This article is based on this Dutch article of Martijn Benders
Another unpleasant rumor was circulating about me online: that I started De Kaneelfabriek because I wanted to play at being a publisher and serve others my supposedly superior taste. In reality, none of the traditional canal belt publishers wanted to publish me anymore, and so I had no choice. Sure, I could have approached one of those small poetry presses, but they didn’t suit my ambitions: I wouldn’t have been able to publish those hefty philosophy books with them. Believe me, no one would have liked playing publisher less than I did. Still, out of all the people who were recommended to De Kaneelfabriek (not by me, mind you), I designed the books and covers for free, which ultimately amounted to a lot of work for me. And none of it matched my ‘taste’, except for Tijs van Bragt, but he was so keen on being part of the Status Quo that he didn’t even include me in his little festival or invite me at all. In short, madness, really. And thankless, too, because sooner or later they’ll start slandering you behind your back, and then you’re the one who helps to ruin something by accepting their framing. Do they think I’ll keep working for free for people who gossip about me?
De Kaneelfabriek is shutting down. I’m allowed by Ruud to publish one more collection, and then that’s it for publications. I’m grateful to Ruud for everything he did for me and for De Kaneelfabriek: things might have gone better if I’d taken on more of a leadership role, but as I said, that’s not at all my ambition: I don’t want to be a publisher for Dutch poets. I just want to be able to write in peace, without excessive commercial pressure.
Surely, it’s well known that I believe there have been only a handful of good poets in these parts throughout history. If you then pretend as if it’s ‘my taste’ when people show up at a publishing house where I was involved in the founding—that shows you don’t understand what was really going on. That was the basic problem with De Kaneelfabriek: it existed, but neither Ruud nor I had the time or the willingness to play at publishing. It was essentially a publisher without leadership, like a ship adrift. I kind of liked the anarchistic nature of that, but people in the Netherlands tend not to appreciate that.
Can’t you just publish your own book? Yes, but that’s not ‘allowed’ by the Dutch Literary Fund. They even have this bizarre requirement that at least 300 copies of a poetry collection must be printed, or else you can’t even participate. Think about how insane that is in an environment where 99% of publishers use Print on Demand from the Central Book House. That means they’re all lying—even those so-called ‘big publishers’, who also partly own the Central Book House, and thus profit from all that Print on Demand so much that they can afford to flood the market with commercial trash. So as a small publisher, you’re constantly forced to fatten the competition. What a mess.
Anyway, let’s move on to Roethke. I received the only book currently available in Dutch from Roethke: a modest collection of five poems translated by Katelijne de Vuyst, published by Druksel in Ghent. A quick search revealed that De Vuyst has been lavished with all sorts of translation medals—even on a European level, winning the European Translation Prize, no less. Does that mean these are excellent translations? Unfortunately, no. Let me show you why:
First of all, I completely fail to understand why you’d present a collection of ‘five poems’ by Roethke from three different books, poems that are thus torn out of their original context and, often, reference things that no longer make any sense. It’s hardly ambitious to translate only five poems—may I ask why it had to be so sparse?
Then there’s the translation itself. Let’s take a closer look:
“Solace of kisses and cookies and cabbage” opens the first Roethke poem. “Troost van kussen en koekjes en wittekool” is De Vuyst’s version. “That fine fuming stink of particular kettles” continues Roethke (a beautifully subtle rhyme – cabbage, kettles). So what does De Vuyst do with that? “Heerlijk walmende stank uit sommige pannen.” She’s inexplicably changed Roethke’s cabbage-kettles into wittekool-pannen—a completely bizarre distortion.
In English, “cabbage” can refer to cabbage in general, but it’s usually understood to be either white cabbage or sometimes green cabbage. It can also generally mean “cabbage” in a broader sense, but if it refers to red cabbage, savoy cabbage, or Chinese cabbage, that’s usually specified (red cabbage, savoy cabbage, Chinese cabbage). But her choice of the utterly specific “wittekool” (white cabbage) is strange and misleading. Roethke’s “cabbage” carries a broader symbolic burden: it evokes not only a general image of simple, homely smells but also enhances the subtle, playful rhyme with “kettles.” By translating it as “wittekool” and “pannen,” De Vuyst not only loses the rhyme but also imposes a limiting specificity, where “kool” remains broader and richer in interpretation.
The issue with the translation goes beyond word choice: there’s a shift in mood and context. In its original form, Roethke’s imagery conjures up a typical American, slightly nostalgic kitchen scene. By narrowing it down to “wittekool” and “pannen,” the imagery becomes constrained to a narrow Dutch reading, one that feels unnaturally domestic and even old-fashioned—something not necessarily in line with Roethke’s intent.
The next line is even worse, translation-wise. It’s such an offense that under normal circumstances, I’d have stopped reading right there. It’s unforgivable to transform ‘kettles’ into ‘pans’ because what Roethke is describing is a very specific sensory perception: the fact that those (whistling) kettles on the stove had a particular ‘stink,’ a scent pans don’t have. That’s why Roethke introduces those kettles—and you, as the translator, just casually erase that distinction? Get serious.
Then we get “Muttony tears,” an image as marvelous as the absurdist wedding of mutton and mutiny—a suggestion that even the most docile creatures can shed tears in some subtle woolly rebellion. And what does the translation give us? Schaapse tranen (Sheep’s tears). Not “rebellious mutton tears,” not a touch of mutinous absurdity—just sheep tears, as though we’re reading some dreary expression from a lost lamb in an Albert Heijn commercial.
Then we have the Frigidaire:
Muttony tears falling on figured linoleum, Frigidaires snoring the sleep of plenty.
In the original, this cool giant snores as a companion of abundance, a true still-life of capitalist consumption. But our translator reduces it to something lackluster and weightless: IJskasten die de slaap van overvloed snorren, where the construction is made too literal and a strange feline image sneaks into the poem. The choice to literally translate ‘Frigidaire’ as ‘IJskast’ is understandable, yet it sacrifices a good deal of specific ambiance. In English, ‘Frigidaire’ evokes an iconic image of the vintage refrigerator, symbolizing middle 20th-century prosperity and domestic luxury.
Then again comes a pinnacle of banality: “Kiss me, kiss me quick, woman of vanished wisdom.” What in English sounds like a desperate plea to an elusive muse becomes, here, something you might imagine as a cheeky slogan on a tote bag sold in a trendy vintage store. “Vrouw van verdwenen wijsheid”—what a choice devoid of inspiration. Where the original is mysterious and challenging, this translation echoes with the language of hollow emptiness. As if invoking a divine figure gets you only the echo of an empty plastic grocery bag.
Another disaster looms in the following line: “Bring me my hat, my umbrella, and rubbers!” gets translated as “Breng me mijn hoed, mijn paraplu en overschoenen.”
(without any rhyme scheme forcing this, no less!)
What an egregious misunderstanding. The word “rubbers” in English carries a far broader, more playful connotation than ‘overschoenen’ in Dutch, which immediately conjures up an image of old, dull rain-protectors. “Rubbers” can refer both to rubber boots and condoms, and that ambiguity adds a wink and a humorous twist to an otherwise serious, philosophical poem—something entirely lost in the staid translation to “overschoenen.”
In the original, ‘rubbers’ adds a suggestive and mischievous tone to a poem that otherwise deals with weighty subjects—a little breath of humor and double meaning.
The final stanza doesn’t redeem things, sadly. “Omwikkel me met Licht! O Werveling! O Wrede Liefde!” Is this a plea for transcendence or for a scarf from the local discount shop? The Dutch word “Omwikkel” brings to mind being bundled up against winter, rather than being wrapped in a prophetic light that lifts you from your earthly woes.
In short, this poem is a long way from being well translated. The choices made are sometimes lazy, and at other times utterly baffling. The two most essential anchors of this poem—the intoxicating smell of the kettles and the playful nod regarding the rubbers—create a subtle, playful connection that forms the backbone of the poem. Yet in this translation, they disappear entirely. What should be a beguiling balance between homeliness and humor, between the mundane and the mischievous, gets thoroughly flattened by trampled language and careless choices. A shape of the poem remains, but the soul is lost. And that’s not just a shame; it’s a missed opportunity of significant proportions.
Perhaps De Vuyst is indeed capable of translating wonderful prose; I wouldn’t know. But as for Roethke, she manages to drown every speck of magic in the sickly scent of a translation that would have served better as a coaster.
Martinus Benders, 13-11-2024
