Wallace Stevens, Net ideeën oer it ding mar it ding sels

 
Net ideeën oer it ding mar it ding sels

In skrale gjalp fan bûten, yn maart,
By it earste einjen fan de winter,
Die oan as in geroft yn syn geast.

Hy wist dat er it heard hie,
In fûgelrop, by it lemieren of dêrfoar,
Yn de iere maartske wyn.

De sinne kaam tsjin seizen op,
Gjin fersutere tûfe fearren boppe snie mear…
It moat bûten west hawwe.

It wie net út it breedút búksprekken wei
Fan de sliep syn ferwiske papier-masjee…
De sinne kaam fan bûten.

Dy skrale gjalp – it wie
In sjonger waans sol it koar foarôfgong.
It wie diel fan de kolossale sinne,

Omsirkele troch koarklanken,
Fier fuort noch. It wie as
In nij witten fan de werklikheid.

 

Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself

At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.

He knew that he heard it,
A bird’s cry, at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.

The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow . . .
It would have been outside.

It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep’s faded papier-mâché . . .
The sun was coming from outside.

That scrawny cry – it was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,

Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.

 

Ut The Rock, 1954

This entry was posted in Wallace Stevens and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.