SELECTED POEMS BY PAUL VAN OSTAIJEN, TRANSLATED BY HANNAH VAN HOVE

21 January 2016 by grbed

Preface

By Hannah Van Hove

In selecting these poems for translation, I have aimed to give as broad an overview of possible of Van Ostaijen’s work, presenting a poem from each of his collections (and two of those collected in Posthumous Poems).

The first of the translations consists of extracts from the poem entitled ‘Music-Hall’. In this early poetic style of Van Ostaijen’s, rhyme occupies a central part – in certain stanzas, sentence construction is quite unusual in the Dutch original due to the poem maintaining the rhyme scheme. Wherever possible then, I have tried to keep rhyme present within the translation, occasionally adding a word or translating a sentence quite liberally in order to convey the sense of rhyme and rhythm of the poem.

The second poem, ‘Vincent Van Gogh’ (extracts), taken from Het Sienjaal, required a different approach. Here, the form appeared more in subordination to the content; a dense poem, with many ambiguities, it allows for multiple interpretations of one sentence. I deliberated a lot longer on the meaning(s) of the poem and on what the equivalent words and sentences might be in English which wouldn’t confine interpretations of the poem too much.

In translating poems from De Feesten van Angst en Pijn and Bezette Stad, the first issue that arose was that of the presentation of the text. Poems from De Feesten van Angst en Pijn have always been reproduced as copies of the original manuscript in Van Ostaijen’s handwriting and Bezette Stad was originally typeset by the artist Oscar Jespers. Rather than attempting to reproduce the original handwriting and typefaces of ‘Vers 5’ and ‘Opdracht aan Mijnheer Zoënzo’ [included in the Introduction to Van Ostaijen], these translations function instead as a footnote to the original text (and thus cannot stand alone). In my translation here of ‘Vers 5’, the first sentence sounds strange: ‘I would like a jazz’, but this reflects the equally odd construction in Dutch. Often in Van Ostaijen’s poetry, the syntax is played around with, rendering words as singular phenomena. One of the challenges in translating these poems is the plurality of word-associations and alliterations. Thus, for example, in ‘Vers 5’ the Dutch word ‘triktrak’ (a variation of backgammon which was very popular in Flanders at the end of the 19^th and beginning of the 20^th century) is used, emphasising the playful sound of the word as well as the reoccurrence of the Dutch “ik” (“I”) of the previous line. I decided to translate this quite liberally as “tiddlywinks”, conveying the sense of play and containing the letter “I” (though it’s necessary to concede, of course, that it is not pronounced in the same way). Equally, in the poem ‘Opdracht aan Mijnheer Zoënzo’, there are countless instances where a strictly literal translation wouldn’t make much sense. Take, for example, the Dutch word ‘ommegang’, employed in the middle of the poem. After a mention of the Greek letter “omega” on the previous page, this word (meaning intercourse as well as a religious procession) continues the playful association between letters and words. I finally decided to translate this as “omegatron”; though it bears no relation to the meaning of the Dutch word (defined as it is as a “mass spectrometer”), it does also include the Greek letter within it.

Finally, in translating poems from the later period in Van Ostaijen’s career, I strived towards the striking simplicity and musicality which is, I think, the hallmark of these later works.

As far as I’m aware, no English translations exist of Music-Hall, Het Sienjaal or Bezette Stad. For further reading of Van Ostaijen, the following English translations have been collected in book form:

Feasts of Fear and Agony, translated by Hidde van Ameyden van Duym (New York: New Directions, 1976)

Homage to Singer and Other Poems, translated by Peter Nijmeijer (London: Transgravity Press, 1974)

The First Book of Schmoll: Selected Poems 1920-1928, translated by Theo Hermans, James S. Holmes, Peter Nijmeijer with an essay by Van Ostaijen translated by Theo Hermans & Paul Vincent (Amsterdam: Bridges Books, 1982 / Los Angeles: Green Integer, 2008)

Patriotism, Inc. and Other Tales, edited & translated by E.M. Beekman (Amherst: The University of Massachusetts Press, 1971)

I am indebted to the International Dada Archive at the University of Iowa for their permission to reproduce their images of the original edition of Bezette Stad (held at Special Collections, University of Iowa Libraries) and to the DBNL (the Digital Library of Dutch Literature) for permission to use the reproductions of ‘Vers 5’ and ‘Jong landschap’, taken from Paul van Ostaijen: Gedichten, edited by Gaston Burssens (Antwerp: De Sikkel, 1935, 2^nd edition). ‘Vincent Van Gogh’ and ‘Marc groet ’s morgens de dingen’ are taken from Paul van Ostaijen: Verzamelde Gedichten, edited by Gerrit Borgers (Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 2005).

Please click on the images below to enlarge them.

(uit Music-Hall)

Music-hall (Selecties)

Gelijk een zwakke vrouw d’armoe van heur lijf verbergt
Onder een ruisend froufrou van rokken en van kanten kleren
Zo dommelt de Music-Hall z’n lusteloos begeren
Weg in ‘t schijnen en ‘t kwijnen van veel rode en groene lichten.

2
[…]

Schril gillen de sirenen:
‘Komt naar de Music-Hall henen,
Daar is er lachen, daar is er wenen,’
Schril gillen de sirenen.

Onzeker gaan de mensen
Ter Music-Hall;
Onzeker staan de mensen
In de zwarte zaal.

Maar
Plotseling
Bont en klaar
Schijnen de lampen en stralen
Over de zaal
Hun schitterende, schetterende praal
Terwijl ‘t orkest,
Kranig en vast
Naar ‘t einde rennend,
Een razende dans inzet.

Zó is de verlossing
Uit d’onzekere stemming,
Gouden verlichting
Te allen kant.
Kennissen drukken elkaar de hand,
Damen knikken charmant,
Een kaalhoofdige heer groet
Met brede gebaren en zwaait de hoed.

Haastig,
Naarstig,
Bedrijvig,
IJverig
Komen de kellners gegaan,
Brengen verfrissingen aan.
Helder klinken
Rinkelingen
Der glazen.

Dan loopt over de zaal ’t bevel
Van een nerveuze schel,
Het praten geheimzinnig vlucht,
Langs een wachtensmoeë lucht.
De toneellichten schijnen,
D’Andre in de zaal verkwijnen.
Het zwijgen wordt de ene stem
Van dit één hart in zonderlinge klem
Van angstig wachten.

Als door een lichte zucht bewuifd

Rilt de gordijn en schuift
Terzijde in mooie,
Zachte plooien.

[…]

Op het wit doek
Staan, handelen
Gaan, wandelen
Broeders van ons,
O, broeders van mij,

[…]

Als niet meer is de mens,
Zelfs niet de wens
Om uit de agonie te zijn,
Als na ‘n laatste harde strijden,
De ziel van ‘t lichaam is gescheiden,
Dan blijft de menselike huls

Slechts ‘n onnuttig tuig.

Zó is zielloos de Music-Hall,
Wanneer de mensen de zaal
Verlaten hebben, plots, in een drang,
Uit hun eenheid gedrongen.
Als het volk buiten was,
Hebben de kellners ras
Opgeruimd het glas-
Werk en de stoelen boven
Op de tafels geschoven.
Dan zijn de kellners verdwenen
En de lichten, die voorhenen
Zo vrolik de zaal doorschenen,
Ook zijn uitgedoofd. De Dood,
Zij werkt steeds onverdroten,
Heeft de Music-Hall als ‘n prooi omprangd
En haar dood-stille adem over hem heen doen glijden.

De ziel des Music-Hall’s leeft langs de straten,
Duizendvoudig in gebroken praten.
De ziel is aan flarden gescheurd

En heeft haar éénheid verbeurd.

Toen de ziel even buiten de zaal was,
Is zij stuk gevallen als zeer broos glas.
Nu lopen weer al de mensen uit één,
Alsof ze nooit één geweest waren, voorheen.
Niet meer bij mekaar sluiten zij zich aan.
Nu zijn er weer schamele mensen langs de baan:
Arme mensen, die alleen en sjofel staan
Onzeker, verder gaan.

Zo is gevallen
Als teer porselein,
Gebroken met ‘n korte knallen
En het doven van de kinoschijn,
De ziel die even één was,
Wijl zij haar blijheid op de kino las.

Junie-september 1915

(uit Het Sienjaal)

Vincent van Gogh (selectie)

Profeet van Paturâges en zuiderzonminnaar,
maar meer dan dit: diepbewogen dichter
die de zware dingen van buiten licht schiep,
herschiep als de kompleet blauwe lucht, –
herder die het onvruchtbre gebeuren
van buiten, naar het grote centrum dreef, de oasis, de keure
van frisheid… In ons zelve hebben wij de Jordaan;
allen die nog Godsvreemd en belâan
met de erfzonde zijn, –
de dubbele machteloosheid van het naar buiten kijken
en de loutering, dit is de permanente zege in ons:
patos en tragiek,
dit het innerlike, daarom het heilige ‘veni, vidi, vici’, –
al die machteloze vreemdelingen van buiten,
al de gebeurtenissen
zullen wij tot godskinderen verfrissen
door het heiligmakende water van onze Jordaan.
Kunst is de alles overstelpende liefde

en de alomvattende.
Als de zoon van Tobias die ter genezing van zijn vader
uittoog naar een ver land, en daar de vis
haalde met de kieuwen uit het water:
de ogen van zijn vader het licht schonk.

Kunst is de liefde in elke daad.
Kwintessens. En het volledig liefde zijn.
En dit is liefde als Vincent deed:
de talenten die hij kreeg, tot de waanzin, tot het leed
dat vreugde wordt, levend maken.

Niet het te zijn of niet te zijn is de levensopgaaf,
maar het misterie van het zijn vult alles.
Het eigen zijn. Dat over alles te leggen.
Wordt eigen zijn van de omgeving.
Alles te vervormen, te martelen, te doden
tot schoonheid.
Je zelf dood rekenen voor de wet, om de wet van je zelf
te verbreden.
Abstraksie van je zelf, want deze kosmiese liefde vult gans je zelf:

Bron van den aardbal.
Vincent. Zo is hij.
Hij is niets en hij is alles.
Als de priester: meester en dienaar.
En de wijn die eenvoudig perelt in de kelk
is plots onder de adem van liefde, bloed geworden.
Levende drank.

(from Music Hall)

Music Hall (Extracts)

Like a frail woman conceals the poverty of her body
Under a rustling froufrou of skirts and lace clothes
Thus the Music Hall’s listless longing starts to doze
Off in the shining and pining of many green and red lights.

2
[…]

Shrilly the sirens call:
“Come to the Music Hall
Place of laughter, crying and thrall,”
Shrilly the sirens call.

Unsure the people head
For the Music Hall;
Unsure the people stand
In the black hall.

But
Suddenly
Cheery and bright
The lights shine, beaming
Their gleaming, trumpeting splendour
Over the hall
While the band, at a glance,
Brazen and steady
Towards the end,
Breaks into a frenzied dance.

Thus is the deliverance
From the mood of ambivalence
Golden radiance
Ubiquitously.
Acquaintances shake hands amiably
Ladies nod charmingly,
A bald-headed gentleman broadly salutes,
Waving his hat from his head to his boots.

Hastily
Diligently
Industriously
Arduously
The waiters rush to and fro,
Offering titbits on the go.
Tinkling
Of glasses
Clearly ringing.

Then over the hall is cast the spell
Of a nervous bell,
The talking mysteriously disappears,
Into the restless atmosphere.
The theatre lights shine,
The others in the hall decline.
Silence becomes the one voice
Of this one heart in peculiar grip
Anxiously in waiting.

As if rippled by a soft sigh

The curtain trembles and slides
Aside in beautiful,
Soft creases.

[…]

On the white screen
Stand, talk,
Go, walk,
Brothers of ours,
O, brothers of mine,

[…]

If man no longer is,
Not even the wish
To be relieved from suffering,
If after a last long struggling,
The soul is separated from the body,
Then the human husk remains

Merely an unhandy harness.

Thus is soulless the Music Hall,
When the people have left
The hall, suddenly, on impulse,
pushed out of their oneness.
Once the crowd had gone out,
The waiters without
Delay cleaned the glass-
Ware, stacked chairs
On top of tables.
Then the waiters were disappearing
And the lights, earlier beaming
So joyously from the ceiling,
Have been put out too. Death,
Ever indefatigably at work,
Has ensnared the Music Hall like a prey
And let its deathly-still breath glide over it.

The soul of the Music Hall endures in the street,
Thousandfold in broken speak.
The soul torn into pieces

It forfeited its completeness.

When the soul was outside the hall but for a moment, alas,
It shattered into smithereens like very brittle glass
Now people diverge once more
As if they’d never been one before.
They no longer seek each other out.
Once again dismal people are about:
Poor people, standing ragged and forlorn
Uncertain, they go on.

Thus has shattered
Like brittle porcelain, splattered
With a smashing blow
And the fading of the cinema glow,
The soul which fleetingly was one,
Whilst it read its happiness at the picture show.

June – September 1915

(from The Signal)

Vincent Van Gogh (extract)

Paturâges prophet and southern sun lover,
but more than this: deeply moved poet
who endowed the heavy things from outside with light,
recreated them as the completely blue sky, –
shepherd who drove the infertile happening
from outside, into the big centre, the oasis, the opportunity
of freshness… Within us lies the Jordan;
all who are still unknown to God and burdened
with original sin, –
the double impotence of looking outwards
and the purification, this is the permanent triumph in us:
pathos and tragedy,
this the inner, therefore the holy ‘veni, vidi, vici’, –
all those helpless strangers from outside,
all the events
we shall revive to children of god
through the holy-making water of our Jordan.
Art is the all-overwhelming love

and the all-embracing.
Like the son of Tobias who, to heal his father,
set out to a distant land, and seized the fish there
by its gills out of the water:
gifted the eyes of his father the light.

Art is the love in every act.
Quintessence. And being complete love.
And this is love as Vincent did:
Bringing the talents he received, towards madness, towards anguish
that becomes joy, alive.

To be or not to be is not life’s task,
but the mystery of being permeates everything.
To be true to oneself. To put that above all else.
Becomes being true to the environment.
To reshape, to torture, to kill everything
into beauty.
To proclaim your self dead to the law, in order to broaden the law of your self.
Abstraction from yourself, for this cosmic love fills your whole self:

Source of the globe.
Vincent. Thus is he.
He is nothing and he is everything.
Like the priest: master and servant
And the wine which sparkles simply in the chalice
has suddenly become, under the breath of love, blood.
Living drink.