LL-L: "Literature" LOWLANDS-L, 19.MAR.2001 (02) [E/LS/Z]

Tue Mar 20 00:32:36 UTC 2001

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  L O W L A N D S - L * 19.MAR.2001 (02) * ISSN 189-5582 * LCSN 96-4226
  Posting Address: <lowlands-l at listserv.linguistlist.org>
  Web Site: <http://www.geocities.com/sassisch/rhahn/lowlands/>
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  A=Afrikaans, Ap=Appalachean, D=Dutch, E=English, F=Frisian, L=Limburgish
  LS=Low Saxon (Low German), S=Scots, Sh=Shetlandic, Z=Zeelandic (Zeeuws)
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From: Marco Evenhuis [evenhuis at zeelandnet.nl]
Subject: LL-L: "Literature" LOWLANDS-L, 18.MAR.2001 (06) [D/E/LS/German]

> From: R. F. Hahn [sassisch at yahoo.com]
> Subject: Literature

> Ik nehm man bloots
> gode Gedichten in vundagigendaagsche Formen mit up. Se schullen ahn Riem,
> ahn "Humptata" un ahn Preesteree schreven sien. Wenn Jie den Slag
Gedichten
> schreven hebbt, wöör ik Ju dank wesen, wenn Ji mi jüm tostüürt.

Zeeuws hardly has Saxon roots, but nevertheless I thought it would be nice
to inform you and all other subscribers that only a few days ago, I finally
received the 1000 copies of a new publication by our Stichting Zuudwest 7
we
ordered from a printer. This publication, 'Aol Zeêuws vandaège' by Lou
Vleugelhof, is a collection of poems in the Zeelandic dialect of the former
isle of Zuid-Beveland. And it's quite the opposite of 'humptata' as the
example below will show. More about this publication on www.zeeuws.cjb.net.
On that site you can also order the book.
Good luck with your search for contemporary poetry, Ron. I know how hard it
is to find it in 'smaller' languages.

Lou Vleugelhof

In de vaergeule

Zò nieeuw is de ochend, een plaète van zulver
blienkt in de varte de visgrond, de riviermond
gaèt open voe 't schip da stampt as boven een afgrond,
't ruukt naè teer, wolken schere d'r over as meêuwen.

De vaergeule ei z'n eigen 'n bitje verleid,
ik kan 't nie ziee, veranderiengen gaè lankzaèm,
an 't oppervlak is ielk uure een uure, en de golven
bin aol zò eênder dà me aolles waèter noeme.

Alleêne ik dienke dà ik nog den eênderen bin:
een man mie een stroôien 'oed tegen de zunne
en een 'engel om mie te vissen an de relienge
van een doôdstille boôt. Mae ik ziee de zunne

in 't waèter verdrienke - ie doet er een 'êlen dag
over - en de vissen spartele d'r eigen doôd
en 't dek wor zò roôd as de plaète van zulver
waè a de zunne in drieft as een zienkend schip.

----------

From: R. F. Hahn [sassisch at yahoo.com]
Subject: Literature

Dear Marco, Lowlanders,

Thank you very much for your kind words (above) and for sharing the
sample.  I understand the poem very well and agree that it fits into the
range of styles I envisage.  Perhaps one day we will come up with a similar
but more general collection of Lowlandic minority language poems.

As you well know, the Anglophone world, and thus the world in general,
tends to miss out on a good portion of poetry, and literature generally,
because the original works are not written in "power languages."  I looked
at the assortment of translated and bilingually presented poetry volumes in
one of our better bookstores yesterday, and what I found in the area of
contemporary poetry in languages other than English was Spanish, Polish,
Russian, French and German.  I did find some sprinklings of Irish (Gaelic)
poetry with translations in a couple of English-dominated Irish
anthologies, and, surprisingly, one in Quechua with English translations.
I also found some sprinklings of Scots, or perhaps rather Scots-influenced
English, in a couple of Scottish anthologies.

Poetry is the rage right now, and poetry books sell like hotcakes,
certainly in North America.  Why not kill two birds with one stone and
present works in/from "rare" languages and get the languages on the map at
the same time?

Below are two samples from my Low Saxon (Low German) collection so far.  I
have more recent and better works by Waltrud Bruhn (perhaps the "mother" of
modern Low Saxon poetry in Germany, who recently passed away), but I do not
yet formally have the rights for those from the publishers, though her
husband has given me the green light.

Regards,
Reinhard/Ron

***

Snorre Björkson:

Dåålsunken land

Groodfadders land ferlüstig
Dat haff bruukt
sin nååm nich meer
Dat wåter ruust un ruust
spöölt de wörr fan de
dreeflochten tung af fann sand
- Låter schall een
en barnsteen
finnen

Fillicht hest du dach
ook hiir gifft dat nog älg
wulf un seen
Hemat - dat was immenflugg
övern röök fan raps
Ook hiir was dat land platt

He nööm mi lorbass
böör sünndags sine tuba
upp sin rüch un en ool ledertaske
med en tweweel na kark

De imme reep
Groodfadder gung övert feld
un greep na de barnsteen

Translation (©2001):

Submerged land

Grandfather's land lost
the tideland no longer
uses his name
The water keeps on brawling
washes the words of the
triply woven tongue off the sand
--Later you're supposed
to find a piece of
amber

Perhaps you had thought
there are moose here too
wolves and lakes
homeland--that was bees' flight
above the scent of rape
Here too the land was flat

He used to call me lubber
on Sundays would carry his tuba
on his back and an old leather bag
on a bicycle to church

The bee called
Grandfather crossed the field
and reached for the amber

***

Waltrud Bruhn (1983):

[Güstern noch]

Güstern noch
hett de Sünn de heelen Stünnen all
tohopensmolten
mit ehr lichten Hannen --
ik höör dien Stimm dörch't Telefon
so waarm as geevst du di
ganz in de Neegde

Wi–-untohopen.

Hüüt averst
prekelt de Regen de Tiet uteneen,
speelt een Sekunn
twölf Druppen lang ut
un maalt de Stünnen brüüchloos breed
vun Ewigkeit to Ewigkeit.
Ik müß di doch noch fraagen ...

De Post is nu in 'n Streik:
de Flerrlings all verswunnen.

Morgen,
morgen tööv ik de Wulken af.
Kaamt se denn gries her vun Noorden
un op en steiht ,Kraftmeier transporteert'
,K. - all over the world',
un röppt de Fahrer: ,,Junge Fru,
wohen nu mit den Huusstand?``
Denn warr ik seggen: Hier in mien Hannen.

Un dar warrn se sik krülln,
lütt Höpen un all de niemaals utspraken Wöör.

Translation (©2001):

[Only yesterday]

Only yesterday
had the sun melted down
all the sound hours
with its light hands--
I hear your voice through the telephone
so warm as if you were giving yourself
quite close by

We--untogether.

But today
the rain is picking time apart,
is playing one second
for the duration of twelve drops
and is painting the hours bridgelessly broad
from eternity to eternity.
I ought to ask you yet ...

The postal workers are on strike:
the butterflies all disappeared.

Tomorrow,
tomorrow I'll wait for the clouds.
Should they come down from the north then, all gray,
and on one of them be written "Kraftmeier Transports"
"K.--all over the world,"
and should the driver shout, "Young lady,
now where shall we take the household?"
Then I'll say: Here in my hands.

And then they'll curl up:
small hopes and all the never uttered words.

***

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