>The Sky Hangs Low

>

Memory of Holland

Thinking of Holland
I see wide-flowing rivers
slowly traversing
infinite plains,
inconceivably
rarefied poplars
like lofty plumes
on the skyline in lanes;
and submerged in the vastness
of unbounded spaces
the farmhouses
strewn over the land,
tree clumps, villages,
truncated towers,
churches and elm trees –
all wondrously planned.
the sky hangs low
and slowly the sun by
mists of all colours
is stifled and greyed
and in all the regions
the voice of the water
with its endless disasters
is feared and obeyed.

Translation: © Paul Vincent, 2006

Memories of Holland

Thinking of Holland
I see broad lazy rivers
flowing through infinite
low-lying land,
rows of incredibly
delicate poplars
like plumy feathers
on the horizon, and
sunken and small in this
space so stupendous
the farmhouses
scattered about,
clumps of trees, villages,
squat stumpy towers,
churches and elm trees,
in one grand layout.
The skies hang low
and grey, multicoloured
mists slowly make the
sun disappear,
and in every region
the voice of the water
with its endless disasters
is heard and is feared.

Translation: © Renée Delhez, 2006

Recollection of Holland

Imagining Holland
I see sizable rivers
slowly through endless
lowland flow,
impossible rows
of lanky poplars
like uplifted plumes
at the horizon grow;
and in the tremendous
infinity lost
the farmers’ dwellings
scattering the land,
tree clusters, hamlets,
truncated towers,
churches and elm trees
in a framework grand.
Sky lowly lingers
and the sun’s being slowly
in grey multi-coloured
vapours obscured,
and in all regions
will the voice of the water
with his endless tragedies
be dreaded and heard.

Translation: © Roos van de Wardt, 2006

This is one of the most well known poems in the Netherlands. We all learn this poem in school.

Herinnering aan Holland

Denkend aan Holland
zie ik breede rivieren
traag door oneindig
laagland gaan,
rijen ondenkbaar
ijle populieren
als hooge pluimen
aan den einder staan;
en in de geweldige
ruimte verzonken
de boerderijen
verspreid door het land,
boomgroepen, dorpen
geknotte torens,
kerken en olmen,
in een grootsch verband.
De lucht hangt er laag
en de zon wordt er langzaam
in grijze veelkleurige
dampen gesmoord,
en in alle gewesten
wordt de stem van het water
met zijn eeuwige rampen
gevreesd en gehoord.

Hendrik Marsman (1899-1940)

The prize winning translation of the David Reid Poetry

Geef een reactie

Gelieve met een van deze methodes in te loggen om je reactie te plaatsen:

WordPress.com logo

Je reageert onder je WordPress.com account. Log uit /  Bijwerken )

Google+ photo

Je reageert onder je Google+ account. Log uit /  Bijwerken )

Twitter-afbeelding

Je reageert onder je Twitter account. Log uit /  Bijwerken )

Facebook foto

Je reageert onder je Facebook account. Log uit /  Bijwerken )

Verbinden met %s