Damn, I knew that was too perfect a pun. And how about your "starring" in the Bok thread?

Zach, I understand a bit of the Flemish I hear, if it's spoken slowly, but I can't speak it or read it. I'd need a fluent/native speaker of Dutch/Flemish to collaborate with, were I to attempt any translations.

By the way, it's "Coninck", not Connick. A little cultural sensitivity, please.

Edited by author 12-17-2003 01:34 AM
How's yer Flemish, FK? You could be the first to render Connick Canuck.

Edited by author 12-17-2003 01:31 AM
It's Flemish. Only one "M", Ninja. A little cultural sensitivity, please.

This is too bad, the Flemish are a cultural minority in Belgium, with the French-speakers forming the majority. In Canada, it would be like the Quebec government cutting funding to Francophone writers.

Flemish is not a true language. Properly, it is a dialect of Nederlands (Dutch), which is one of the two official languages of Belgium. There is very little literature written in Flemish. Flemish children have Nederlands class in school the same way we have English class.

Lately, I've been searching for Flemish literature translated into English. The pickings are slim, but the search did lead me to Coetzee's new book Landscape with Rowers: Poetry from the Netherlands, an anthology that includes one Flemish poet, Hugo Claus.

From a handful of poems I've read, some in abysmal translations, a Flemish poet I'm very keen on learning more about, and hopefully getting my hands on some decent translations, is Herman de Coninck (d.1997). Here's one of his poems (in English):

My friend imitates just about everything

My friend imitates just about everything.
Just yesterday he practiced urinating
like an up-tight little bureaucrat:
it sounded like his whole life,
a quiet hiss.
And today he eats at a table,
lights up a cigar, orders two bottles of red wine
and declares: the repentance of Nixon.
And suddenly he runs away and hides himself
in a corner. What are you doing now,
I ask. I am happiness, he calls,
you'll never find me.

And during the evening the mood changes,
always. Fields rest as wide beds
and the mist lays upon everything.
Sleeping is at that moment something
I can only imitate, he says.
Love, too, I say. We are silent.
And later he does a take-off on
the sound of a motorcar designed
for riding to the moon.



.

Edited by author 12-17-2003 09:03 AM
Merde! Le Gros Enfant mourra de faim!

The Flemish government is cutting subsidies to writers.



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