Wallace Stevens, Dizze ferlittenheid fan katarakten

 
Dizze ferlittenheid fan katarakten

Hy hie nea twaris itselde gefoel oer de bûnte rivier,
Dy’t aloan en nea twaris op deselde wize streamde,

Troch in protte plakken streamde, as stie er stil yn ien,
Blak as in mar wêrop’t wylde einen klapwjukjend

Syn wenstige refleksjes, tinkbyldige Monadnocks, rimpelen.
It die oan as wie der in ûnútsprutsen apostrof.

Der wie sa’n soad dat echt wie dat alhiel net echt wie.
Hy woe dat er kear op kear op deselde wize fielde.

Hy woe dat de rivier op deselde wize trochstreamde,
Al mar streamen bleau. Hy woe der njonken rinne,

Under de platanen, mei dêrboppe in fêstspikere moanne.
Hy woe dat syn hert ophold te klopjen en syn geast rêst fûn

Yn in permaninte ferwerkliking, sûnder wylde einen
Of bergen dy’t gjin bergen wienen, om mar te witten hoe’t it,

Befrijd fan ferneatiging, wêze soe, hoe’t it fiele soe en wês
In man fan brûns dy’t ammet ûnder argaysk lapis,

Sûnder de slingerslach fan it va-et-vient op de planeet,
Syn brûnzen amme ammet yn it azueren sintrum fan de tiid.

 

This Solitude of Cataracts

He never felt twice the same about the flecked river,
Which kept flowing and never the same way twice, flowing

Through many places, as if it stood still in one,
Fixed like a lake on which the wild ducks fluttered,

Ruffling its common reflections, thought-like Monadnocks.
There seemed to be an apostrophe that was not spoken.

There was so much that was real that was not real at all.
He wanted to feel the same way over and over.

He wanted the river to go on flowing the same way,
To keep on flowing. He wanted to walk beside it,

Under the buttonwoods, beneath a moon nailed fast.
He wanted his heart to stop beating and his mind to rest

In a permanent realization, without any wild ducks
Or mountains that were not mountains, just to know how it would be,

Just to know how it would feel, released from destruction,
To be a bronze man breathing under archaic lapis,

Without the oscillations of planetary pass-pass,
Breathing his bronzen breath at the azury center of time.

 

Ut The Auroras of Autumn, 1950. Wallace Stevens yn in brief fan 4 maart 1954: ‘The expression “thought-like Monadnocks” can best be explained by changing it into “Monadnock-like thoughts.” The image of a mountain deep in the surface of a lake acquires a secondary character. From the sheen of the surface it becomes slightly unreal: thought-like. Mt. Monadnock is a New England mountain. It is in New Hampshire.’

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