Gedurende de eerste 100 dagen van Obama als president schrijft Poezieplaats.nl een vertaalwedstrijd uit, voor de twee tot nu toe bekende gedichten van Obama.
Vertalingen mogen letterlijk of vrij zijn, in taal, klank of beeld.
De jury bestaat uit Pom Wolff, Mike Platenkamp, Dick Vestdijk & Gijs ter Haar.
De prijzen bestaan o.a. uit boeken en CD's: 'Pax Americana' van Fred Hamburg (Papieren Tijger, 2003),
'English-American songbook' van Ernst van Aletna (Gottmer, 1972), 'In het diepste museum' van Anne Sexton,
vertaald door Annemarie Slootweg (1988), 'Van het water' van Trio 3 eilanden (2007).
Inzendingen welkom via http://poezieplaats.nl tot 1 mei 2009.
Plaats je vertaling(en) in de (nieuwe) categorie; Obama vertalingen.
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POP
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I’m sure he’s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies...
But I don’t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shrink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ’cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too.
Barack Obama
In 1981, Barack Obama published two poems in the journal Feast. (hierboven het gedicht voor zijn grootvader}
Underground
Under water grottos, caverns
Filled with apes
That eat figs.
Stepping on the figs
That the apes
Eat, they crunch.
The apes howl, bare
Their fangs, dance,
Tumble in the
Rushing water,
Musty, wet pelts
Glistening in the blue.
Barack Obama
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