Five-lingual
Taal
Met taal is de Schepping begonnen
volgens de Bijbelse bronnen.
Uit een enkel woord
kwam het licht voort
en werd het duister overwonnen.
*
Language
Language, the start of Creation
by inspiring communication.
“Let there be light”,
and it was alright.
A beautiful organisation.
*
Sprache
Die Sprache ist aller Beginn,
ohne sie hat ja nichts einen Sinn.
“Laß es Licht sein”,
war Schöpfers Pflicht
und das Dunkel eilte dahin.
*
Langue
La langue a une belle position
au début de la Création.
“Que soit la lumière”,
une commande fière.
Depuis, l’univers était bon.
*
Taal
Mei taal is de Skepping begûn
en hat al it wêzen plak fûn.
It ljocht waard roppen
en kaam fuort fan boppen
en doe wie alles smûk en sûn.
*
Peter Bouchier
***
Yorkshire language
Lines on big government
It munt bi let dee, munt ahr way o’ speykin
It’s bin spokken t’same way sin’ England wor young
Ah’m owd nah missen, wi’ bits o’mi creeakin
But ‘till Ah’m called agait ‘oam then Yorksha’s mi tongue
Ahll thooas ancient kinfolks begettin ussens
Bi the’ t’Saxon, t’Angle, t’Jute or t’Dane
The’ planted crops, planted bairns, fro t’wild ‘ills ter t’fens
Soa ter try an’ rub aht ahr ‘istry is a crime mooast insane.
And tha knaws…
Dahn i’ Westminster weer t’lands laws are made
Weer the’wunt knaw truth if it bit ‘em on t’arse
Accooardin ter them, we’al a spades nooan a spade
The’ve made truth a myth, now it’s nowt but a farse
The’d rehabilitate Iscariot ter shine up the’ charm
Declarin ‘im yonderly, doity or flaid
“Ee wor nobbut crackers tha sees, an t’lad meant no ‘arm’”
Aye, nobbut crackers tha says
Oh aye
O’ coarse ‘ee wor
Reet dahn
Ter ‘is
Treacherous
Thirty-bob sandals.
Oh Westminster! Westminster!
Lie efter forktongued lie an’ blacker ‘an t’cassock
Of a sinful priest
‘oddin mass
Dahn’t pit
At midneet
Baht t’candles
We’al tha can standardise t’weights an’ tha can standardise t’brass
But tha sull nivver standardise me
That lot dahn theer dooant knaw a lad fro’ a lass
Weal asull tell thi this much
Ah’m a man, Ah’m fro Yorkshire, an’ Ahs’ll dee free!
Tha can standarise t’distance, it’s same distance Ah’m walkin
Tha can standardise metres, yards, inches an’ t’feet
But tha’ll nooan straighten mi tongue ner stop mi fro talkin
Mi native speych, or t’love o’ kinfolk an t’love o’ mi birthreet
Soa, Westminster tek ‘ard ‘eed this aside
Dooant rub us up t’wrang way or tha su’ll be fratchin a giant
An’ tha’ll nooan beat us easy, e’an conqueror tried
This in’t southern counties
It’s Yorkshire
Defiant!
Frank Brammah
Yorkshire Dialect Society
Lines on big government.
It must not be allowed to die, mustn’t our way of speaking
It has been spoken the same way since England was young
I am old now myself, with parts of me creaking
But until I am called on my way home (Heaven/to God) then Yorkshire dialect is my language.
All those ancient ancestors who gave birth to ourselves
Be they, the Saxon, the Angle, the Jute or the Dane
They planted crops, planted children from the wild hills to the fenland.
So, to try to rub out our history is a crime most insane
And you know
Down in Westminster where the lands laws are made
Where they would not know the truth if it bit them on the bottom
According to them, well, a spade is not a spade
They have made truth a myth, now it is nothing but a farce
They would rehabilitate Iscariot to make themselves look good
Declaring him slow witted, vague, or frightened
Yes, insane you say
Oh yes
Of course he was
Right down
To his
Treacherous
Thiry shilling sandals
Oh Westminster! Westminster!
Lie after fork tongued lie and blacker than the vestament
Of a sinful priest
Holding Mass
Down a coal mine
At midnight
Without candles
Well, you can standardise the weights and you can standardise the money
But you shall never standardise me
Those people down there cannot tell the difference between a boy and a girl
Well, I shall tell you this much
I am a man, I am from Yorkshire, and I shall die free!
You can standardise the distances, it is the same distance I am walking
You can standardise metres, yards, inches and feet
But you will not straighten my tongue nor stop me from talking
My native speech, or love of my local people and the love of my birthright.
So, Westminster take notice of what I am saying
Do not annoy us or you will be fighting a giant
And you will not defeat us easily, even the conqueror tried
This is not the southern English counties
It is Yorkshire
Defiant!
Translation: Frank Brammah
Quan vaig arribar a casa
el mal estava fet.
No van tocar els llibres
que proclamen veritats
i poesia.
-El seu tros de memòria nu-.
No van tocar els 20 euros
de l’aparador
arrugats
sense oportunitats
per revertir en els fluxos
del capital.
En canvi, el terra
apareixia sembrat de cadàvers:
paraules esvalotades,
arrencades de quall del context
de la casa que els aixoplugava.
Em vaig acostar per prendre’ls el pols.
Tot just respiraven.
-la paraula moribunda és lleu com una ploma,
s’encongeix al palmell de la mà quan la recullo-
Vaig trucar a urgències.
Però em van dir que n’hi havia molts
casos com el meu i que no podien fer res.
I que ho sentien.
Una plaga? Un assassinat en sèrie?
Més aviat un exèrcit d’usurpadors del discurs
ben proveïts d’urani a les boques.
Així atordeixen les paraules
abans de prostituir-les per al seu ús;
els tallen l’oxigen,
les desvascularitzen.
Al final les despullen per disfressar-les
d’una altra cosa:
Un soroll que pren.
Un brunzit que comença a emanar de les meves parets
i va a les del veí
i a les del veí del veí.
Paraules humiliades.
Paraules transvestides.
Paraules asfixiades.
Un intent: respiració.
No en tinc prou amb el desfibril·lador.
Gairebé no respiren.
La densitat del verí
les ha matat gairebé a l’acte.
I sento una por
que sorgeix de la boca de l’estómac:
on han mort les paraules
només queda arbitrarietat.
I on acampa l’arbitrarietat
és impossible que els cels siguin blaus
i les llengües romanguin intactes.
Em falta l’oxigen del que han privat les paraules.
Quan tornin a casa meva
només quedarà el meu cadàver, llest per al saqueig.
Natalia Fernández Díaz-Cabal
Academia.edu – Find Research Papers, Topics, Researchers
Natalia Fernández Díaz-Cabal | Mediterranean Poetry
Natalia Fernández Díaz-Cabal: (Spanje) Digitale Kunstenaar, Visueel Kunstenaar – Singulart
Words
When I got home
the damage was done.
They didn’t touch the books
that proclaim truths
and poetry
– a naked piece of their memory -.
They didn’t touch the 20 euros
on the shelves,
-wrinkled
without opportunities
to revert to the flows
of capital.
Instead, the ground
appeared strewn with corpses:
words in turmoil,
ripped from the context
of the house that sheltered them.
I went over to take their pulse.
They were barely breathing.
-the dying word is as light as a feather,
shrinks in the palm of my hand when I pick it up-
I called the emergency room.
But they told me that there were many
cases like mine and that they couldn’t do anything.
And that they were sorry.
A plague? A serial murder?
Rather, an army of usurpers of discourse
well supplied with uranium in their mouths.
Thus, they stun the words
before prostituting them for their use.
They cut off their oxygen,
they devascularize them.
In the end stripped words are disguised
as something else:
A noise that burns.
A buzz that begins to emanate from my walls
and goes to the neighbor’s
and to the neighbor’s neighbor’s.
Humiliated words.
Transvestite words.
Asphyxiated words.
An attempt: breathing.
I don’t have enough with the defibrillator.
They almost don’t breathe.
The density of the poison
has killed them almost on the spot.
And I feel a fear
that arises from my stomach pit:
where the words have died
only arbitrariness remains.
And where arbitrariness encamps
it is impossible for the skies to be blue
and for languages to remain intact.
I lack the oxygen that words have deprived me of.
When they return to my house
only my corpse will remain, ready to be plundered.
Natalia Fernández Díaz-Cabal
***
Lenga d’0c/Occitan
Lou ch’vau d’bô
Quant’y’ère ancor tou p’ti, gaire pu hau qu’une bote,
Mon gran-père më disève, an m’baillan une pièsse:
‘Tai mon p’ti par la féte, vétchi une grosse pièsse
Vétchi san saw par teu, mè lou dé ta menote.’
Bian contan y courève, avèque tou lou autraï,
Mai ou’ajoutève toujour, « sourtou, n’lou dépansse pâ!’
Y guétève lou ch’vau d’bau qu’èran tèl’man bravaï
É l’anvi më prenève de voulére y montâ.
Quant’y r’vè so’la plasse, qu’y m’assi sor un ban,
Y creû toujour antande la grosse voi de dé l’tan:
‘Vétchi san saw par teu, mè lou dé ta menote,
Vétchi san saw mon p’ti, mai n’lou dépansse pâ!’
Guy Pradeau
Houten paardjes
Toen ik nog heel klein was, nauwelijks groter dan een laars,
Zei mijn grootvader tegen me, terwijl hij me een geldstuk gaf:
‘Alsjeblieft kleine man, voor het feest een flinke munt.
Honderd stuiver voor jou, hou ze stevig in je handje.’
Heel blij, rende ik met iedereen mee,
Maar hij zei er steeds bij “Pas er goed op!’
Ik keek naar de houten paardjes, die zo mooi waren
En ik kreeg zin om daarop te rijden.
Als ik weer op het plein kom en op een bankje ga zitten,
Hoor ik als het ware die zware stem van vroeger:
‘Hier, honderd stuiver voor jou, hou ze in je handje,
Honderd stuiver, kleine man, maar pas er goed op!’
Vertaling: Piet Oostenbrink
***
Valencià/Valencian
Records de Llevant
Paraules
So de veus,
carícies i picades d’ullet.
els grills rasquen la nit
amb olor de gesmiler
entre històries de família
Després…
Ja en el ciment,
en una ciutat de terra seca
el telèfon zona.
Rotle pel passadís: són ells.
L’auricular vola entre les mans.
L’idioma matern és saba,
aroma verda de taronger.
Les seues veus tenen són de mar
de lluna rosada
sobre un camí d’aigua.
El meu cos sona en el d’ells
els que ja no existixen
Maria Isabel Flors Aparicio
Mediterranean memories
Words
Sound of voices,
caresses, and winks.
among the tales
Crickets pierce the night,
the scent of jasmine.
Then…
now among the cement,
in a city of dry earth,
the phone rings.
I run down the hallway: it’s them.
The receiver flies through my hands.
Their mother language is sap,
It`s the green scent of orange trees.
Their voices sound from the sea,
from the pink moon
on a path of water.
My body resonates in theirs,
even though they are no longer here.
Translation: Germain Droogenbroodt
***
Català/Catalan – and English translation
Patria in lingua
La llengua és la pàtria del desarrelat.
Per què en vols d’arrels? Que en té pas el gat?
Prou flexible i àgil, feliç i avesat,
felí puja al pòdium de la ubiqüitat.
Així doncs la llengua, versàtil i arreu,
ens fa sentir a casa i ens marca la pauta.
No cal tenir el geni ni lira d’Orfeu,
i pots arborar el velam d’Argonauta.
N’hi ha prou amb la cura de parlar com cal,
saber que els vocables són joies, tresor,
saba de la terra, l’arbre, l’animal,
es fan a la gola i es desen al cor.
Per això els feixistes, havent ocupat,
s’estan d’enderrocs de parets molt més dretes,
cremen diccionaris, planxes de gravat,
acacen gramàtics i maten poetes.
La llengua és la pàtria del desarrelat,
maleta d’exili, sang d’identitat.
Ignasi Ripoll
Patria in lingua
Language is the homeland of the uprooted one.
Why do you want roots? Has any one the cat?
Flexible and nimble, happy and used to it ,
feline climbs the podium of ubiquity.
So does also language, able everywhere,
it makes us feel at home, guiding our steps.
You don’t need the Orpheus’ genius or his lyre,
and you can well hoist the Argonaut’s ship sails.
Speaking properly, with care, just enough,
considering words as jewels from a treasure,
the sap of the earth, the tree and other beings,
which are made in the throat, stored in the heart.
That is why the fascists, after occupation,
in stead to demolish much straighter walls,
they burn dictionaries, destroy printing plates,
they hunt down grammarians and, further, kill poets.
Language is the homeland of the uprooted one,
the exile’s suitcase and the identity’s blood.
Ignasi Ripoll
Taal is it heitelân fan de ûntwoartele
Taal is it heitelân fan de ûntwoartele.
Wat ha wy oan woartels? Wat mankeart der oan in kat?
Sa linich en behindich, fleurich en beret
beklimt poeke it poadium fan it wêr-dan-ek.
Soks docht taal ek, alsidich en rûnom
bringt it ús thús en giet it ús foar.
It sjeny of de lier fan Orpheus? Net noadich,
hoechst de seilen mar te hisen fan de Argonaut.
Sekuer sprekke is genôch, mei soarch en goed
witte dat wurden sieraden binne, skatten
en sappen út de grûn, de beammen, it bist,
makke yn de kiel, bewarre yn it hert.
Fandêr dat de fassisten, ienkear oan ’e macht
net de hege muorren en de checkpoints slope
mar boeken ferbaarne, printplaten stikken slaan,
op taalmasters jeie en dichters fermoardzje.
Taal is it heitelân fan de ûntwoartele,
koffer fan de balling, bloed fan wa’t wy binne.
Translation in Frisian: Syds Wiersma
***
Immigration English
Mother tongue
Frisian words slide into our living room
two women look out at piled up snow
that would not melt for months
and lights up blue at sunset
traffic splashes through slush on Bruce Avenue
their villages were close, their dialect the same
left behind words come alive in the new country
oh bairn, my goodness, laughter erupts
I try to catch the words but they slip through my fingers
leaving only rhythm and colour
their bendy, wavy words that take corners
before they even leave their mouths stick in my ears
my mother is briefly not my mother
the women speak and weave a faraway world
flat land, ditches, dikes,
the sea, the stories
the villages where they know who lived in each house
how it was different from this country|
of deep snow and hot summers
under the laughter and connection of shared language
is the scar
they left
they are split in two
they are here and there
Frisian and English
the before and after of their lives
connected by the ten day journey into the unknown on an ocean liner
their ground zero
the tearing apart of threads, the unravelling
it bleeds.
it heals.
it changes and bleeds again
people are born and die
tears travel
they aren’t there
they write the new world into airmail letters,
the bright autumn leaves, the strange customs
bridging the distance
stretching between languages and histories
making new stories that don’t translate
carrying old ones that aren’t understood
relatives come to visit
they admire the roomy houses, the big gardens,
the warm summers,
we visit them,
miniature, tiled toilets, white net curtains,
milk left in bottles that tastes strange,
a grandmother who loves us
and gives us pale yellow biscuits that melt in tea
then there is the call
we are moving
we will cross the ocean
our house will not be our house,
we will leave the bright summers and cold winters
and move to the grey, rainy days,
the not quite summers, the never winters,
the country that was left behind becomes ours.
I learn to ride a bike on cobbled streets
sit on a dyke and swim in the sea
visit my grandparents before they die
my mother’s language of longing and laughter
belongs to the streets, the school, the shops,
my aunts, my cousins
it becomes mine,
bendy, wavy, Frisian words form in my mouth
change my tongue and spill out
they carry my life into the future
the scar, the before and after,
the lost words of their lives and mine,
from different worlds mingle and merge
forming one
unbroken mother tongue
Esther Velthoen
Memmetaal
Fryske wurden glydzje ús wenkeamer yn
twa froulju sjogge nei de metershege snie
dy’t noch moannen lizze bliuwen sil
en blau opljochtet yn ’e lette sinne
auto’s bargje troch de brij op Bruce Avenue
har bertedoarpen leine tichte byinoar
har tongslach is itselde
wurden dy’t se achterlieten komme
ta libben yn it nije lân
o bern, och heden en dan slop fan laitsjen
ik wol de wurden pakke, mar se glûpe my troch de fingers
hâldfêst jouwe allinne ritme en kleur
de linige, weagjende wurden dy’t de bocht om fleane
ear’t se har ta de mûle út komme
stykje yn myn earen
ús mem is even net ús mem
de froulju prate en
weevje sa in fiere wrâld
plat lân, sleatten, diken
de see, de ferhalen
de doarpen dêr’t se fan elk hûs wisten wa’t der wenne
hoe oars at it wie as dit lân
mei hege snie en hite simmers
ûnder it laitsjen en de bân fan ’e taal dy’t se diele
sit de groede
se binne fuortgongen
se binne yn twaën skuord
se binne hjir en dêr
Frysk en Ingels
it foartyd en neityd fan har libben mei as skeakel
de tsien dagen op it skip de oseaan oer nei it ûnbekende
har ground zero
de útinoar lutsen triedden, de raffels
it bliedt
it hielet
it feroaret en it bliedt opnij
minsken wurde berne, minsken stjerre
triennen reizgje
hja binne der net by
se ferwurdzje de nije weareld yn loftpostbrieven
de kleuren fan ’e hjerstblêden, de nuvere gewoanten
se oerbrêgje de ôfstân
ferrekke har tusken talen en ferhalen
meitsje nije ferhalen, dy’t net oer te setten binne
drage âlde ferhalen by har, dy’t net begrepen wurde
famylje komt op besite
se fernuverje har oer de romme huzen, de grutte tunen,
de waarme simmer
wy by har op besite
krappe wc’s mei tegeltjes, wite gaasgerdinen
molke yn flessen dy’t nuver priuwt
in beppe dy’t fan ús hâldt
en ús bleekgiele moalkoekjes jout dy’t weakje yn ’e tee
dan it tillefoantsje
wy sille ferhúzje
de oseaan oerstekke
ús hûs sil net ús hûs mear wêze
wy litte de kleare simmers en de kâlde winters achter ús
en ferhúzje nei de grize, reinderige dagen
de net echt simmers, de noait echt winters
it lân dat achterlitten wie wurdt uzes
ik lear fytsen oer hobbelige strjitstiennen
sit op ’e seedyk en swim yn see
sykje pake en beppe op ear’t se stjerre
ús mem har taal fan langstme en fan laitsjen
is no de taal fan ’e dyk, de skoalle, de winkels,
fan myn muoikes, myn neven en nichten
en hy wurdt mines
linige, weagjende Fryske wurden
foarmje har yn myn mûle
feroarje myn tonge en rinne my oer de lippen
se drage myn libben de takomst yn
de groede, it foartyd en neityd
de ferlerne wurden fan har libben en fan mines
fan ferskillende wrâlden minge en
rane gear ta ien
ûnbrutsen memmetaal
Translation in Frisian: Jantsje Post
Jantsje Post Vertaler
Jantsje Post – Personen – Duitstalige Literatuur – Goethe-Institut Nederland
***
Lu Sicilianu, Lingua Siciliana/Sicilian
Sicilia matri
Mi veni di luntanu st’armunia,
cchjù ca sampugna
na surgiva è
viva
ri soni vivi…
Sta terra mia ni li palori havi
tantu di ardenti ardenza
ca u ciatu adduma…
e suca sangu
‘n celu!
Nzèmmula canta,
làstimi e rrisu
ràzzia e misteriu,
munnu e Sicilia…
S’i jorna sbrumunu
ri rruìni,
a l’ariu sgridda
leccu
di catanannavi
ca venunu a cunciliu:
n’arba ri ncantu pròi
ca a me notti
civa!
Maria Nivea Zagarella
Mother Sicily
Your harmony reaches me from far away,
More than a reed pipe
It is a gushing
Spring
Of living sounds…
This land of mine whose words
Contain such burning ardor
That they inflame my breath
And suck lymph out of the sky!
They sing at once
of woes and laughter,
grace and mystery,
the world and Sicily…
If our days ooze
Ruination,
The echo of our ancestors
gathered in council
rises in the air:
offering a mesmerizing dawn
that nurtures my night.
Translation: Gaetano Cipolla