Wallace Stevens, Wat wy sjogge is wat wy tinke

 
Wat wy sjogge is wat wy tinke

Om tolve oere begûn it tebroazeljen fan de middei,
De weromkear nei phantomerei, wa wit sels
Nei fantomen. Oant dan ta hie it oarsom west:

De pearse beammen dy’t jin foar de geast kamen
Wienen om tolve oere grien, sa grien as it mar koe.
De loft wie blau foarby it oerwulvjendste sechje.

Tolve betsjutte safolle as: de ein fan gewoane tiid,
Rjochtút, in elan dat net yn it moed taast,
De ûnferfrjemdbere senit, frij fan orearjen,

Tolve en de earste grize tel dêrnei, in soarte fan
Pears griis, in grien pears, in tried om fan in skaad
In bokse of mouwe mei te weevjen, in kribeltsje

Op de sokkel, in ambisjeuze bledside mei in ezelsear
Rjochtsboppe, in piramide mei ien kant
Waarnommen as in spoekich snijflak, in skeante

En syn tanige karikatuer en tanige libben,
Noch in gedachte, it allesoerhearskjende gedoch…
Want wat wy tinke is noait wat wy sjogge.

 

What We See Is What We Think

At twelve, the disintegration of afternoon
Began, the return to phantomerei, if not
To phantoms. Till then it had been the other way:

One imagined the violet trees but the trees stood green,
At twelve, as green as ever they would be.
The sky was blue beyond the vaultiest phrase.

Twelve meant as much as: the end of normal time,
Straight up, an élan without harrowing,
The imprescriptible zenith, free of harangue,

Twelve and the first gray second after, a kind
Of violet gray, a green violet, a thread
To weave a shadow’s leg or sleeve, a scrawl

On the pedestal, an ambitious page dog-eared
At the upper right, a pyramid with one side
Like a spectral cut in its perception, a tilt

And its tawny caricature and tawny life,
Another thought, the paramount ado . . .
Since what we think is never what we see.

 

Ut The Auroras of Autumn, 1950

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