Leo Vroman
Leo Vroman (10 de abril de 1915 - 22 de febrero de 2014) fue un hematólogo-holandés estadounidense, poeta prolífico, principalmente en holandés e ilustrador. Vroman nació en Gouda y estudió biología en Utrecht. Cuando los nazis ocuparon los Países Bajos el 10 de mayo de 1940, huyó a Londres, y desde allí viajó a las Indias Orientales Holandesas. Terminó sus estudios en Batavia. Después de que los japoneses ocuparon Indonesia fue internado y se quedó en varios campamentos de prisioneros de guerra. En el campamento Tjimahi se hizo amigo de los autores Tjalie Robinson y Rob Nieuwenhuys.
Después de la guerra, Vroman fue a Estados Unidos para trabajar en Nueva York como investigador hematología. Obtuvo la ciudadanía estadounidense y vivía en Fort Worth hasta su muerte en 2014, a los 98 años de edad.
Poesía
En alemán
Gedichten (1946)
Gedichten, vroegere en latere (1949)
Poems in English (1953)
Inleiding tot een leegte (1955)
Uit slaapwandelen (1957)
De ontvachting en andere gedichten (1960)
Twee gedichten (1961)
Fabels van Leo Vroman (1962)
Manke vliegen (gedichten en tekeningen) (1963)
126 gedichten (verzamelbundel) (1964)
Almanak (1965)
144 gedichten (verzamelbundel) (1969)
Ballade van mezelf (1969)
262 gedichten (verzamelbundel) (1974)
God en Godin (1976)
Huis en Tuin. Fabels en strips (1979)
Nieuwsgierig (1980)
Het verdoemde carillon (1981)
De ballade van Jantje (1981, oplage 30 ex.)
Liefde, sterk vergroot (1982)
Avondgymnastiek (1983)
De cultuurgeschiedenis (1984)
Gedichten 1946-1984 (1985)
Fractaal (1987)
Ongebundelde gedichten 1937-1941 (1989)
Dierbare ondeelbaarheid (1989)
Een soort van ziel in negen delen (1990)
Neembaar (Keuze uit de gedichten) (1991)
Toen ik nog leefde (1991)
De godganselijke nacht (1993)
Psalmen en andere gedichten (1995)
Vergelijkingen (1996)
De roomborst van Klaas Vaak (1997)
Details (1999)
Spiegelbezoek (1999)
Bij duizenden (2000)
Aan elkaar (met Tineke Vroman) (2001)
De gebeurtenis en andere gedichten (2001)
Een stilte die niet bestaat (2001)
Aan elkaar / Herhaling (met Tineke Vroman) (2002)
Tweede verschiet (2003)
De mooiste gedichten uit Hollands Maandblad (con dibujos de Iris Le Rütte) (2006)
Alle malen zal ik wenen (2007)
Nee, nog niet dood (2008)
Soms is alles eeuwig (2009)
Zodra (2010)
Daar (2011)
En inglés
Poemas en inglés (1953)
Just one more world (poemas y fotografías) (1976)
Prosa
Tineke (1948)
De adem van Mars (1956)
Snippers van Leo Vroman (1958)
Tineke / De adem van Mars/Snippers van Leo Vroman (1960)
Agenda uit het jaar 2000 (1968)
Sdsi 'Boek' pfhpfh (tekst en tekeningen) (1968)
Het Carnarium (1973)
Brieven uit Brooklyn (1975)
Proza, een keuze uit de verhalen (1984)
Warm, rood, nat & lief (autobiografía, 1994)
Vroeger donker dan gisteren. Herfstdagboek. (2004)
Misschien tot morgen : dagboek 2003-2006. (2006)
(See you tomorrow, maybe - diary 2003-2006)
Libros infantiles
Stiemer en Stalma (text A. Koolhaas/ilustraciones Leo Vroman) (1957)
De trapeze 10 (con Anton Koolhaas) (1967)
Teatro
Het Grauwse Diep (1966)
Voorgrond, achtergrond (1969)
Trabajo científico
E.g.,
Superficie de los contactos y la formación de tromboplastina (PhD Tesis, University of Utrecht) (1958).
Blood, Garden City, N.Y. : Publicación para el American Museum of Natural History, Natural History Press, 1967.
con Edward F Leonard: El comportamiento de la sangre y de sus componentes en las interfaces, Columbia University Seminar en Biomaterials, New York Academy of Sciences, New York, 1977. Vol. 283 en Annals de la New York Academy of Sciences
con Edward F Leonard y Vincent T Turitto: La sangre en contacto con superficies naturales y artificiales, New York Academy of Sciences, New York, N.Y., 1987. Vol. 516 en Annals de la New York Academy of Sciences, Lauro Vroma†, Eliberto Vroman padre de Ana y Elisabeth madre de Ana.
Paz
Si llega una paloma de cien libras
con su ramo de olivo entre las garras
a contarme historietas arrulladas
al oído, a coro de dulces viudas,
de cómo se ha acabado ya la guerra
repitiendo lo mismo hasta cien veces:
otras cien lloraré a lágrima perra.
Desde el día en que, inesperadamente,
me hube precipitado en un taxímetro
dejándome en la noche un agujero
que cada día aumenta de perímetro,
desde que mi bien dulce y lastimero
quedó plantado, enjuto del rubor,
tan tieso que la piedra rebotó
contra sus lomos, tengo ya la piel
demasiado reseca y recia para
que sude todavía en la plegaria:
mas sí para arrancarme la durez
y rechinar «paz, paz» con toda rabia.
Amor es pestilente maravilla
de mal decapitadas co-lujurias
si he de seguir viviendo sin la paz:
la paz mecagoendios la paz la paz;
porque el estruendo aquel desgarrador
que me arrancaba al pronto de mi amor
aún me saca espantado de la cama
en que a veces los dos vemos en sueños
que la guerra de ayer vuelve calzada
de gamuza. Nosotros no podemos
hacer ya ciertas cosas y no obstante
nos tiramos, corremos y a todo esto
chillamos al oído uno del otro,
y tan desesperados que, un instante,
podemos casi oírnos nuestros sueños.
¿Cómo no blasfemar cuando las llamas
de una ciudad tiempo hace ya repuesta
se suben por los muros de mi casa
y me envuelven el cuarto y me despiertan?
Y no es tanto el recién asado niño
convertido en un fuego de artificio
que me parece horrible, horrible, horrible:
sino que el mundo, el siglo no se inmute
después de que, de un golpe, se hundan casas,
se derrumbe una torre y se haga polvo
y barro de bodega abandonada;
que una alcaldía esté inútil del todo,
que cruentas llamas y llameante sangre
empapelen el aire con las partes
vivientes de los muertos, buena gente;
que un silencio de siglos medie antes
de que el niño pasmado en ese quicio
quede así estrangulado aunque ya alce
los brazos en auxilio.
Ven esta noche y cuéntame la historia
de cómo se ha acabado ya la guerra,
repítela cien veces de memoria:
que otras cien lloraré a lágrima perra.
Leo Vroman, incluido en Antología de la poesía neerlandesa moderna (Ediciones Saturno, Barcelona, 1971, selecc. y trad. de Francisco Carrasquer).
Un barco
Un triste pez-mandíbula en el fondo del mar.
Sienten pasar corrientes nocturnas sus pelos espinosos
y sus agallas, sus linternas oscilan de un lado para otro
y avanzan como lunas en desfile espectral.
Una cuna de sombras merece sus luminarias,
hendiendo las tinieblas va nadando cansado,
tinieblas que son manos de amor, de amor amargo,
sin caricias, sus fauces están acaloradas.
Y cuando ya no puede tragar tanta tristeza
ve que se debilitan sus luces y se apagan,
siente que suaves dedos van borrando las manchas
y se hunden en las linternas ciegas.
Un águila se cierne en lo alto de los cielos
y extendiendo sus brazos antiguos emplumados,
se queda a contemplar el pulular de abajo;
y cuando el viento le hace cerrar su ojo cenceño
siente que le resbala el espacio por los dedos,
sabe que ha de ir cayendo, de ensueño en ensueño,
en tobogán partido en un par de cascadas.
Su corazón se hincha, casi casi le estalla
y su cráneo se estrella contra las duras aguas.
Entre lo alto y lo hondo un barco se remueve.
Todo danza de pánico ante la ubicua muerte.
Leo Vroman, incluido en Antología de la poesía neerlandesa moderna (Ediciones Saturno, Barcelona, 1971, selecc. y trad. de Francisco Carrasquer).
Poems by Leo Vroman
The Bird
I was drinking tea on midmeadow.
The sun sparkled in the saucers.
Small birds crumbled their crumbs
and fluttered at me.
The wrought-iron table was warm,
and wobbled as I took a cookie.
The birdies said their tuts and teehees
and brushed their lips on my arm
(one-two) before hopping away.
The mushy ottoman on which I sat
made itself sweetly felt
but above my head was a blue as dense
as if I wore a skyhat
up to the distant, hardened city.
There the sky shone pale green.
Suddenly there was a difference,
and a bird, as large as a well-dressed man,
a conductor e.g., planted himself next to me.
His breath came in gasps, then there was silence again.
I put an arm around his neck
and noticed under his feathers the commotion
of veins and an indeterminate emotion
throbbing and streaming between breast and beak.
‘Please sit down,’ I said, ‘and cheer up.’
But he could not make himself relax:
I had to put an arm around his legs
and bend him somewhat double.
I held out a cookie to him, but to no effect
and I asked: ‘Is it because you are sad?’
He answered: ‘I really have no idea.’
He sounded like a kazoo of ivory.
He stared at me uncertainly
like a peering reflection
and whispered:
‘Because of too much mixing
with people, and also on account of my belly
I really lost it,
but I wish I could soar
in between the horizon
and the descending sky
to my Father, land in his valley
under the seaweedtrees
where skypearls descend
at the long day's end.
My beak-traits get besinewed
and my eyes frogfilmed
will sprout two fountains of tears
as I recall the virtuous beaks
of my father and my brother
and the arbor where I would seek
a quiet spot to read.
My Mother seemed to fear us;
a limp bird was Mother,
she was almost a pillowbosom.
On the other hand, my Father
was more a featherduster
but not home as often; rarely rather.
So our gazebo was all mine
and under its foliagegreen light
I would read, every day from nine
in the morning till late at night
I would read your drab would read
your drably enchanting books
full of your pedestrian greed
till I could no longer fly,
lost the power, or the need.
Here, feel this thigh.
I have hips now.
Yes, I am a female indeed.
When I flew it made me shy.
Now that I walk it does not satisfy
me either, for from this low point-of-view
people are just dusty beasts.
If you stand too close to their mouth,
evil spirits will sling out
and twist around your shoulders.
Where have the eyelashes gone
of the deer, the musing children?
What do people learn to think?
To stiffen, and then to shrink.’
Then the bird didn't say one more word.
I could pry and jerk, and squeeze
with a spoon, she wouldn't release
one more word, but again she started to wheeze.
So I clutched her neck, in fear,
and a soft and feverish thigh.
‘Fly’, I cried and threw her... no,
too heavy, she came down flowing,
sprawling with heat all over me.
I struggled from under her,
but large patches of feathers within
her already replaced my clothes
and my mouth was filled with her skin.
Once more I crawled toward her,
pulled her up by the wings
to a faltering trot,
but her eyes were withdrawn
her interest gone.
Throbbing and weak from the sprawl
she clasped me like a vault.
Morning returned
and found me alone.
A fleet of giant feathers drifted
on the ditches, shifted shifted.
Around me the field had been churned.
My God, what did I mean,
if all this never occurred?
What primordial bird have I seen?
Don't leave me alone
with this verse that is blown
in shreds over me.
From Going Sleepwalking (Uit slaapwandelen, 1957)
Space and Time
‘Put anything you want in me’
said Space to Time, ‘and you'll see"
‘See what! And where would I begin?’
‘Why fret, and why not first come in?’
And so they squabble to this date,
hardly kiss and never mate.
MORAL
If Time is unable to,
who, dear readers, tell me who?
From House and Yard (Huis en tuin, 1979)
Wrong Time
Time, a little faster and I'll win.
He sweats already, galloping on
at my side, his antique weapon gone,
and sawdust blowing from his tattered skin,
and the stench worn off his hoofbeat hints
of chickenfeathers crushed upon
pillows full of shame-begone
kisses during lovebegin.
In the wake of his imagined face
I call out for a chance of turning
back to earth a lifetime later
without the same compressed embrace
of air from nude birds, torn kids burning
and that icepuke nuclear crater
From Fractal (Fractaal, 1985)
Route
The solemn stalling line of days
tells me I am sailing past
on their windless waterways'
widening avenue at last
onto the polished marble sea
under which the garbling deep
hides the voices born with me
that I awakened in my sleep
once echoed in its marble halls
to steep me but their inwardbound
choirs grew to waterfalls
their thunder melting in the ground
Now I shall fathom what it is
not ever once to search again
in story quarry and quatrain
for history as short as this
Half completed crownreports
crooked gourds of blood and wine
golden quills Iolled by the tide
I shall go through empty courts
shall recall this all as mine
and shall be gone inside
From Fractal (Fractaal, 1985)
Honing the Silence
I recognise the cogs wear off my cogs
not as a mechanism going dead
but like the toothlessness of weary dogs
tired of biting others' gods and brides and bread
Oh yes they wear because I kick my brake
scaling them down to slipdiscs bless their hides
they scream so softly in their sleep when rubbing sides
at every grinding curve I take
Soon I need no longer steer this cot
grown so light it sails without a puff
it can be laughed along by one dear tot
moonlight can polish it to dust and fluff
Shadows will stay with air behind them
still scratching symbols swirling off the ground
they will endure till morning to be found
by the sleeper who will never find them
From Fractal (Fractaal, 1985)
Cathedrals
We are cathedrals
dark with hallways
marked with doors
barring the halls
and fallen gargoyles
guarding the floors.
On the walls
are drawings of hallways
hung with coils
of unstrung foils
and always the choir
hides in the height
of its hollow night
its lore unsung
of doors flung wide
to something outside
in the sunlight
From All Godforsaken Night (De godganselijke nacht, 1993)
All Godforsaken Night
All damn night the top shelf full
of narrow vases and all the while
no smell of moldcorrupted tile
giants in the slumberpool
range dangling from the chimneystacks
the house prepares its minicracks
beyond: cracks among continents.
Under the crust one lavahand
gropes along the fissures and
finds another hand and vents
One more deep breath and then
China tilts over Japan
Relax my darling earth it's only me
trying to grasp your death instead of mine
to grope the soil of your uplifting mound
blind as a visionary
to the side-effects of own decline
grope for traces of myself I never found
feel the tremor, see the nightgulls far below
circle the cyclone as I am hurled
down
help me remember how to know
it's only me, it's not the world
From All Godforsaken Night (De godganselijke nacht, 1993)
All poems translated by Leo Vroman, except for ‘The Bird’ (translated by Leo Vroman and Kees Snoek).
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