{"id":13017,"date":"2019-11-14T23:00:24","date_gmt":"2019-11-14T22:00:24","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/?p=13017"},"modified":"2019-11-16T14:03:18","modified_gmt":"2019-11-16T13:03:18","slug":"elizabeth-bishop-de-fisk","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/?p=13017","title":{"rendered":"Elizabeth Bishop, De fisk<\/em>"},"content":{"rendered":"

 
\nDe fisk<\/em><\/big><\/p>\n

Ik fong in geweldige fisk
\nen hold him l\u00e2ns de boat
\nheal \u00fat it wetter, mei myn heak
\nf\u00east yn in hoeke fan syn bek.
\nHy focht net.
\nHy hie alhiel net fochten.
\nHy wie ien bonk wrantelich gewicht,
\n\u00fatput, earbiedweardich
\nen \u00fbnsjoch. Hjir en d\u00ear
\nhong syn brune fel yn repen
\nas antyk behangpapier,
\nen as behangpapier wie
\nsyn donkerbrune tekening:
\nfoarmen as roazen yn folle bloei,
\nflekt en troch de jierren ferskiere.
\nHy wie bespikkele mei seepokken,
\nfine rozetten fan kalk,
\nen teheistere
\ntroch lytse wite seeluzen,
\nen oan de \u00fbnderkant hongen
\ntwa, trije flarden grien wier del.
\nWylst syn kiuwen
\nde freeslike soerstof yns\u00fbgden
\n\u2013 de bangmeitsjende kiuwen,
\nfarsk en bros fan bloed,
\nkinst dy der raar oan snije \u2013
\ntocht ik oan it grouwe wite fleis,
\nteplak skikt as fearren,
\nde bonken en de graten,
\nde dramatyske tinten read en swart
\nfan syn gl\u00e2nzjend yngewant
\nen de r\u00f4ze swimblaas
\nas in grutte pioenroas.
\nIk seach him yn de eagen,
\ndy\u2019t grutter wienen as mines
\nmar ek platter en fergiele,
\nmei irissen fette en set
\nyn ferware sulverpapier,
\nsjoen troch linzen
\nfan \u00e2lde skurve mika.
\nSe ferskoden in bytsje, mar net
\nas respons op myn blik
\n\u2013 it wie mear as it kanteljen
\nfan in foarwerp nei it ljocht.
\nIk bew\u00fbndere syn noartske troanje,
\nit meganyk fan syn tsjeak,
\nen doe seach ik
\ndat der fan syn \u00fbnderlippe
\n\u2013 ast dat sa neame kinst: lippe \u2013
\ngrym, wiet en as wienen \u2019t wapens
\nfiif \u00e2lde stikken angelsnoer hongen,
\nof fjouwer en in ein metaaltried
\nmei de waarle der noch oan,
\nmei alle fiif de grutte heakken
\nstevich f\u00eastgroeid yn syn bek.
\nIn grien snoer, raffelich d\u00ear\u2019t er
\nit brutsen hie, twa swierdere linen
\nen in fine swarte tried,
\nnoch kr\u00f4le fan it spannen en knappen
\ndoe\u2019t it brutsen wie, en hy \u00fbntkommen.
\nAs medaljes mei raffele,
\nwiuwkjende lintsjes
\nsljurke fan syn seare tsjeak
\nin fiifhierrich burd fan wiisheid.
\nIk stoarre en stoarre
\nen de lytse hierboat
\nr\u00fbn fol mei fiktoarje,
\nfan de puozze linswetter
\nd\u00ear\u2019t oalje om de rustige motor
\nin reinb\u00f4ge \u00fatspraat hie
\noan it oranje ferrustke easfet,
\nde troch de sinne barsten doften,
\nde dollen oan harren koardsjes
\nen de boarden ta \u2013 oant oer alles
\nreinb\u00f4ge, reinb\u00f4ge, reinb\u00f4ge lei!
\nEn ik liet de fisk frij.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Fish<\/em><\/big><\/p>\n

I caught a tremendous fish
\nand held him beside the boat
\nhalf out of water, with my hook
\nfast in a corner of its mouth.
\nHe didn\u2019t fight.
\nHe hadn\u2019t fought at all.
\nHe hung a grunting weight,
\nbattered and venerable
\nand homely. Here and there
\nhis brown skin hung in strips
\nlike ancient wallpaper,
\nand its pattern of darker brown
\nwas like wallpaper:
\nshapes like full-blown roses
\nstained and lost through age.
\nHe was speckled with barnacles,
\nfine rosettes of lime,
\nand infested
\nwith tiny white sea-lice,
\nand underneath two or three
\nrags of green weed hung down.
\nWhile his gills were breathing in
\nthe terrible oxygen
\n\u2014the frightening gills,
\nfresh and crisp with blood,
\nthat can cut so badly\u2014
\nI thought of the coarse white flesh
\npacked in like feathers,
\nthe big bones and the little bones,
\nthe dramatic reds and blacks
\nof his shiny entrails,
\nand the pink swim-bladder
\nlike a big peony.
\nI looked into his eyes
\nwhich were far larger than mine
\nbut shallower, and yellowed,
\nthe irises backed and packed
\nwith tarnished tinfoil
\nseen through the lenses
\nof old scratched isinglass.
\nThey shifted a little, but not
\nto return my stare.
\n\u2014It was more like the tipping
\nof an object toward the light.
\nI admired his sullen face,
\nthe mechanism of his jaw,
\nand then I saw
\nthat from his lower lip
\n\u2014if you could call it a lip\u2014
\ngrim, wet, and weaponlike,
\nhung five old pieces of fish-line,
\nor four and a wire leader
\nwith the swivel still attached,
\nwith all their five big hooks
\ngrown firmly in his mouth.
\nA green line, frayed at the end
\nwhere he broke it, two heavier lines,
\nand a fine black thread
\nstill crimped from the strain and snap
\nwhen it broke and he got away.
\nLike medals with their ribbons
\nfrayed and wavering,
\na five-haired beard of wisdom
\ntrailing from his aching jaw.
\nI stared and stared
\nand victory filled up
\nthe little rented boat,
\nfrom the pool of bilge
\nwhere oil had spread a rainbow
\naround the rusted engine
\nto the bailer rusted orange,
\nthe sun-cracked thwarts,
\nthe oarlocks on their strings,
\nthe gunnels\u2014until everything
\nwas rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
\nAnd I let the fish go.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Ut North & South<\/em>, 1946. YouTube: \u2018The Fish\u2019, foardroegen troch Elizabeth Bishop sels, 1947.<\/nobr><\/p>\n