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Charl-Pierre Naudé

Die man wat Livingstone gesien het

  • 1 Die man wat Livingstone gesien het | Traduções : ende
  • 2 Vampiere | Traduções : ende
  • 3 Nature and the revolution | Traduções : afde
  • 4 Die grond van die voorvaders | Traduções : ende
  • 5 Eergister en môre, met visse | Traduções : ende
  • 6 Oggend en aand met duiwe | Traduções : ende
  • 7 Athena’s breastplate | Traduções : afde
  • 8 Rekenkunde | Traduções : ende
  • 9 Skuinslig op die plato | Traduções : ende
  • 10 Teen die liefde | Traduções : ende
língua: africâner
Traduções : inglês (The man who saw Livingstone), alemão (Der Mann, der Livingstone sah)
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Die man wat Livingstone gesien het

Die man wat Livingstone gesien het, was feitlik reeds blind.
Hoe lank gelede het hy Afrika ingestrompel – die 1850’s, 1860’s?
Livingstone en sy geselskap, hul muskietnette
en hul houtkiste, die groot verkenner wat kort daarna sterwe …
Leeftye terug. (Moeilik om sy jare te peil
volgens ’n koerantberig van die vroeë jare sestig.)
Dus is die ou man, wat toe hy kind was, Livingstone gesien het,
op die hande gedra deur sy mense, deur vreemdelinge ook:
’n nasionale kleinood, ’n rondreisende museumstuk.
Sy ululerende stamgenote het hom in ’n omgeboude kruiwa
van dorpie na dorpie gestoot, vooruit en agterna in ’n eindelose
kronkelgang al met die spoor langs in die nou modderpaadjie,
af deur digte bos, van oopte tot oopte, nie sonder ongevalle nie,
vir myle en myle en dae sonder ophou, die ou man wat geduldig
in sy ysterkoppie dobber, oë omgedop, bene ingevou.
Of hy kom in ’n dorpie aan in ’n sykar, vasgebind aan ’n tandemfiets,
wat deur twee getrap word, sy gevolg wat saamdrom en op fluitjies
blaas en toeters druk terwyl ekstatiese dorpelinge die stofstraat vee
vir die aankomende optog, met palmblare en strooibesems.
Soos die dag toe Livingstone self deur die skare
in Londen verwelkom is, stadig op sy pad na Buckinghampaleis.
En die nuuskieriges daar, van heinde en ver, om hul respekte te toon.
Om oopmond te staar na die enigste man nog lewend –
nou kinds van die ouderdom – wat die beroemde pionier
met sy eie oë gesien het op ’n bepaalde môre in 1870
van agter ’n struik, binne hoorafstand van die Groot Water:
hoe hy rigting vra in ruil vir wierook en koper.
Hoe vreemd om te aanskou, ’n deurskynende reisiger,
heeltemal van siel gemaak, ’n mens sonder ’n lyf!
Sy voete word gesoen, die omgedopte lepels van sy ooglede betas
ná ’n fooitjie by die deure van die gemeenskapsaal.
’n Historikus van Europa het gekom om notas te maak:
iewers in dié fossiel skuil ’n eerstehandse ervaring,
’n lewende prentjie, van die grootse Livingstone.
Die kenner het die ou grys kop gekantel soos ’n towerlantern
en diep in sy oë getuur vir die ontwykende geheuebeeld.
In die skadudans van blare wat deur die venster oor sy gesig speel, ja daar:
die avonturier, wat wild beduie; sy draers die pad vorentoe wys.
Die woerende dakwaaier se skaduweeflits, helder soos daglig:
’n voël wat verby swiep, net toe hy uitvra oor die Waterval.
Die oue was nou vinnig aan die kwyn, honderd en twintig jaar oud.
Al van hom nog oor, was daardie prentjie van die pionier.
Is ’n honderd en twintig jaar oue
                                                  dan nie ’n pionier nie?
Op ’n draagbaar het hulle hom uitgedra, een man voor
en een man agter, en hom langs sy houtkis neergesit.
Nie die einde van die reis nie, net ’n blaaskans vir die draers...
En só het hy Livingstone, selfs Marco Polo geword,
’n adellike op sy draagstoel oor die verste voorpos
die Oneindige in, ’n ontdekker
                                                van die suiwerste water.

© Charl-Pierre Naudé
Extraído de: In die geheim van die dag
Menlopark: Protea Boekhuis, 2004
Produção de áudio: Music & production: Timon Wapenaar.
By permission of the poet taken from the CD
in die begin was die woord

Kategorien: com música/audio, História, Memória

Traduções :

língua: inglês

The man who saw Livingstone

The man who had seen Livingstone was now virtually blind.
When was it the Englishman trudged into Africa –
the 1850s, 1860s? He and his troupe, their mosquito nets
and their trunks, the great explorer dead
soon after …
(Lifetimes ago. “Difficult for his age
to be gauged” – a report in a daily, in the early sixties.)
So the old man, who as a young boy had seen Livingstone,
was revered among his people, and others too.
A national treasure, a roving museum piece.
They would push him between towns in a modified wheelbarrow,
ululating in front and behind in an endless serpentine row
along a narrow mud track cleaving through dense bush
from clearing to clearing, not without casualty.
For miles and miles and days on end, the old man bobbing
patiently in his iron cup, eyes rolled upward, legs folded in.
Or he would enter a town in a sidecar attached to a tandem
pedalled by two, thronged by his entourage blowing whistles
and pumping hooters while ecstatic villagers swept
the dust road for the approach, with palm leaves and straw brooms.
Like Livingstone himself being welcomed by the crowds
of London, slowly making his way towards Buckingham Palace.
And the curious there, from far and wide, to pay their respects.
To gawk in admiration at the only man alive (oblivious with age)
who’d seen The Discoverer with his own eyes one morning
in 1870 from behind a shrub, within earshot of the Great Water –
swapping copper and incense for directions.
What a strange sight, a translucent traveller:
made entirely of soul, a man without a body!
And they’d kiss his feet, and feel his spoon eyelids
after coughing up a fee at the doors of the community hall.
An historian came from Europe to make notes:
somewhere in the old fossil was buried
a first-hand memory, a living picture, of Livingstone.
The expert tilted the old head like a magic lantern
and peered into its eyes for the elusive image.
In the play of leaves coming through the window, yes there:
the adventurer, gesturing wildly, waving on the bearers.
A flash of shadow of the overhead fan, clear as day:
a bird sweeping past, the moment he asked about the Falls.
The old man was waning fast, a hundred and twenty years old.
All that was left of him was that image of the pioneer.
Isn’t it a pioneer,
                                        who becomes a hundred and twenty years old?
They took him out on a stretcher, one man at the back and one
in front, and gently put him down next to his wooden trunk.
Nothing final, just a breather for the porters …
And thus, he became Livingstone even Marco Polo,
an aristocrat in his sedan chair transported
into Infinity, an explorer
                                        of purest water.

Translated by Charl-Pierre Naudé
língua: alemão

Der Mann, der Livingstone sah

Der Mann, der Livingstone gesehen hatte, war nun praktisch blind.
Wann trotteten gleich die Engländer durch Afrika -
in den 50ern des 19. Jahrhunderts, den 60ern? Er und seine Truppe,
Moskitonetze und Schrankkoffer, und der große Forscher gestorben
                                                                                          bald darauf …
(Menschenalter ist das her. „Schwierig, sein Alter
zu schätzen“ - aus einer Zeitung in den frühen Siebzigern.)
So wurde der alte Mann, der als Junge Livingstone gesehen hatte,
von seinen Leuten verehrt, und auch von anderen.
Ein nationaler Schatz, ein wandelndes Museumsstück.
In einem umgebauten Schubkarren zwischen den Dörfern hin und her
                                                                                          geschoben,
mit Geheul am Vorder- und am Hinterende einer endlos dahinschlängelnden
                                                                                          Reihe,
über einen engen schlammigen Pfad durch dichten Busch
von Abholzung zu Abholzung, nicht ohne Unglücksfälle.
Meile um Meile und tagelang dümpelte der alte Mann geduldig
in seinem eisernen Napf, die Augen gen Himmel gerollt, im Schneidersitz.
Oder er zog im Beiwagen eines Tandems in eine Stadt ein,
von zwei strampelnden Fahrern kutschiert, von seinem Gefolge umdrängt
unter Getriller und Gehupe, während ekstatische Dörfler mit Palmwedeln
und Strohbesen die staubige Straße für den Nahenden frei fegten.
Wie Livingstone höchstselbst, willkommen geheißen von der Menge
in London, auf seinem langsamen Weg zum Buckingham Palast.
Und die Neugierigen kamen von nah und fern, ihm Respekt zu zollen.
Anzustaunen den letzten lebenden Menschen (vergesslich vor Alter),
der die „Discoverer“ mit eigenen Augen gesehen hatte, eines Morgens
im Jahr 1870, hinter einem Busch hervor, in Hörweite des Großen Wassers -
als Kupfer und Weihrauch gegen Anweisungen getauscht wurden.
Was für ein seltsamer Anblick, ein lichtdurchlässiger Reisender:
ganz aus Seele gemacht, ein Mann ohne Körper!
Und sie küssten seine Füße und fühlten die Liebkosung der blinzelnden
                                                                                           Lider,
nachdem sie an den Türen des Gemeindehauses die Gebühr ausgespuckt
                                                                                          hatten.
Ein Historiker reiste aus Europa an, um mitzuschreiben:
Irgendwo in dem alten Fossil war eine Erinnerung
aus erster Hand begraben, ein lebensechtes Bild von Livingstone.
Der Experte kippte den alten Kopf hin und her wie eine Laterna magica
und spähte der durch die Augen nach dem ungreifbaren Bild.
Im Spiel der Blätter, die durchs Fenster wehten, ja dort: Der Abenteurer,
wild winkt er von seinem schwankenden Platz auf den Dienern.
Ein Schattenblitz des Deckenventilators, klar wie der helle Tag:
ein vorbeistreichender Vogel, der Moment, in dem er nach den Wasserfällen
                                                                                          fragte.
Der alte Mann schwand schnell dahin, mit hundertzwanzig Jahren.
Ist das denn kein Pionier,
                                          der hundertzwanzig Jahre alt wird?
Sie trugen ihn auf einer Bahre hinaus, ein Mann hinten, einer vorn,
und setzten ihn sanft neben seinem hölzernen Koffer ab.
Nichts Endgültiges, nur eine Verschnaufpause für die Träger´...
Und so wurde er Livingstone, wenn nicht Marco Polo,
ein Aristokrat, in seiner Sänfte
in die Unendlichkeit befördert, ein Entdecker
                                                                         reinsten Wassers.

Deutsch von Sylvia Geist
Poema anterior
   (Teen die liefde)
1 / 10
Poema seguinte
(Vampiere)   
Ouvir todos os poemas

Charl-Pierre Naudé

Foto © gezett.de
* 27.08.1958, Kokstad, África do Sul
vive em: Johannesburg, África do Sul

Charl-Pierre Naudé is a poet, prose writer and essayist, and lives in Johannesburg, South Africa. He has published three volumes of poetry in Afrikaans, one in English, and a second English volume is underway. His first novel will appear shortly.

Naudé has worked as a journalist, editor, freelance literary critic and book reviewer. He has published in notable magazines in the Netherlands and in South Africa. In Germany some of his latest work has appeared in Schreibheft 84. He has often read at international festivals. In 2014 he lived in Berlin on the Artists-in-Berlin Program of the DAAD.

 Foto © gezett.de
He has received several prizes for poetry in his home country. His latest volume, Al die lieflike dade (which could be translated as "All the comely actions") has recently been a finalist for two well-known poetry prizes.

He likes to rely on a mixture of imagery and ideas, and mixing up the personal and the social dimensions. Though he comes from a very politically minded society, his poetry refers to this sphere mostly obliquely and in indirect ways. The indirect commentary, which strays from the known route and arrives unexpectedly, covered in barnacles, is what he favours.

He has on occasion said he likes writing about a country that he has dreamed up. This place has strong similarities to a real, geographical place, but it exists entirely separately. And only poetry knows its name.

Publicações
  • Nomadiese Oomblik

    Cape Town: Tafelberg Publishers Ltd, 1995

  • In die geheim van die dag

    Menlopark: Protea Boekhuis, 2004

  • Against the Light

    Englisch

    Menlopark: Protea Boekhuis, 2007

  • Al die lieflike dade

    Afrikaans

    Cape Town: Tafelberg Publishers Ltd, 2014

Prêmios
  • 1997 INGRID JONKER Prize

  • 2005 MNET Prize for Afrikaans poetry

  • 2005 PROTEA Prize

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