1966)
–
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
–
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
–
I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.
–
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
–
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square
–
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.
–
Sylvia Plath, From Ariel (Harper & Row, 1966)
