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Blake, William

· Vertaling van ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’ van Thomas Gray door Cornelis W. Schoneveld · William BLAKE: The Sick Rose · William BLAKE: The Lamb · William BLAKE: A Poison Tree · William BLAKE: London · William BLAKE: The Tiger · William BLAKE: The Chimney Sweeper · WILLIAM BLAKE: VERZEN VAN ONSCHULD EN ERVARING (VERTALING CORNELIS W. SCHONEVELD) -2- · WILLIAM BLAKE: THE GARDEN OF LOVE · William Blake: A Poison Tree · William Blake: A POISON TREE · Vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld van William Blake’s gedicht: London

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Vertaling van ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’ van Thomas Gray door Cornelis W. Schoneveld

De ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’ van Thomas Gray (1716-1771), voltooid in 1750, is een van de allerbekendste gedichten uit de Engelse literatuurgeschiedenis.

Typisch voor de 18de eeuw generaliseert en moraliseert de dichter naar hartelust in ‘poëtische’ taal.

Toch illustreert zijn tekst ook op frappante maar voorzichtige wijze trends die tot de ‘allerindividueelste emoties’ van de Romantiek zouden leiden.

‘Far from the madding crowd’ (later geleend door Thomas Hardy als romantitel) stelt de hooggeleerde dichter zich voor eenzaam door het dorpsgebied te zwerven en tenslotte op het dorpskerkhof begraven te liggen.

William Blake (1757-1827), auteur van de beroemde Songs of Innocence and of Experience (1795), sneed in 1797 de tekst van Gray’s Elegy uit een uitgave van Gray’s poëzie uit 1790, bevestigde die in uitsparingen van aquarelbladen en schilderde zo elf bladen met een illustratie rondom de tekst.

Een bekende uitspraak van Blake is ‘wie generaliseert is een idioot’, maar in Gray’s gedicht zag hij blijkbaar vooral de individuele en romantische kant ervan. Zo ontstond een uniek eenmalig product voor een opdrachtgever, dat pas in 1920 in de publiciteit kwam.

Gray’s originele strofen en de naar vorm en inhoud getrouwe Nederlandse vertaling van Cornelis W. Schoneveld staan onder elkaar, naast Blake’s esoterische illustraties.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
x Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

Thomas Gray

Ver van het twistend volk, in dwaas verval,
Zwierven hun sobere wensen nooit van huis;
In ’t koele afgescheiden levensdal
Hielden zij koers, zonder het minst geruis.
Ter wering van hun beenderen tegen kwaad
Verzoekt een wrakke zerk, hier opgericht,
In grof reliëf en verzen zwak van maat,
Een zucht van de passant als ereplicht.
x Jaren en naam, door ’n Muze slecht gespeld,
Vervangen lofgezang en rouwgedicht,
En menig heilig woord van Haar vertelt
De vrome landman van zijn dood in zicht.
Want wie zei ooit, vergetelheid ten prooi,
Vaarwel tegen ’t bezorgd maar schoon bestaan,
Verliet het dagdomein, zo warm, zo mooi,
Zonder een draalblik talend terug te slaan?

Vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld

 

Thomas Gray
Treurzang geschreven op een dorpskerkhof
Vertaling en voorwoord Cornelis W. Schoneveld
isbn: 978 90 824288 7 2
Uitg. DWT De Wilde Tomaat
2017, 27 pag.

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, Archive G-H, Blake, William, POETRY IN TRANSLATION: SCHONEVELD


William BLAKE: The Sick Rose

William Blake
The Sick Rose

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm.
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

William Blake (1757 – 1827)
Poem: The Sick Rose
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blake, William


William BLAKE: The Lamb

William Blake
The Lamb

Little Lamb, who made thee
Does thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing woolly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice.
Making all the vales rejoice:
Little Lamb who made thee
Does thou know who made thee

Little Lamb I’ll tell thee,
Little Lamb I’ll tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by His name,
Little Lamb God bless thee,
Little Lamb God bless thee.

William Blake (1757 – 1827)
Poem: The Lamb
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blake, William


William BLAKE: A Poison Tree

William Blake
A Poison Tree
 

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole.
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see,
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.

 
William Blake (1757 – 1827)
Poem: A Poison Tree
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blake, William


William BLAKE: London

William Blake
London

I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry
Every black’ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot’s curse
Blasts the new born Infant’s tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

William Blake (1757 – 1827)
Poem: London
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blake, William


William BLAKE: The Tiger

William Blake
The Tiger

Tiger Tiger. burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye.
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears:
Did he smile His work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger Tiger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake (1757 – 1827)
The Tiger
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blake, William


William BLAKE: The Chimney Sweeper

William Blake
The Chimney Sweeper

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue,
Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep,
So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.

Theres little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head
That curled like a lambs back was shav’d, so I said.
Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair

And so he was quiet. & that very night.
As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight
That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe, Ned, & Jack
Were all of them lock’d up in coffins of black,

And by came an Angel who had a bright key
And he open’d the coffins & set them all free.
Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run
And wash in a river and shine in the Sun.

Then naked & white, all their bags left behind.
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.
And the Angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father & never want joy.

And so Tom awoke and we rose in the dark
And got with our bags & our brushes to work.
Tho’ the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

William Blake (1757 – 1827)
Poem: The Chimney Sweeper
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blake, William


WILLIAM BLAKE: VERZEN VAN ONSCHULD EN ERVARING (VERTALING CORNELIS W. SCHONEVELD) -2-

blake_schoneveld16

 DE KLUIT EN DE KIEZEL

“De Liefde zoekt geen zelfplezier,
En eigen zorg vult niet haar hart,
Maar biedt aan de ander haar vertier,
Door Hemelbouw in Helse smart.”

Vertreden door de koeienpoot,
Kweelde dit een Kluit van Klei;
Maar een Kiezel uit de sloot
Zong dit rake rijm daarbij:

“De Liefde zoekt slechts zelfplezier,
Legt op aan anderen haar jolijt,
Zwelgt in een anders onvertier,
En bouwt een Hel, de Hemel ten spijt.”

WILLIAM BLAKE

 

Verzen van Onschuld en van Ervaring
Auteur: William Blake;
vertaling en voorwoord: Cornelis W. Schoneveld
(tweetalige uitgave met illustraties)
118 pagina’s; afmetingen: 10x200x125 mm
ISBN: 978 90 824288 1 0

# Website uitgeverij DWT

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, Blake, Blake, William, TRANSLATION ARCHIVE


WILLIAM BLAKE: THE GARDEN OF LOVE

blake_gardenoflove

William Blake
(1757-1827)

The Garden Of Love

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of the Chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not writ over the door;
So I turn’d to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore,

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys & desires.

William Blake poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blake, William


William Blake: A Poison Tree

blake

William Blake

(1757-1827)

A POISON TREE

 

Was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

 

And I watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears;

And I sunnèd it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

 

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright;

And my foe beheld it shine,

And he knew that it was mine,

 

And into my garden stole,

When the night had veiled the pole:

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

 

William Blake poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blake, William


William Blake: A POISON TREE

William Blake

(1757-1827)

A POISON TREE

 

Was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

 

And I watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears;

And I sunnèd it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

 

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright;

And my foe beheld it shine,

And he knew that it was mine,

 

And into my garden stole,

When the night had veiled the pole:

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

 

William Blake poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blake, William


Vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld van William Blake’s gedicht: London

William Blake

(1757-1827)

 

London

(From: Songs of Experience)

 

I wandered through each chartered street,

Near where the chartered Thames does flow,

A mark in every face I meet,

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

 

In every cry of every man,

In every infant’s cry of fear,

In every voice, in every ban,

The mind-forged manacles I hear:

 

How the chimney-sweeper’s cry

Every blackening church appalls,

And the hapless soldier’s sigh

Runs in blood down palace-walls.

 

But most, through midnight streets I hear

How the youthful harlot’s curse

Blasts the new-born infant’s tear,

And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.

 

 

Londen

(uit: Liederen van ervaring)

 

Waar de verpachte Theemsstroom gaat

Zwerf ik door ‘s stads verpachte hart,

En merk in elk langsgaand gelaat

Tekens van zwakheid en van smart,

 

Waar ik in elke mensenzucht,

In elk bang-krijtend babykoor,

In elke vloek, elk hart gelucht

De brein-gesmede ketens hoor.

 

De schoorsteenvegers roep bezeert

Elke kerk, gezwart door roet;

‘n Zucht die de soldaat verteert

Stroomt de paleismuur af in bloed.

 

Maar ‘t meeste hoor ik ‘s nacht op straat

Hoe de vloek der jonge slet

Tranen schroeit die een boreling laat,

En met de pest de trouw-baar smet.

 

Vertaling: Cornelis W. Schoneveld

Uit: Bestorm mijn hart, de beste Engelse gedichten uit de 16e-19e eeuw gekozen en vertaald door Cornelis W. Schoneveld, tweetalige editie. Rainbow Essentials no. 55, Uitgeverij Maarten Muntinga, Amsterdam, 2008, 296 pp, € 9,95 ISBN: 9789041740588

Bestorm mijn hart bevat een dwarsdoorsnede van vier eeuwen lyrische Engelse dichtkunst. Dichters uit de zestiende tot en met de negentiende eeuw dichter onder andere over liefde, natuur, dood en religie. Niet alleen de Nederlandse vertaling is in deze bundel te vinden, maar ook de originele Engelse versie. Deze prachtige bloemlezing, met gedichten van onder anderen Shakespeare, Milton, Pope en Wordsworth, is samengesteld en vertaald door Cornelis W. Schoneveld. Hij is vele jaren docent historische Engelse letterkunde en vertaalwetenschapper aan de Universiteit van Leiden geweest.

kempis.nl poetry magazine


More in: Blake, Blake, William, London Poems


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