Poem
Danie Marais
SATURDAY NIGHT ALIVE
I do thetoo-much-retro-beer-during-happy-hour-
on-Saturday-evening in-the-Heartbreak-Hotel number.
Yes,
then I do the old
“man-who-wants-to-live”-drink-weekend-beer number
as dutifully as some old guy
trying to win his legs back after a stroke
does his exercise routine.
I do the late-tram-home number —
I check the
couples-cooing-together-against-the-cold item;
I seethe quietly for the
bum-passed-out-alone-against-the-window-
with-the-blue-spider-web-tattoo-that-creeps-up-his-neck routine.
I do the sudden-inspiration-blowing-in-the-night number and
walk along playing the strolling-to-Miles-Davis-blowing-blue-
trumpet-over-the-deep-river-with-the-oil-neon-dreams
scene.
I do the raid-on-the-flat-and-
storm-the-fridge number.
I do the Judy-Garland-on-the-windowsill-
with-Amaretto-and-milk-
“somewhere-over-the-rainbow”-
that-the-doctor-proscribed programme.
With the full power of my lungs
I do the
“What-now-my-love?-
now-there-is-nothing-
I-feel-the-world-
closing-in-on-me”
the “What-now-my-love?-
now-that-it’s-over-
-there\'s-only-sky-
where-the-sea-should-be-”
little number.
But for safety reasons I also do the self-critical-
1-2-3-block-myself-
is-the-poem-necessary?
Procedure
I do the shake-the-head-the-old-mother-language-
like-a-defective-Coke-despensing-machine-in-an-abandoned-Bahnhof-
in-a-small-German-ghost-village-long-after-midnight routine.
I pull and pluck my head-language-heart like a pinball machine
and with a shrug of the shoulder I do
the Send number –
turn off the computer,
leave the closed room of poetry,
brush teeth,
walk slide eel and she
in the bed.
In the bed I lie electrically
still, wide awake –
look through the blinds
how dark the night
how sickle the moon.
© Translation: 2007, Richard Jürgens
Publisher: Poetry International Festival, Rotterdam, 2007
Publisher: Poetry International Festival, Rotterdam, 2007
SATURDAY NIGHT ALIVE
Ik doe hetzaterdagavond-te-veel-retro-bier-met-
happy-hour-in-het-Heartbreak-Hotel-nummer.
Ja,
ik doe weer de oude
‘man-who-wants-to-live’-drinkt-in-het-weekend-bier-routine
het oefeningen-nummer
plichtsgetrouw als een bikkel
die na een beroerte weer probeert te lopen.
Ik doe het nachttram-richting-huis-nummer –
ik check het
paartjes-tortelend-samen-tegen-de-kou-item;
ik sidder stilletjes voor de
alleen-bum-uitgepass-te-nee-ruit-
met-het-blauwe-spinnenweb-dat-opkruipt-te-nee-nek-tattoo-routine.
Ik doe het snelle-bevlieging-uitwaaien-in-de-nacht-nummer
om die-walking-on-Miles-Davis-blaas-blauwe-trompet-
over-de-diepe-rivier-met-die-olie-neon-dromen-op-scène
lopend te spelen.
Ik doe het inval-in-de-flat-
bestorm-de-ijskast-nummer.
Ik doe het Judy-Garland-op-de-vensterbank-
met-Amaretto-en-melk-
‘somewhere-over-the-rainbow’-
dat-de-dokter-mij-verboden-heeft-programma.
Ik doe weer uit volle borst het
‘What-now-my-love?-
now-there-is-nothing-
I-feel-the-world-
closing-in-on-me-’
het ‘What-now-my-love?-
now-that-it’s-over-
-there’s-only-sky-
where-the-sea-should-be-’
nummertje.
Maar ik doe veiligheidshalve ook de zelf-kritische-
1-2-3-blokkeer-mezelf-
is-dit-gedicht-noodzakelijk?-
-procedure
Ik doe de rammel-de-moedertaal-door-elkaar-
als-een-defecte-Coke-automaat-op-een-uitgestorven-Bahnhof-
in-een-klein-Duits-spookdorp-lang-na-middernacht-routine.
Ik ruk en pluk mijn kop-taal-hart als een pinball-machine
en dan doe ik schouderophalend
het-Send-nummer –
zet de computer af,
verlaat de gedichten-kamer,
poets mijn tanden,
loop half glijdend als een paling en zij
al in bed.
In bed lig ik dan elektrisch
stil, wagenwijd wakker –
zie door de jaloezieën
hoe zwart de nacht
hoe sikkelvormig de maan.
© Vertaling: 2007, Robert Dorsman
SATURDAY NIGHT ALIVE
Ek doen dieSaterdagaand-te-veel-retro-bier-met-
happy-hour-in-die-Heartbreak-Hotel-nommer.
Ja,
ek doen toe weer die ou
“man-who-wants-to-live”-drink-naweek-bier-roetine
pligsgetrou soos ’n omie
wat sy bene probeer terugwen na ’n beroerte
sy oefeninge-nommer.
Ek doen die-nagtrem-huis-toe-nommer –
ek check die
paartjies-koer-saam-teen-die-koue-item;
ek sidder stilletjies vir die
alleen-bum-uitgepass-tenie-ruit-
met-die-blou-spinnerak-wat-opkruip-tenie-nek-tattoo-routine.
Ek doen die skielike-bevlieging-uitwaai-in-die-nag-nommer
om die-walking-on-Miles-Davis-blaas-blou-trompet-
oor-die-diep-rivier-met-die-olie-neon-drome-op-scene
te loop-speel.
Ek doen die inval-by-die-flat-
storm-die-yskas-nommer.
Ek doen die Judy-Garland-op-die-vensterbank-
met-Amaretto-en-melk-
“somewhere-over-the-rainbow”-
wat-die-dokter-my-verbied-het-program.
Ek doen weer die uit volle bors
“What-now-my-love?-
now-there-is-nothing-
I-feel-the-world-
closing-in-on-me-”
die “What-now-my-love?-
now-that-it’s-over-
-there’s-only-sky-
where-the-sea-should-be-”
nommertjie.
Maar ek doen veiligheidshalwe ook die selfkritiese-
1-2-3-blok-myself-
is-die-gedig-noodsaaklik?-
-prosedure
Ek doen die skud-en-skop-die-ou-moedertaal-
soos-’n-defekte-Coke-outomaat-in-’n-uitgestorwe-Bahnhof-
op-’n-klein-Duitse-spookdorpie-lank-na-middernag-roetine.
Ek ruk en pluk my kop-taal-hart soos ’n pinball-masjien
en dan doen ek skouerophalend
die-Send-nommer –
sit af die computer,
verlaat die gedig-kamer,
borsel tande,
loop gly paling en sy
in die bed.
In die bed lê ek dan elektries
stil, wa-wyd wakker –
kyk deur die blindings
hoe swart die nag
hoe sekel die maan.
© 2006, Danie Marais
From: die buitenste ruimte
Publisher: Tafelberg, Cape Town
From: die buitenste ruimte
Publisher: Tafelberg, Cape Town
Poems
Poems of Danie Marais
Close
SATURDAY NIGHT ALIVE
I do thetoo-much-retro-beer-during-happy-hour-
on-Saturday-evening in-the-Heartbreak-Hotel number.
Yes,
then I do the old
“man-who-wants-to-live”-drink-weekend-beer number
as dutifully as some old guy
trying to win his legs back after a stroke
does his exercise routine.
I do the late-tram-home number —
I check the
couples-cooing-together-against-the-cold item;
I seethe quietly for the
bum-passed-out-alone-against-the-window-
with-the-blue-spider-web-tattoo-that-creeps-up-his-neck routine.
I do the sudden-inspiration-blowing-in-the-night number and
walk along playing the strolling-to-Miles-Davis-blowing-blue-
trumpet-over-the-deep-river-with-the-oil-neon-dreams
scene.
I do the raid-on-the-flat-and-
storm-the-fridge number.
I do the Judy-Garland-on-the-windowsill-
with-Amaretto-and-milk-
“somewhere-over-the-rainbow”-
that-the-doctor-proscribed programme.
With the full power of my lungs
I do the
“What-now-my-love?-
now-there-is-nothing-
I-feel-the-world-
closing-in-on-me”
the “What-now-my-love?-
now-that-it’s-over-
-there\'s-only-sky-
where-the-sea-should-be-”
little number.
But for safety reasons I also do the self-critical-
1-2-3-block-myself-
is-the-poem-necessary?
Procedure
I do the shake-the-head-the-old-mother-language-
like-a-defective-Coke-despensing-machine-in-an-abandoned-Bahnhof-
in-a-small-German-ghost-village-long-after-midnight routine.
I pull and pluck my head-language-heart like a pinball machine
and with a shrug of the shoulder I do
the Send number –
turn off the computer,
leave the closed room of poetry,
brush teeth,
walk slide eel and she
in the bed.
In the bed I lie electrically
still, wide awake –
look through the blinds
how dark the night
how sickle the moon.
© 2007, Richard Jürgens
From: die buitenste ruimte
Publisher: 2007, Poetry International Festival, Rotterdam
From: die buitenste ruimte
Publisher: 2007, Poetry International Festival, Rotterdam
SATURDAY NIGHT ALIVE
I do thetoo-much-retro-beer-during-happy-hour-
on-Saturday-evening in-the-Heartbreak-Hotel number.
Yes,
then I do the old
“man-who-wants-to-live”-drink-weekend-beer number
as dutifully as some old guy
trying to win his legs back after a stroke
does his exercise routine.
I do the late-tram-home number —
I check the
couples-cooing-together-against-the-cold item;
I seethe quietly for the
bum-passed-out-alone-against-the-window-
with-the-blue-spider-web-tattoo-that-creeps-up-his-neck routine.
I do the sudden-inspiration-blowing-in-the-night number and
walk along playing the strolling-to-Miles-Davis-blowing-blue-
trumpet-over-the-deep-river-with-the-oil-neon-dreams
scene.
I do the raid-on-the-flat-and-
storm-the-fridge number.
I do the Judy-Garland-on-the-windowsill-
with-Amaretto-and-milk-
“somewhere-over-the-rainbow”-
that-the-doctor-proscribed programme.
With the full power of my lungs
I do the
“What-now-my-love?-
now-there-is-nothing-
I-feel-the-world-
closing-in-on-me”
the “What-now-my-love?-
now-that-it’s-over-
-there\'s-only-sky-
where-the-sea-should-be-”
little number.
But for safety reasons I also do the self-critical-
1-2-3-block-myself-
is-the-poem-necessary?
Procedure
I do the shake-the-head-the-old-mother-language-
like-a-defective-Coke-despensing-machine-in-an-abandoned-Bahnhof-
in-a-small-German-ghost-village-long-after-midnight routine.
I pull and pluck my head-language-heart like a pinball machine
and with a shrug of the shoulder I do
the Send number –
turn off the computer,
leave the closed room of poetry,
brush teeth,
walk slide eel and she
in the bed.
In the bed I lie electrically
still, wide awake –
look through the blinds
how dark the night
how sickle the moon.
© 2007, Richard Jürgens
Publisher: 2007, Poetry International Festival, Rotterdam
Publisher: 2007, Poetry International Festival, Rotterdam
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