Bart Westgeest

Kategori: Poems

  • On Being, Rilke og Joanna Macy

    On Being, Rilke og Joanna Macy

    Jeg har hørt On Being, et interview program med Krista Tippett, som denne gang talte med Joanna Macy, som på dette tidspunkt – interviewet blev først publiceret i 2010 – var en 81 årige buddhistisk Rilke oversætter og Økologi-aktivist, og som fortælte om hendes liv og om RIlkes digte.

    Jeg havde hørt den første time inden jeg skulle sove i går, og hørte resten i dag mens jeg ryddede køkkenet og morgenbordet op og sætte mig bag skrivebordet. Jeg var allerede lidt imponeret af det første del, men blev endnu mere imponeret af det andet.

    Rilkes digte, i Joanna Macys oversættelse og læst op af hende, var nemt at forstå, og fuld af mening. Jeg syntes at de var smukt og overraskende fri, tidsløs.

    Men apropos: det bliver klart at en oversættelse er en interpretation, lige meget hvor hård man prøver at holde sig til original teksten. Macy’s oversættelser er korter og kraftigt, og som sagt, nemmere at forstå.

    Så jeg lytter til buddhistiske tanker, jeg hører Joanna fortælle om at man bliver udkørt af håb, og at at håb derfor ikke er noget man skal efterstræbe, og jeg tænker på Stoicisme, som heller ikke mener at håb er noget man burde have, fordi håb er forbundet med fremtid, og man ved ikke hvad der sker i fremtiden, så chancen for at man bliver skuffet er stor. Man kan ønske, men man burde ikke håbe. 

    Joanne talte også meget om at ting er inhærent, livet er fuld af gode og dårlige ting (se digtet herunder af Rilke: “God speaks to each of us as he makes us”), og at de er allesammen sandt, en del af alt som er. Der findes ikke et rent paradis på jorden, der er liv på jorden, vi er liv, og livet er fuld af gode og dårlige ting, glæde, sorg, vrede, angst. At acceptere det, og give slip, er meningen med livet, det er kunsten. Rilke forstod det åbenbart, da han for eksempel skrev om at hans mørke skulle være et klokketårn, og han klokken. (Se digtet nedenunder Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower.) En fantastisk tanke, aktiv, trodsig. Mørket er en del af livet.

    Her er Joanne Macy som læser digtet “God speaks to each of us as he makes us” i hendes egen oversættelse – med en introduktion af Krista Tippet:

    Go to the Limits of Your Longing

    Her er original versionen:

    Gott spricht zu jedem nur, eh er ihn macht

    Gott spricht zu jedem nur, eh er ihn macht,
    dann geht er schweigend mit ihm aus der Nacht.
    Aber die Worte, eh jeder beginnt,
    diese wolkigen Worte, sind:
    Von deinen Sinnen hinausgesandt,
    geh bis an deiner Sehnsucht Rand;
    gieb mir Gewand.
    Hinter den Dingen wachse als Brand,
    dass ihre Schatten, ausgespannt,
    immer mich ganz bedecken.
    Lass dir Alles geschehn: Schönheit und Schrecken.
    Man muss nur gehn: Kein Gefühl ist das fernste.
    Lass dich von mir nicht trennen.
    Nah ist das Land,
    das sie das Leben nennen.
    Du wirst es erkennen
    an seinem Ernste.
    Gieb mir die Hand.



    (fra http://rainer-maria-rilke.de/)

    Her er Joanna Macy som læser “Let the Darkness be a Bell Tower” i hendes oversættelse:

    Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower

    Og orginalteksten:

    Stiller Freund der vielen Fernen, fühle, 
    wie dein Atem noch den Raum vermehrt.
    Im Gebälk der finstern Glockenstühle
    laß dich läuten. Das, was an dir zehrt,
    wird ein Starkes über dieser Nahrung.
    Geh in der Verwandlung aus und ein.
    Was ist deine leidendste Erfahrung?
    Ist dir Trinken bitter, werde Wein.
    Sei in dieser Nacht aus Übermaß
    Zauberkraft am Kreuzweg deiner Sinne,
    ihrer seltsamen Begegnung Sinn.
    Und wenn dich das Irdische vergaß,
    zu der stillen Erde sag: Ich rinne.
    Zu dem raschen Wasser sprich: Ich bin.

    Aus: Die Sonette an Orpheus, Zweiter Teil

    (fra http://rilke.de/)

  • Rilke, Rådlund and even Hamsun.

    Rilke, Rådlund and even Hamsun.

    I thought this morning about the turns life can take, movements that confuse me as I want it to be linear.

    I liked to write in the early 90’ties. But I replaced it by painting landscapes and was bit by it for more than a decade. This passion became impossible and I returned to writing, still longing for the same passion I felt for painting. Trying, wondering, giving up.

    One of the things I ponder about is a fear of loosing possibilities to obtain some sort of fulfilment. If my life isn’t linear, how can I then get to the end of my possibilities? In other words: If I don’t choose and continue writing, or painting, or .. what…. how can I then develop?

    In a discussion I was told that everything I have done has not been for nothing, it made me who I am, not who I could have been. There is no need to give up and let life pass. But I don’t always know how to continue.

    Today.

    Some weeks ago I heard a radioprogram about the music of Portugal, Fado. I got interested and googled it. This brought me to Swedish blogs about music and literature. Today I ended up on Bodil Zalesky’s blog where I found a post about the  writer/poet Rainer Maria Rilke. I got interested because I know Rilke from my painting time – he wrote about the painters colony in Worpswede. She started a post with the wonderful sentences: “Kanske har jag aldrig läst någon Rilke-dikt här under trädet. Vilken ska då bli den första?”, and then she choose the following poem:

    Wunderliches Wort

    Wunderliches Wort: die Zeit vertreiben!
    Sie zu halten, wäre das Problem.
    Denn, wen ängstigts nicht: wo ist ein Bleiben,
    wo ein endlich Sein in alledem? –

    Sieh, der Tag verlangsamt sich, entgegen
    jenem Raum, der ihn nach Abend nimmt:
    Aufstehn wurde Stehn, und Stehn wird Legen,
    und das willig Liegende verschwimmt –

    Berge ruhn, von Sternen überprächtigt; –
    aber auch in ihnen flimmert Zeit.
    Ach, in meinem wilden Herzen nächtigt
    obdachlos die Unvergänglichkeit.

    Rainer Maria Rilke

    I had thought about the feeling of giving up that comes over me sometimes, but one resigns to do silly things if you want to make time pass. Indeed, I know actually, as Rilke says: Wunderliches wort: die Zeit vertreiben! Sie zu halten, wäre das Problem.

    On the right side of Bodil’s blog is a place for “Senaste kommentarer”, and at the moment the latest is made by Christopher Rådlund. And I know him too from my painting time. This morning I noticed to my surprise that I couldn’t remember some names of painters I liked or corresponded with, but I recognized Chrishopher’s as soon as I saw it. He was my “secret tip” if people asked me for my favourite painters. It is always a remarkable feeling I get when my two worlds, writing and painting, meet.

    In the post Christopher reacts on a discussion about artists and political opinions that can often be connected to them. This is something that is often being discussed, and these days also in connection with the celebrations of Knut Hamsun’s 150th birthday. One of the few books that made an impression on me – few, because I only read a few – was the first chapters of Knut Hamsun’s “Den Siste Glæde“. But as we know Knut Hamsun has connected himself actively to the Nazis during the 40ties and even 50ties. So did another favourite of mine, the writer of -I would almost say “the other book I once read” –Filip de Pillecijn. I am never sure how to deal with these connections, as I don’t think that artists and their works have to be thoroughly connected: a wonderful painting doesn’t have to be made by a wonderful person.

    It all meant that while I was already thinking about my seemingly non-linear life, I went back and forth between writing and painting while I read a post or two. And as was mentioned to me during the discussion, because of my background I could get the most out of it. I better keep going.

    Du musst das Leben nicht verstehen

    Du musst das Leben nicht verstehen,
    dann wird es werden wie ein Fest.
    Und lass dir jeden Tag geschehen
    so wie ein Kind im Weitergehen von jedem Wehen
    sich viele Blüten schenken lässt.

    Sie aufzusammeln und zu sparen,
    das kommt dem Kind nicht in den Sinn.
    Es löst sie leise aus den Haaren,
    drin sie so gern gefangen waren,
    und hält den lieben jungen Jahren
    nach neuen seine Hände hin.

    Rainer Maria Rilke

  • Ludwig Uhland – Die Königstochter

    Des Königs von Spanien Tochter
    Ein Gewerb zu lernen begann.
    Sie wollte wohl lernen nähen,
    Waschen und nähn fortan.

    Und bei dem ersten Hemde,
    Das sie sollte gewaschen han,
    Den Ring von ihrer weißen Hand
    Hat ins Meer sie fallen lan.

    Sie war ein zartes Fräulein,
    Zu weinen sie begann.
    Da zog des Wegs vorüber
    Ein Ritter lobesan.

    »Wenn ich ihn wiederbringe,
    Was gibt die Schöne dann?« –
    »Einen Kuß von meinem Munde
    Ich nicht versagen kann.«

    Der Ritter sich entkleidet,
    Er taucht ins Meer wohlan,
    Und bei dem ersten Tauchen
    Er nichts entdecken kann.

    Und bei dem zweiten Tauchen
    Da blinkt der Ring heran,
    Und bei dem dritten Tauchen
    Ist ertrunken der Rittersmann.

    Sie war ein zartes Fräulein,
    Zu weinen sie begann.
    Sie ging zu ihrem Vater:
    »Will kein Gewerb fortan!«

    Ludwig Uhland (1787 -1862)
    Aus der Sammlung Altfranzösische Gedichte

    Source: Die Deutsche Gedichtebibliothek

  • Charles Lamb – Old Familiar Faces

    I am slowly going through a book published in Sneek (of all places) in 1887 called: “A Casket of Jewels – selected from poets of the nineteenth century” by E. J. Irving. It contains a small selection of Poems by 42 English and American Poets. As I know virtually nothing of  English or American literature (or any other literature actually) I am reading through it poet by poet to see which are the ones that somehow draw my attention. Today I liked reading this poem by Charles Lamb (1775 -1834):

    THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

    I have had playmates, I have had companions,
    In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,
    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

    I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
    Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

    I loved a love once, fairest among women;
    Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—
    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

    I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
    Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
    Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

    Ghostlike I paced round the haunts of my childhood.
    Earth seem’d a desert I was bound to traverse,
    Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

    Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
    Why wert not thou born in my father’s dwelling?
    So might we talk of the old familiar faces,—

    How some they have died, and some they have left me,
    And some are taken from me; all are departed;
    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

    Source: gutenberg.org

    The main reason why I initially got interested in this poem was the fact that it seemed to be honest and timeless. Always keen on finding answers on why, what, how, what for etc. I want to write I was pleased to see that a poem like this could make it into this casket of jewels. Nothing seems to be made up in this poem and it is actually so bare in it’s cry of sorrow that I felt that it was almost inviting an extra strophe in with some more details about place and setting of the writer.
    The line “Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces” sounds adorable self critical to me and with a hint of nature in the next strophe: “Earth seem’d a desert I was bound to traverse” the poem has all my interest.

    I knew nothing about the dramatic background of Charles Lamb, so after looking up the poem on the internet I spent the next our reading the details about his life around 1796. A remarkable story indeed, shining another light on the poem.

  • C.G. Rossetti – Dreamland

    I read a handful of poems yesterday and liked two by C. G. Rossetti (1830-94). Easy to spot that she had something to do with the pre-raphaelite movement. In the poem Dreamland the same themes are apparent as in some of the paintings by this movement.

    DREAM-LAND.

    Where sunless rivers weep
    Their waves into the deep,
    She sleeps a charmèd sleep:
    Awake her not.
    Led by a single star,
    She came from very far
    To seek where shadows are
    Her pleasant lot.

    She left the rosy morn,
    She left the fields of corn,
    For twilight cold and lorn
    And water springs.
    Through sleep, as through a veil,
    She sees the sky look pale,
    And hears the nightingale
    That sadly sings.

    Rest, rest, a perfect rest
    Shed over brow and breast;
    Her face is toward the west,
    The purple land.
    She cannot see the grain
    Ripening on hill and plain;
    She cannot feel the rain
    Upon her hand.

    Rest, rest, forevermore
    Upon a mossy shore;
    Rest, rest at the heart’s core
    Till time shall cease:
    Sleep that no pain shall wake,
    Night that no morn shall break,
    Till joy shall overtake
    Her perfect peace.

    Source: gutenberg.org

    I liked the image of the “waves into the deep” in the first couplet. It made me think that using nature to describe things is one thing, but using it right another. There is a world of difference between a painting of a landscape made by someone with an superficial eye or by someone with passion and devotion. Using nature in poems must be like that too. Yes, it has been done ever since people where able to write, and every symbol has been used numerous times (a rose, anyone?) but that doesn’t mean that it can be effective when used rightly.
    The dead body let by a star and the contrast of the body “willingly” floating to the dark side, a side that is considered not a good place to be anyway, away from the rosy morn – fields of corn etc. is intriguing.