I – (Piet Paaltjens, Immortellen, 1850-1852)

The moon glides past my window,
Questioning as it goes by:
‘What glistens, O pale singer,
In the corner of thine eye?’

Wert thou not fixed in heaven,
Then ‘Go to hell!’ I’d cry.
For why mine eye doth glisten,
Shall know no creature but I.

***

De maan glijdt langs de ruiten
En blikt mij vragend aan.
‘Wat moet dat, bleeke zanger, –
In uw ooghoek glinstert een traan?’

Zoo gij de maan niet zelf waart,
‘k Zou zeggen: loop naar de maan. –
Wat mij het oog doet glinstren,
Dat gaat geen schepsel aan.

Deliveries (orig. Eugen Roth, “Besorgungen”)

A man goes out one morning, late,
Suspecting not the hand of Fate,
And hurries into town, where he’s
To make the day’s deliveries.
But Fate soon fires her first attack:
A sign proclaiming, “Be Right Back”.
“Right back” is rather vague at best,
And so the man resumes his quest
And meets, at number two, the porter:
“Oh, she just left, you almost caught her…”
At number three a friend relays:
“They won’t be back for seven days!”
At number four, the CEO
Turns out to be in Tokyo;
An overcrowded waiting room
At number five spreads doom and gloom,
And at the sixth, what does he find?
He’s left the paperwork behind.
Then number seven joins the queue:
“We’re closed for lunch from twelve ’til two!”
The man, enraged and fit to burst,
Goes back again to try the first
And nearly has a heart attack.
For there, it still says “Be Right Back”.

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.