Wallace Stevens, Poëzy is in ferneatigjende krêft

 
Poëzy is in ferneatigjende krêft

Miserabelens is dit,
Neat te behertigjen hawwe.
Je hawwe wat of neat.

It is in ding om te hawwen,
In liuw, in okse yn it boarst,
Him dêr sykheljen fiele.

Corazon, dryste hûn,
Jonge okse, tsjalpoatige bear,
Hy priuwt syn bloed, gjin flibe.

Hy is as in man
Yn de bealch fan in woest bist.
De spieren binne syn eigen…

De liuw sliept yn de sinne,
Mei de snút op ’e klauwen.
Hy kin in minske deadzje.

 

Poetry Is a Destructive Force

That’s what misery is,
Nothing to have at heart.
It is to have or nothing.

It is a thing to have,
A lion, an ox in his breast,
To feel it breathing there.

Corazon, stout dog,
Young ox, bow-legged bear,
He tastes its blood, not spit.

He is like a man
In the body of a violent beast.
Its muscles are his own…

The lion sleeps in the sun.
Its nose is on its paws.
It can kill a man.

 

Ut Parts of a World, 1942
 

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