T.S. Eliot – De braaklannen – De útfeart fan de deaden (I)

I De útfeart fan de deaden

Foar Ezra Pound
 Il miglior fabbro

  April, de alderwreedste moanne, bringt
Seringen op út deade grûn, bemingt
Oantins en langstme, riert
Slop woartelguod troch maitiidsrein.
Winter hold ús waarm, de ierde
Yn ferjit jaande snie bestopjend,
Fuorre ûntúch mei drûge knollen.
Simmer kaam ús oer ’t mad, kaam oer de Starnbergersee,
Mei in fikse snjitter; wy sochten skûl yn de pyldergong,
En rûnen troch yn ’t sintsje, de Hofgarten yn,
En dronken kofje, en praten in hoart.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
En doe’t wy bern wien’, útfanhûs by de aartshartoch,
Myn neef, naam er my mei te slydskjen,
En ik wie bang. Hy sei, Marij,
Marij, hâld dy beet. En del gong it.
Yn de bergen, dêr fielst dy frij.
Ik lês ta de nacht út, en gean by ’t winter om súd.

..Hok woartelguod fynt hâld, hokfoar leaten
Sill’ dizze stienbult stean? Do, minskesoan,
Der is wurd noch rie ta, want do kenst inkeld
In berch tebrutsen bylden, dêr’t de sinne skroeit,
En it dea beamte gjin skûl jout, de krekel gjin útkomst
En de droege stien gjin lûd fan wetter. Inkeld
Under dizze reade rots is skaad.
(Kom hjir yn ’t skaad fan dizze reade rots.)
En ik lit dy sjen hokfoar ferskil der is tusken
It skaad dat betiid op ’e moarn achter dy oanstapt
En it skaad dat let op ’e jûn oer dy hinne komt;
Ik lit dy dyn eangst sjen yn in hânfol stof.
…………….. Frisch weht der Wind
………………Der Heimat zu,
………………Mein Irisch Kind
………………Wo weilest du?
‘In jier lyn joechst my foar ’t earst hyasinten;
Se neamden my it hyasintefamke.’
– Mar doe’t wy neitiid weromkamen fan it Hyasintetún,
Do, de earms fol, en dyn hier wiet, doe wie ’k
Stomslein, en myn eagen steksjoch, dea wie ik net
Libben allikemin, en ik wist neat mear,
Opsjend yn ’t hert fan it ljocht, de stilte.
Öd und leer das Meer.

..Madame Sosostris, ferneamd clairvoyante,
Wie snipferkâlden, dochs stiet hja
Oeral te boek as de wiiste frou fan Europa,
Mei in pak falske kaarten. Hjir, seit se,
Leit dyn kaart, de fersûpte Fenisysyske Seeman,
(Dizze pearels wien’ ea syn eagen. Sjoch!)
Dit is Belladonna, de Dame fan ’e Rotsen,
De dame fan al wat bart.
Hjir leit de man mei de trije Stêven, hjir it Tsjil,
En dêre Keapman Ieneach, en dizze kaart,
In blanken-ien, is wat er op ’e rêch omdraacht,
Mar dat ik net sjen mei. De Hongene
Bin ik brek. Kom net te ferdrinken.
Kloften minsken sjoch ik, yn rûnten draaiend.
Danke. Mochten jo Frou Equitone sjen,
Sis dan, ik sels sil har de horoskoop bringe:
Optheden moatst slim wach wêze.

  Unwerklike stêd,
Under de smog fan in wintermoarn
Rôlen manmachtich minsken oer London Bridge,
Nea net tocht Dea romme safolle op,
Breklik en swier wiene har de siken,
En elk hold de eagen foardel,
Rôle by de heuvels op, by King William Street del,
Nei Saint Mary Woolnoth dy’t de tiid omsei
Mei in domp lûd op ’e lêste slach fan njoggen.
Dêr seach ik goekunde, hold him oan en rôp: “Stetson!
Do sietst mei my op ’e float by Mylae!
Dat lyk datst okkerjiers yn dyn tún set hast,
Sprút dat al út? Sil it fan ’t jier bloeie?
Of is it bêd hookstrooks troch froast bedoarn?
O, hâld de Hûn der wei, dy Minskefreon,
Oars klaut er it wer ûnder de modder wei!
Do! hypokrite lecteur! – mon smeblable – mon frêre!”

Oersetting: Eeltsje Hettinga

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The Waste Land

For Ezra Pound
Il Miglior Fabbro

I. The Burial of the Dead

..April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

..What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
……………..Frisch weht der Wind
……………..Der Heimat zu
……………..Mein Irisch Kind,
……………..Wo weilest du?
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“They called me the hyacinth girl.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.

..Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

..Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson!
“You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
“That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
“Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
“Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
“Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
“Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
“You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

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