Vertaallab 13 Marianne Morris – Art will save your life
Vertaallab is een serie op Ooteoote die dichters uit andere taalgebieden aan de lezer voorstelt. Elke aflevering een spiksplinternieuw gedicht – af en toe een reeds gepubliceerd werk. Dat u mag vertalen, als u wilt. Graag zelfs, wat ons betreft. Post uw vertaling van (een van) onderstaand(e) gedicht(en) als reactie op dit bericht.
Afgelopen vrijdag 30 maart 2012 was Marianne Morris te gast in Perdu tijdens de avond ‘De scheppende kracht van het vertalen’. Tijdens deze avond bespraken Han van der Vegt en Frank Keizer vertalingen van haar werk en droegen deze voor.
ART WILL SAVE YOUR LIFE
like it does mine even before I’ve performed the little death
goes behind me like a yellow brick road
path my feet
dented lapping nerve. Safety in knowing that what holds you up
isn’t alive, and therefore can’t leave. Only you can leave, and you will
mouthing your twist like an undisciplined lover and throw in its face
hands empty of pen, calling it husband-hungry
in tutu with dayglo.
Come back to me now
my love you will eventually say, long after the fact. Her face will turn
and be neither woman, nor man, but lung heaving under ocean,
the muscle perfectly formed under skin when you open the door
a mechanism whose longevity nurses you at the breast,
a site of fire that moves beneath you, first rippling and
then slowing into a drill pump between canapés the suit
contains the warble of your admissions and of ordinariness
and of everything, everything that can be said about our bodies
can also be said about the soul that moves
dehydroepiandrosterone moves my bed
as modernity refuses to pass away and you are miles away
leaping about in it, clear about life, where it goes, who to talk to,
the little years pulsing with breath, fish swim in the lung
and now life with its death is a crashing presence
a subjective masterpiece
a monster whose horns and tusks toss me
on the wind that crashes into the house.
Art pulsates within me, more than an absent child
more than the fund to help babies
more than electricity. Apple+tab
darts between worlds as in rooms I haven’t the patience
to walk through
and cannot give ‘no’ to the food, in it pours
I want to make little words in all of the windows
make nothing for too long in one place, lest the depth appeal
to the monster, slithery-tongued, e-oriented
hiding among dashes in ‘Sent Items’
waiting for a lashing of tongue.
There is no surface desire, anymore, now it goes so deeply
into me that I look and it’s lost
over dinner it’s lost
over the weekend it’s lost
and I turn to you, startled at last to meet eyes
‘to make eyes meet’ is the song that explodes
who knows how much of me sleeps, even I don’t.
NEPOTISM IS FOR CAREFUL FUCKHEADS
How the dark dull hit and I
couldn’t be caught in it, with a light I hit
my tail on the speed of the way out passing
this and that in a galactic swill of my mouth
wash the thing out is the process over which it passes
me my life my body my bed now rocking blanks
fireworks passing in the night over the
deleted porno hard-on replaced by the shadowy
memory of being
loved slow to remember until
the thing lights up the sky
when I turn my head the sun is just going
and the walk is a peaceful freeze
full of heart-shaped fungi
easy now to put it off that I couldn’t do unless I
didn’t know, later on the ideas had advanced
beyond this and that to which I turned my hand
and back again, here we are, in the cloister
choke-hold, St Augustine slips out the side
door to bury himself in the hoary bosom,
robes that pull away
speed is the opposite of the careful undressing
that poets do on their dead
heroes flesh crumbles in them
speed will melt you in the head, leave you little
time for theoretical pontification you suffused prick
your eyes and hands grow lazy, full of blood
leaves turgid by means of tiny threads
a hair’s breadth of water in this slippage between
the windows I’m falling fast into
a deeper safety, a comfort that holds me by the face
inserts its kiss like a match gone out
AQUATIC MAMMAL POEM
I can’t make it go any closer to the word
count searching for the ones that make light on the ceiling.
In a splendid arc that refutes all jealousy,
noise is painful. Between the thorns of myself I hide a
detective mystery teeming with dangerous
hearts I can’t get into, I too am
woman too. This all is a race between us.
That arm now slung like racism around Possession’s shoulder
who wears a raffle hat and storms absurdly
the land, yearning for emptiness to make good. Tongue
stapled to the roof of the window, heart
stomping about quietly, a route
you’ll take directly to stomach trouble.
Persuasions lie amid desperate darkness and stunted trees,
a bottomless ocean welling up through
stone, the clouded dreams that emotions dream, paddled about
by electricity, that you wake to love and
that comes to stare you down in the afternoon,
gives nothing back but a lessening echo of female voice.
My shoulders ache, trip into sublime moments but
fall out of them quickly, as the soul
flips about in me: egg back fish aquatic mammal its lid.
Marianne Morris is auteur van Iran Documents (2012, Trafficker Press), Commitment (2011, Critical Documents), Tutu Muse (2007, Fly by Night) and A New Book From Barque Press, Which They Will Probably Not Print (2006). In 2008 ontving ze de Harper-Wood Scholarship for Creative Writing. Ze werkt op dit moment te Cornwall, U.K., aan haar proefschrift over hedendaagse poëtica.
Bovenstaande gedichten werden gepubliceerd in de bundel Commitment (2011, Critical Documents).