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Sisyphean Arrangements Do Not Necessarily Come In Fives
Omphaloskeptikos
Eat while you can of all this...
Eat while you can of all this
beauty continually replenishing itself
eat and digest and comprehend it
now this flesh is ever more intimately
dispossessing itself in the mirror, language
lapsing into its source, time ever faster
gaining on and putting off its self
never before was it as perfect as this
as exquisite as water in the throat
as it is now –
Gerrit Kouwenaar
Translated by Deborah Ffoulkes
beauty continually replenishing itself
eat and digest and comprehend it
now this flesh is ever more intimately
dispossessing itself in the mirror, language
lapsing into its source, time ever faster
gaining on and putting off its self
never before was it as perfect as this
as exquisite as water in the throat
as it is now –
Gerrit Kouwenaar
Translated by Deborah Ffoulkes
always as if...
(always as if as if the bird always
fathoms the skies or food the hunger for it
wherever one looks the eye looks
through a throat that cuts to live
wherever one listens the mouth
has gilded the gold of the beetle
and always the word always improving on
its echo always the photograph of what was)
Gerrit Kouwenaar
Translated by Deborah Ffoulkes
fathoms the skies or food the hunger for it
wherever one looks the eye looks
through a throat that cuts to live
wherever one listens the mouth
has gilded the gold of the beetle
and always the word always improving on
its echo always the photograph of what was)
Gerrit Kouwenaar
Translated by Deborah Ffoulkes
The House Near the Sea
The houses I had they took away from me. The times
happened to be unpropitious: war, destruction, exile;
sometimes the hunter hits the migratory birds,
sometimes he doesn’t hit them. Hunting
was good in my time, many felt the pellet;
the rest circle aimlessly or go mad in the shelters.
Don’t talk to me about the nightingale or the lark
or the little wagtail
inscribing figures with his tail in the light;
I don’t know much about houses
I know they have their own nature, nothing else.
New at first, like babies
who play in gardens with the tassels of the sun.
they embroider colored shutters and shining doors
over the day.
When the architect’s finished, they change,
they frown or smile or even grow stubborn
with those who stayed behind, with those who went away
with others who’d come back if they could
or others who disappeared, now that the world’s become
an endless hotel.
I don’t know much about houses,
I remember their joy and their sorrow
sometimes, when I stop to think;
again
sometimes, near the sea, in naked rooms
with a single iron bed and nothing of my own,
watching the evening spider, I imagine
that someone is getting ready to come, that they dress
him up*
in white and black robes, with many-colored jewels,
and around him venerable ladies,
gray hair and dark lace shawls, talk softly,
that he is getting ready to come and say goodbye to me;
or that a woman—eyelashes quivering, slim-waisted,
returning from southern ports,
Smyrna Rhodes Syracuse Alexandria,
from cities closed like hot shutters,
with perfume of golden fruit and herbs—
climbs the stairs without seeing
those who’ve fallen asleep under the stairs.
Houses, you know, grow stubborn easily when you strip
them bare.
George Seferis
Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard
happened to be unpropitious: war, destruction, exile;
sometimes the hunter hits the migratory birds,
sometimes he doesn’t hit them. Hunting
was good in my time, many felt the pellet;
the rest circle aimlessly or go mad in the shelters.
Don’t talk to me about the nightingale or the lark
or the little wagtail
inscribing figures with his tail in the light;
I don’t know much about houses
I know they have their own nature, nothing else.
New at first, like babies
who play in gardens with the tassels of the sun.
they embroider colored shutters and shining doors
over the day.
When the architect’s finished, they change,
they frown or smile or even grow stubborn
with those who stayed behind, with those who went away
with others who’d come back if they could
or others who disappeared, now that the world’s become
an endless hotel.
I don’t know much about houses,
I remember their joy and their sorrow
sometimes, when I stop to think;
again
sometimes, near the sea, in naked rooms
with a single iron bed and nothing of my own,
watching the evening spider, I imagine
that someone is getting ready to come, that they dress
him up*
in white and black robes, with many-colored jewels,
and around him venerable ladies,
gray hair and dark lace shawls, talk softly,
that he is getting ready to come and say goodbye to me;
or that a woman—eyelashes quivering, slim-waisted,
returning from southern ports,
Smyrna Rhodes Syracuse Alexandria,
from cities closed like hot shutters,
with perfume of golden fruit and herbs—
climbs the stairs without seeing
those who’ve fallen asleep under the stairs.
Houses, you know, grow stubborn easily when you strip
them bare.
George Seferis
Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard
Culture of Life News
Olio
Selcouth
"We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light."
Plato
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Ik heb nooit naar iets anders getracht dan dit:
het zacht maken van stenen
het vuur maken uit water
het regen maken uit dorst...
Gerrit Kouwenaar
het zacht maken van stenen
het vuur maken uit water
het regen maken uit dorst...
Gerrit Kouwenaar
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Hidden Things
From all I did and all I said
let no one try to find out who I was.
An obstacle was there that changed the pattern
of my actions and the manner of my life.
An obstacle was often there
to stop me when I’d begin to speak.
From my most unnoticed actions,
my most veiled writing—
from these alone will I be understood.
But maybe it isn’t worth so much concern,
so much effort to discover who I really am.
Later, in a more perfect society,
someone else made just like me
is certain to appear and act freely.
Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard
C.P. Cavafy, Collected Poems (Princeton University Press, 1992).
let no one try to find out who I was.
An obstacle was there that changed the pattern
of my actions and the manner of my life.
An obstacle was often there
to stop me when I’d begin to speak.
From my most unnoticed actions,
my most veiled writing—
from these alone will I be understood.
But maybe it isn’t worth so much concern,
so much effort to discover who I really am.
Later, in a more perfect society,
someone else made just like me
is certain to appear and act freely.
Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard
C.P. Cavafy, Collected Poems (Princeton University Press, 1992).
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