Wallace Stevens, Kninen ite keutels. Slangen ite kninen. Swinen ite slangen. Minsken ite swinen

 
Kninen ite keutels. Slangen ite kninen.
Swinen ite slangen. Minsken ite swinen

It is wier dat de rivieren gnúfden as bargen
En wraamden oan iggen, oant sy liken
Op nuet magegnoarjen yn slûge trôgen,

Dat de bûtenlucht swier wie fan dy bargen har rook,
De rook fan in simmer dy’t opswold wie,
En swier fan de tonger syn knetteremint,

Dat de man dy’t dit klintsje hjir oplutsen, dit fjild
Beplante en in skoft fersoarge hie
De babbelegûchjes fan byldspraak net koe,

Dat de oeren fan syn sodzige, toarre dagen,
Grotesk troch dat omgnuven yn iggen,
Troch dy slûchsleauwens en dat knetteremint,

Te tatedrinken liken oan syn toarre bestean,
Sa’t de bargige rivieren tatedronken
En, op see oan, nei harren mûnings gongen.

 

Frogs Eat Butterflies. Snakes Eat Frogs.
Hogs Eat Snakes. Men Eat Hogs

It is true that the rivers went nosing like swine,
Tugging at banks, until they seemed
Bland belly-sounds in somnolent troughs,

That the air was heavy with the breath of these swine,
The breath of turgid summer, and
Heavy with thunder’s rattapallax,

That the man who erected this cabin, planted
This field, and tended it awhile,
Knew not the quirks of imagery,

That the hours of his indolent, arid days,
Grotesque with this nosing in banks,
This somnolence and rattapallax,

Seemed to suckle themselves on his arid being,
As the swine-like rivers suckled themselves
While they went seaward to the sea-mouths.

 

Ut Harmonium, 1923

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