Bas Jongenelen
Vertalingen
Met zijn Engelse vriend Ben Parsons, die
aan de Universiteit van Sheffield verbonden is, vertaalt Bas
Jongenelen Nederlandse gedichten in het Engels, onder meer van Jan
van der Noot. Hier zijn er een paar, de eerste vier sonnetten uit
Het Bosken:
Venus to Cupid
On the Nature of Things
True, you have tried
to catch him by surprise,
And spread your nets
wide to pin down your prey,
But your strategy was
flawed, I must say:
You need to determine
where his heart lies.
Is it with a rich
girl, with noble blood-ties?
Or one that indulges
in all forms of play
At every banquet? Is
it one who may
Pursue honour in fine
array and rich guise?
Or a girl full of
piety and cleanness?
Or a crazed beast? A
kinswoman of Venus?
Or is it one whose
virtue is well known?
This young man's
nature is good, kind and warm,
And each man is
entranced by his own form:
Find a girl whose
face resembles his own.
II
I saw a gentle doe,
her hide shining white,
In a lush green glen
where many trees sway,
As I went walking in
the sweet time of May.
She lay by a river of
waters bright,
Beside a forest,
dense and dark like night,
As the sun's hands
began to shape the day.
What I saw was comely
and neat, true to say:
Her face was to me
such a beautiful sight
That I had to follow,
leaving all else in haste.
The words 'No man may
move me' had been traced
In fine diamonds
around her graceful throat
On a gold collar. I
wished to stay alert:
I swore that I would,
for she may yet be hurt
By brutes in some
foreign land, cruel and remote.
III
Like two fine,
gleaming emeralds are her eyes,
Excellently polished,
perfect and clear:
Well-set to every
witness they appear.
They are inlaid with
pearl; on each soft dew lies,
As when Aurora warms
the eastern skies.
Even precious gold
brings my heart less cheer
Than her brows and
braided hair, which have no peer:
Their colours make me
gasp; they tantalise.
Whiter than fair
ivory are her teeth
Sheathed in banks of
coral, above and beneath.
All these shades are
seen at their most pure
In her face, which is
matchless, without flaw.
This is why she makes
my heart twist and race:
My love is as pure as
the colours in her face.
IV
Where will you go, my
dear, where do you plan to go?
You turn from me, my
sweet, before you know my mind.
Why do you torture
me, heaping pain on top of woe?
My love is fair, true
and faithful, good and refined.
Why do you flee from
me? Where do you plan to go?
My love for you is
faithful, good and refined,
So, do not torture
me, heaping pain on top of woe,
But stay, my love,
and learn how my heart is inclined.
Your beauty, your
purity, your sweet and gentle mores,
Your wisdom and your
wit, which follow virtue's laws,
Your eyes, alluring
and clear, the honour you arouse,
Your pure blonde
tresses, echoed by fine eyebrows:
All this pleases me.
Until time itself is spent
I want to be near
you, through both joy and torment.
En dit is het refereynken uit Mariken
van Nieumeghen in het Engels:
Oh rhetoric, of all
arts truest and best,
It shames me to say,
that while I rank you first,
Other men traduce you
And even abuse you:
Your loyal followers
now feel sore pressed.
To him I say Fie!,
who like some brute, cursed,
Pays you little heed.
Fie! Such a woeful
deed
Drives me to despair.
But I know that there
Are many who will
weep when they hear me mourn:
It is the artless who
have left art so forlorn.
Good art should give
pleasure, states an old saying,
Which I hold for a
fable, not worth a bean.
If there is a fine
artist, skilled in portraying,
And a third-rate hack
whose knowledge is mean,
The latter will be
everywhere heard and seen,
While the real artist
starves and shivers, in scorn.
The panderer will
always grow fat and preen.
One day the truth
will on every man dawn:
It is the artless who
have left art so forlorn.
Fie on the boorish,
dull, rude and obtuse,
Who think that they
can such things understand!
The purest art should
every man seduce:
Art should before all
other things stand;
Art should be the
pride of each lovely land;
Every true artist
honour should adorn.
Fie on art's
detractors, the brutish and bland!
Because of you this
conclusion I have drawn:
It is the artless who
have left art so forlorn.
Prince-like, to the
true arts I will turn
And as well as I can
the arts I will learn,
For no man with skill
in the arts was born.
It is for all artists
a source of concern,
That uncultured men
the arts always spurn.
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