Lef en lof

(Sorry non-Dutch speakers, this one’s for the Netherlanders)

Dit was ik een tijdje geleden vergeten te posten. Toen ik wegging bij mijn vorige werkgever en mijn glamorous leven begon als freelance vertaler, heb ik een oergroot gedicht geschreven ter lofprijzing van mijn collega’s, dat ik vervolgens op kantoor per email gedistribueerd heb. Dat gedicht zal ik hier niet plaatsen, want hun namen staan er allemaal op en ik weet niet of ze allemaal willen dat ik daar op internet mee rondbazuin. Maar als antwoord schreef eentje me en klein gedichtje terug, en dat wil ik hier wél heel graag plaatsen:

O Annable, die ons deez’ jaren
met vele kunsten hebt vermeid:
Uw columns in de Voertaal waren
van hoog gehalte, en gebreid
hebt gij de warmhoudendste zaken
(was ooit een slangenwant daarbij?)
Ook met uw zang woudt g’ons vermaken:
geen zong zo hoorbaar en zo blij.
Gij gaat ons nu helaas verlaten,
maar houd contact, vergeet ons niet.
Kom nog eens langs om bij te praten.
Tell them in Oz that Holland’s neat!

Het kantoorleven in Nederland heeft dus uiteindelijk toch iets leuks weten op te leveren. Wie had het voor mogelijk gehouden?

Forays into Dutch poetry

Whilst in Berlin last week, D. introduced me to a 4000-verse Dutch poem called “May”, by romantic poet Herman Gorter. Upon the subsequent discovery that there is as yet no English translation of this poem, I promptly set about creating one, and yesterday I managed to complete a draft of the first verse:

A new spring, and a new sound fills the air;
I would my song to whistling could compare
That oft I heard on the canals at night
In summer, in an old town, when the light
Inside the house was gone; The quiet street
Was gath’ring dusk. The evening sky, replete,
Would cast its light across facades until
Its golden shine fell on my window-sill.
And then a young boy, like an organ pipe,
Would fill the air with notes that shook as ripe
As youngling cherries in the woods in spring,
When winds pick up and go a-journeying.
O’er bridges and at water’s edge he drifted,
And whistling all the while, spirits lifted,
Like a young bird, content and unaware
Of its own gladness at the evening air.
Tired souls at table listened as they smiled,
As to a story first heard as a child,
And hands at window-shutters, at a snatch
Of the boy’s tune, would pause before the latch.

For Dutch speakers who don’t know (or have) the poem, here’s the original:

Een nieuwe lente en een nieuw geluid:
Ik wil dat dit lied klinkt als het gefluit,
Dat ik vaak hoorde voor een zomernacht,
In een oud stadje, langs de watergracht –
In huis was ‘t donker, maar de stille straat
Vergaarde schemer, aan de lucht blonk laat
Nog licht, er viel een gouden blanke schijn
Over de gevels in mijn raamkozijn.
Dan blies een jongen als een orgelpijp,
De klanken schudden in de lucht zoo rijp
Als jonge kersen, wen een lentewind
In ‘t boschje opgaat en zijn reis begint.
Hij dwaald’ over de bruggen, op den wal
Van ‘t water, langzaam gaande, overal
Als ‘n jonge vogel fluitend, onbewust
Van eigen blijheid om de avondrust.
En menig moe man, die zijn avondmaal
Nam, luisterde, als naar een oud verhaal,
Glimlachend, en een hand die ‘t venster sloot,
Talmde een pooze wijl de jongen floot.

Criticism (constructive or otherwise) is more than welcome!

A note or two

The fanfare starts! A theme emerges:
A-major’s bold, heroic sound
Brings forth a line that dips and surges,
And perfect fourths and fifths abound.
To B-flat major now we scamper,
And nothing in our theme can hamper
The bass’s fierce ascent to C,
Then onwards, up to D, then E,
And back to A. But then, dramatic,
A pedal-point creates suspense,
The theme spins upward, frantic, tense,
And loses all control – ecstatic!
A grander theme I’ll never know,
Than that of Super Mario.

Onegin stanza

I guess some people may have wondered,
“What is Brent’s weird poetic quirk?”
Truth is that recently I’ve plundered
A piece of Alex Pushkin’s work:
Eugene Onegin, tragic tale
Of boredom, friendship, then betrayal,
Whose sonnet form’s so crystal-clear,
I’ll teach you how to write one here:
First: fourteen lines (so nothing major),
Each line’s four lilting iambs long,
Rhymes alternate – first weak, then strong;
The rhyming scheme is clear, I’d wager.
So take your pen, and come upstage
My efforts on the comments page!

Beginnings

O hail to thee, procrastinator.
When your ideas, some bad, some good,
All cry out “now”, you answer “later” -
They don’t inspire you like they should.
The ploys you could employ are many,
Like “Now’s as good a time as any!
The iron’s hot, there’s sun today,
So strike your blow and make your hay!”
Yet still your hand avoids the hammer.
You see the field and heave a sigh
And, as you watch the sun drift by,
Eschew the smithy’s clang and clamour.
O friend, what force is keeping thee
Confined to inactivity?

Deception

It’s funny how a poem deceives you:
Its tantalizing, sweet caress
Inspires, consumes, then loves and leaves you
To deal with an unfinished mess.
Does it afford the Muses pleasure
To give their gifts in meagre measure?
To whisper softly in your ear,
Then suddenly just disappear?
And so it often goes with lovers:
You’re swept away, then wined and dined;
You spend one perfect night entwined,
Then find a note upon the covers.
In love and art, ‘t would seem that it
Is prudent never to commit.

Reflections on a Saturday afternoon

I wish I had a poet’s soul,
For then I’d dream of things unknown;
Through unimagined realms I’d stroll,
Through kingdoms of my very own.
I wish I had a poet’s tongue,
For then I’d sing of songs unsung,
Tell tales untold of lands unseen
And wonders that have never been.
I wish I had a poet’s heart,
For then I’d feast on love’s surrender,
Taste its sorrow, feel its splendour,
And relish being torn apart.
For if a poet’s soul were mine,
I’d think my mortal life divine.

Lucky Phil

Phil, this one’s for you

Tonight, one more rehearsal down
For Zimmerman and Distler, after
Which we all went into town
For chocolate, alcohol and laughter.
I talked with Phil, a coolish type
Immune to fads and rage and hype,
Who (PhD impending) aims
To write and make computer games.
We talked of books (a small selection),
World of Warcraft, Eve Online,
Bionic implants, game design
And geometrical dissection.
And though I’m sure I didn’t bore him,
I paid for his hot chocolate for him.

Dichterij

Ik kom dus net bij M. vandaan,
Waar alles weer naar wens geweest is.
Wij waren weer ontzettend aan
De port, daar waar het altijd feest is.
Haar kamer is nooit opgeruimd,
Toch ben ik altijd goed geluimd -
Ik voel me bij haar altijd vrij
Om dat te zeggen, waar ik blij
Van wordt. Het ging dus om muziek,
Mens loopbaan, mannen, poëzie,
Zelfs psychofarmacologie
En M.’s bescheiden zink-techniek.
Wij zetten ‘t leven op z’n kop
En konden ons geluk niet op.

Golden Gate

Recall, dear reader, one weekend
(Or two) ago, I went to see
In Heidelberg, my dear friend
Maria Pia (or “MP”).
Well, one thing I may not have said
Is that MP is quite well-read,
And keeps her bookcase stacked repletely,
Tastefully, and very neatly.
There, amongst the shelves, I chanced
Upon a book by Vikram Seth,
“The Golden Gate”, that took my breath
Away, for reader, as I glanced
Inside it, there, succinct and terse,
The story was expressed in verse.

“A modern epic!” was my thought,
And so next day MP and I
Went off into the town and sought
An English copy I could buy
(For MP’s book, to my frustration,
Was in Swedish – a translation).
And though in town we had a ball,
We couldn’t find the book at all.
But even though I’d been deprived,
I swore that when I got back home
I’d seek out this elusive tome.
But once in Utrecht I’d arrived
And found my bike (I always doubt it)
I totally forgot about it.

And so imagine my surprise
At standing in my doorway, where
This afternoon, before my eyes,
A package lay upon the stair.
I saw that it was from MP,
Which made me smile gleefully.
I tore it open (couldn’t wait) -
And there it was: The Golden Gate.
I knew that there was nothing for it:
I headed straight for a café,
Got something sweet and read away.
And my opinion? I adore it!
For those who have the time to spend, it’s
Worth the read. I recommend it.

(Thanks MP!)