Solhverv
Vor Sol er bleven kold
vi er i Vintervold
og dunkle Dage.
Men nu er Nedgang endt
og håbet tændt
– ja, Haabet tændt,
for nu er Solen vendt,
nu kommer Lyset og den lange Dag tilbage.
Solstice song
Our sun has now grown cold,
we are in winter’s hold
the days are waning.
Now, past the deepest night,
our hope burns bright –
yes, hope burns bright,
for now the sun will right,
now light will soon return, the days again are gaining.
Le ciel enténébré qui hurlait comme un loup
Le ciel enténébré qui hurlait comme un loup
Pendant l’hiver, s’est apaisé. L'ombre est en fuite
Et l’on entend ce soir dans l’air tremblant et doux,
Résonner, que l’écho persistant ébruite,
A travers les taillis, les cris frais des coucous.
Par la sève envahi, chaque bourgeon crépite,
Eclate sous l’averse aux caressants remous,
Où de vagues rayons ont mêlé leurs pépites.
Et la terre en amour, déjà, sournoisement
Qui guette le soleil au rude enlacement,
Pour le mieux accueillir, d’avance se parfume;
Et voici, m’étouffant, soudain que se répand
L’aphrodisiaque odeur des berges de l’étang,
Dont la mousse frisée et rousse acrement fume.
The dark sky’s wolf-like winter howling…
The dark sky’s wolf-like winter howling now appears
To have calmed down. The shades are being put to flight
And in the quivering, soft evening air one hears –
Resounding with persistent echoes in pale light –
Clear cuckoo calls that through the copses interlace.
Invaded by fresh sap, each sizzling bud distends
And bursts beneath the swirling downpour’s wild embrace,
In which vague glinting rays begin to form strange blends.
Already the enamoured earth, though furtively,
While watching for the sun to welcome it yet more
In its fierce clasp, exudes her perfume in advance;
A sudden aphrodisiac odour stifles me,
Spreading out from the nearby lake in twilight trance
Where acrid, steaming curly red moss lines the shore.
Van lieverlede; zo
komen zij nader: 8 roeiers,
steeds verder landinwaarts
groeiend in hun mytologie:
met elke slag steeds verder
van huis, uit allemacht roeiend;
groeiend tot alle water weg is,
en zij het hele landschap
vullen tot de rand. Acht –
steeds verder landinwaarts
roeiend; landschap daar al geen
water meer is: dichtgegroeid
landschap al. Landschap,
steeds verder land-
inwaarts roeiend; land
zonder roeiers; dicht-
geroeid land al.
Little by little; so do
they approach: 8 rowers
ever further land-inward
growing in their mythology:
with each stroke ever further
from home, rowing with all their might;
growing until all water is gone,
and the whole landscape they
fill to the brim. Eight –
rowing ever further
land-inward; landscape where already
there is no more water: already
overgrown landscape. Landscape,
rowing ever further land-
inward; land without
rowers; already over-
rowed landscape
Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars
Poetic Synapses 20
Edderkoppen.
Kan Du mindes Dig, skjøn Flue!? –
Der var Lys sat i Lampetter,
Engelskdands og Menuetter
Dandsed’ blev i denne Stue.
Smaae og Store, Tykke, Smalle,
Svang sig her saa vel tilfredse,
Ogsaa Du fløi om i Kredse,
Og var smukkest af dem Alle.
Under Bjelken sad jeg stille,
Følte Hjertet i mig brænde.
– Nu har Lystigheden Ende,
Ingen Violiner spille.
Dandsen er Din bedste Glæde!
Jeg en Dandsesal har vævet,
See, det er jo, som den svæved’!
Vil du Gulvet kun betræde.
Atter Lystighed og Gammen
Klinge skal i denne Stue.
Lette, ungdomsmuntre Flue,
Kom, saa vil vi dandse sammen!
The Spider
Fairest fly, do you remember!?
All the lamps, their gleam entrancing,
Minuets and English dancing –
How folk danced here in great splendour.
Great and small, both fat and slender
Swished and swayed here so contented,
You flew round and circumvented,
Loveliest, without contender.
’Neath the beam I sat unswaying,
Felt my heart ablaze and splendid.
– Now such merriment’s long-ended
Violins have ceased their playing.
Dancing is your greatest pleasure!
I’ve a ballroom woven for you,
Look, the floor seems quite unmoored too –
Just step out in sprightly measure!
Mirth and merriment in tether
Here once more shall be unbounded.
Set out, fly, in youth’s joy grounded,
Come, and let us dance together!
From Goslar, while travelling in Harzen (1831)
Dejlig er jorden
Dejlig er jorden,
prægtig er Guds himmel,
skøn er sjælenes pilgrimsgang!
Gennem de fagre
riger på jorden
gå vi til paradis med sang!
Tider skal komme,
tider skal henrulle,
slægt skal følge slægters gang.
Aldrig forstummer
tonen fra himlen
i sjælens glade pilgrimssang.
Englene sang den
først for markens hyrder,
skønt fra sjæl til sjæl det lød:
Fred over jorden!
Menneske, fryd dig,
os er en evig frelser fød!
Fair is creation
Fair is creation
marvellous God’s heaven,
blest the souls in their pilgrim throng.
Through realms of earthly
loveliness onward
we go to paradise with song!
Ages lie waiting,
ages quick in passing,
generations that form a throng.
Music from heaven
never falls silent
in this the soul’s glad pilgrim song
Angels first sang it
to the wond’ring shepherds,
sweet was from soul to soul its sound:
Peace and rejoicing
be to all people,
for us a saviour now is found!
Metope
Dig vil jeg ømt i rytmer nagle fast!
Dig vil jeg dypt og blivende bevare
i digtets evige, unge alabast!
Du solbevægede sværmerske! Med panden
pikelig vendt mod kveldens bleke guld,
vender du mildt en himmel mot en annen,
likesaa lys og øm og løndomsfuld!
Gjerne ga jeg min verdens vers tilhope,
hadde jeg magt til ét: at hugge ind
i mindets trodsige sten en myk metope
over dit vare, omridsømme sind!
Vi vandrer i fugtig fjæresand! Du lytter
til sommersjøens luftige bølgesprut!
Vi føler det fromt, at kveldens stilhet flytter
sin tonende grændse altid længer ut!
Det kimer af falmet lyd, som glir tilbake
bak rødmende lunde, gyldne kirkespir –
og luftens lysende bølger synker svake,
som bækker af sol fra bjærgene, som blir!
Aaserne blaaner. Stjernerne er nære!
De sidste skyer skynder sig hjem tilkvelds!
Engen har andagt – op af luftens fjære
stiger Arcturus! Lindt, bag graastensgjærdet,
aander en vind i rugens sølvgraa pels!
Gjennem dit blik en varm og dyb beaandning –
midt i et mulm af blaat kan øiet faa
et drivende stænk, en fugtig glans af honning,
og stille spør jeg dig «Ven – hvad tænker du paa?»
«Jeg tænker paa kvelder som denne, jeg ikke faar lov til at leve –
paa modne marker, som bruser af korn, uten mig!
Paa rørende, lette smaating: Aks som knækkes,
veier i sjøen, bleke seil derute,
bølger, som strømmer mot stranden uten mig!
Hverdagen, ven, som mildt blir ved bak graven,
tænker jeg paa, og alle de dype, blaa,
kommende kvelder her i sommerhaven,
uten mit sind mot dit, tænker jeg paa!
Det hele fylder mit øie som en taare,
jeg, ensom og angst og arm, skal graate snart!
Alle de ting, som nu ikveld er vore – –
om faa, berusende aar staar stunden fore,
da taakerne glir, og øiet kan se klart!
Aa, elskede, se, hvor dyb og sort en fjære!
Saa underlig stranden blev, da vandet faldt!
Mon rædslens kveld er fjærn, da vi skal være
en styggere strand end dén, forladt af alt?
Allikevel er det et sødt og saligt under,
at engene her, med korn og krat og trær,
og bjærgene bak, saa dypt som blikket bunder,
dugges saa sødt af vore smaa sekunder – –
bare den bjærken dér, hvor vor den er!
Og skigarden da! Den gamle redskabsvognen
ligger i græsset støt, og stadig staar
de svære hesjestængerne op i rognen,
og grøften er grøn som før, i alle aar!
Aa, ven, lot gravenes dyp sig vildt besværge,
vilde jeg bli til vangen her, med hø,
til bjærken dér, med stjernerne i, og bjærget,
bare for slik, paa annen vis, at værge
den hellige haven vor, for dét: at dø – –!
Ta om mig, ven, og hold mig! Saan at trykkes
er snart det eneste glimt af haab, jeg vét –
den hastige, hete straalestund, det lykkes
at vække i mig en annen evighet!»
Og jeg, en levende mand, paa jorden hjemme,
en tydelig mand af kjød, fra taa til top,
kan, svimmel og sky, i favnen min fornemme,
noget, som bare er blik og sind og stemme,
i smertelig angst og anelse løst op!
Du ensomme! Alt, jeg kan, er stumt at stryke
dit duftige haar, med haanden din i min –
og, øie til øie saan, staar Pan og Psyke
foran et hav af korn, i stjerneskin!
Metope
You I would in rhythms fondly rivet tight!
You I would hold deep and lasting in the eternal
young alabaster of the poem’s flight!
You day-dreamer, moved by the sun! With your gaze
chastely turned toward evening’s pale gold, meekly
you turn a heaven towards another, as bathed
in light and tenderness and secrecy!
I would gladly forfeit verse’s every trope
were one thing in my power: to hew firm-lined
in memory’s stubborn stone a smooth metope
that could depict your shy, frail-contoured mind!
We stroll through moist and yielding ebb-tide sand! Your ear
takes in the plashing waves of the summer sea!
Devoutly we feel that the evening stillness here
ever outward shifts its sounding boundary!
A string of fading chimes that’s slowly shrinking
behind blushing groves and gold church spires again –
and softly gleaming air-waves that are sinking
like streams of sun from mountains – which remain!
The ridges all turn blue. The stars fill in the skies!
The last clouds hasten home at end of day!
The meadow is at prayer – from air’s ebb tide will rise
mighty Arcturus! Behind grey stone walls sighs
a slight breeze through rye’s fur of silver grey!
And through your gaze a warm, deep animation –
in a dark blur of blue the eye can find
a drifting droplet, honey moistly gleaming,
and quietly I ask you: ‘Friend – what’s on your mind?’
‘I’m thinking of evenings like this I will not get to live through –
of ripening fields that rustle with corn, without me!
Of light things in motion: of ears of corn breaking,
of pale sails far out and of paths in the sea,
waves that all make for the shore, without me!
Mild daily life that no grave can dishearten,
such thoughts are mine, friend – the deep and the blue
future evenings in this summer garden,
my mind not by yours, of that I think too!
All of it brims in my eye like a tear –
poor, scared and alone, I’ll soon begin crying!
All which this evening is ours, all things here – –
after a few, heady years must face dying,
when mists will disperse and the eye will see clear!
Oh look, love, an ebb tide so black and so deep!
How strange the shore gets when the tide’s waters fall!
Is the night of dread far off then, when we shall be
a yet grimmer shore, one abandoned by all?
Yet even so, what a sweet, blessed wonder
these meadows, the corn, scrub and trees now in view,
the mountains beyond – and where’er our eyes wander,
by our fleeting moments are covered in dew –
take that birch tree over there, how ours it is!
That lattice fence! That ancient handcart lying there
still in the grass, and long hayrack poles here
up against the rowan trees, never elsewhere,
and the ditch, green as ever – year after year!
Oh, love, could grave’s yawning abyss be averted,
I’d wish to turn into this field with hay drying,
the birch tree there, studded with stars, and the
mountain, and thus I’d be somehow preserving
our own holy garden – from just that: from dying – –!
Embrace me, my love, hold me tightly, securely –
this small gleam of hope is soon all I can know –
the brief, fervent moment of bliss will cause surely
an other eternity in me to glow!’
And I, a living man, with earth my dwelling,
from top to toe, a man of flesh in kind,
can, faint and shy, in my embrace sense something
comprising only look and voice and mind,
dissolved in painful fear and dark foreboding!
You lonesome one! I can but mutely, lightly
caress your fragrant hair, with your hand held in mine –
and there, thus eye to eye, stand Pan and Psyche
before a sea of corn – in bright starshine!
Fra mezzaninvinduet
Samtidige i rummets bleke dage
staar jeg og hun, min slanke elskerinde.
Vi drikker med vort hjertes gjemte pulser
den samme stund, som til os begge rinder –
og stille skal vi staa og kløve lyset,
der er fra tider, da vi ikke levet,
og som vil strømme med sit skraae skjær
dypt ind i tider, da vi ikke er – – –
Og der er døde sommerdøgn i lyset,
som hælder gjennem vindvedts løvguirlandre –
og denne dybe kveld vil gaa tilbage
og flyde tonløst sammen med de andre!
Naar streifed det mig sidst, det lys som blinder –?
det meningsløse, rige straaleskin,
som tænder dunet paa en kvindes kinder,
der ikke aner hvorfor hun er min?
Vi staar i drømmedrysset ifra solen,
som flimrer bag den overbøide pinje;
jeg ser din hofte gjennem blaatøiskjolen,
hvor er den endelig i form og linje.
Jeg ser paa dine solbelyste hænder
med perlefine porer i sin hud,
hvor alt er nært og fast! Hvor alting ender!
og ingenting er evighed, o Gud!
Men fjernt paa sletten ser jeg ogsaa lue
Soractes gamle bjerg og Tiburs høie,
og pinjekronen over vindvets bue
blir nu en haand, som skygger over øiet.
Og fra en anden mezzanin man spiller
– Chopin – og vakt af hvide hænder raser
i søvnløs ring hans liljebleke triller
bag tunge, rosenfyldte romervaser.
From the mezzanine window
Contemporary in the room’s pale days
we both stand, I and she, my slender lover.
The hidden pulses of our hearts both drink
the selfsame moment as it flows uncovered –
and silent we shall stand and cleave the light
that is from times before we had our life,
and that with slanting gleam will stream afar,
deep into times when we no longer are –––
There are dead days of summer in the light
that pours in through the window’s leafy garlands –
and this deep evening hour will soon recede
and mutely join the others in that far land!
When was I last brushed by that blinding streak,
that meaningless and radiant bright shine
which lights the down upon a woman’s cheek
who does not know at all why she is mine?
We stand in dreams that from the sun sift down
that’s shimmering behind the bowed stone pine;
I see your hip’s shape through your thin blue gown
how finite it though is in form and line.
Your sun-lit hands my eyes too apprehend,
whose skin with hosts of pearl-fine pores is floored,
how close and firm all is! How all things end!
and nothing is eternity, oh Lord!
But far off on the plain there further flame
Soracte’s ancient mount and Tibur’s height,
the stone pine’s crown above the window frame
becomes a hand that shades the eye from light.
And from another mezzanine comes spilling
– Chopin – and wakened by white hands now chases,
in sleepless ring, his lily-pallid trilling
behind the heavy, rose-filled Roman vases.
