Friday, 23 January 2026

Willem Hessels: 'Dichten' (PS 49)


Dichten

 

Dichten is dromen met open ogen

en zolang kijken, tot de starre wand

tussen de dingen wijkt, en geen afstand

mij langer scheidt van gindse bewogen

 

ruisende bomen en de witte zwanen

van wolken die daarboven staan,

en in het vochte blauw mijn ziel kan gaan

zich wassen als de ronde pure maan, –

 

dichten is dromen met open ogen

en bij levende lijve ver zijn weggegaan.

 

 

Writing poems

 

Writing poems is dreaming open-eyed

with steadfast gaze, until the rigid wall

between things yields and there’s no space at all

between me and the rustling trees outside

 

in great commotion and the off-white swans

of clouds that high up in the sky reside

and in the moist blue where my soul can glide

and as the round pure moon can bathe till dawn –

 

Writing poems is dreaming open-eyed

and in the flesh, from all disguise withdrawn.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 49

 

 

 

 

Lars Wivallius: 'Klage-Wijsa' (1642)

 


Dirge over this dry and cold spring

 

A dry and cold spring speeds summer’s demise,

of winter food us depriving.

Grant help, heav’nly King, see spring how it flies

and little joy we’re deriving.

Sun warm us, don’t harm us!

For winds chastise

and cold the summer is riving.

                                                                                                    

Good May-rain set free, let drizzle allay,

let warm dew feed plants that famish!

let drought banished be, let frost cease to flay

and cause all young flowers to languish.

Your curse flee, show mercy!

For those I pray

who serve and fear God with anguish.

 

Let weather forlorn and drought so unkind

not force red roses to perish,

let fields meant for corn the farmer not find

so barren they no man can nourish!  

Make danger a stranger,

and always mind

the earth’s young crops so they flourish!

 

Let heaven’s great door wide open now swing

help clouds that would be ascending,

let us as before hear nightingales sing

whose lays the cold’s been preventing!

Let voices rejoice as

young hearts take wing!

Let children’s dance know no ending!

 

Let folk hand in hand now dance, one and all,

let summer’s butterflies flutter!

On petals let stand, on leaves sweetly sprawl

moist pearls too lovely to utter!

let twitter and chitter

goldfinches small

with finest wagtails that scutter!

 

Give comfort and joy, let larks call and play,

let summer’s swallows not perish.

Our sad breasts alloy that only dismay

now feel though Sweden we cherish!

Give summer, late-comer,

give good green hay,

let cuckoos cry out with relish!

 

When daybreak is near, or mild eventide

sees day and night alternating

We luring calls hear at summer’s divide,

God’s creatures dance, play, are mating!

in rivers there quiver

salmon and ide

their spawning anticipating!

 

Our days make them long, our nights make them clear,

let light, warm drizzle be falling

enticing to song all birds that have here

been mute in winter appalling!

let couples, redoubled

both far and near

rejoice, now summer is calling!

 

Make fruitful each crop, each creature beguile

o’er town and village when faring,

The ploughman’s limbs hop and dance all the while

he thin-spun linen is wearing.

Each thrush in dale gushes

and folk all smile

and many a trumpet’s blaring.

 

Oh, sun ever bright, you poor folk’s true friend,

your rays no man e’er denying,

our dwellings now light with summer again

let cold and drought off be hying!

Hard-pressed though soon blessed go

women and men

where sunlight’s warmth they are spying.

 

Our sorrows make brief, the ploughman befriend,

let green deck forest and valley,

from drought grant relief, and moisture now send

to farmers’ hearts that they rally!

Rejoicing, let voices

in joy ascend

that yet but mournful words tally!

 

Let green clothe the trees, let fruit fill the earth,

ensure no need can oppress us,

to quickening breeze full-scented give birth

from field, mead, forest to bless us!

Let garlanding, dancing

give measured mirth,

let bright-hued beds convalesce us!

 

Let grass become lush and flowers fair to see,

let ermines frolic and revel,

let cool breezes brush us far out at sea,

let soft winds hat-strings unravel!

In meadows find beds and

in green-clad lea

for those that nightly do travel.

 

Let craftsmen display the skill of their hand

and journey safe from all stealing,

let merchants find way on water and land

to where they most would be dealing!

By nosegays and roadways

the joy expand

which high and low now are feeling!

 

Let days turn quite warm! Still herdsmen can keep

their watch in pleasant shade hunching,

while shaking an arm at goats and at sheep,

on apples and berries lunching!

From ploughshare to bough fair

in one great sweep

let oxen stare, their cud munching!

 

Let livestock now graze, from stalls oxen prise,

to forests drive cattle willing!

Let working beasts gaze ’neath God’s open skies,

let ploughmen rejoice while tilling!

Let fields share full yield where 

the final prize

is ripe corn ready for milling!

 

Their meadows let flower, their furrows turn green,

their granaries help replenish!

The farmers empower, so soldiers unseen

from weariness need not perish.

Wrath cease now, give peace now!

Both lad and colleen

know endless joys they can cherish.

 

Let crowding bees hum round flower and leaf

that honey sweet are extracting!

The air though is dumb from screams and sore grief

where armies war are enacting.

Wrath cease now, give peace now,

God grant relief,

to stop our foes from impacting!

 

O’er war you are king, o’er all you are lord,

o’er heaven’s stronghold presiding.

Thus you everything I hereby accord.

Help us on foot or when riding!

Make flourish and nourish

what’s cold and flawed!

You are our solace abiding.

 

Oh God, we have sinned against you, forgive

our many failings’ confusion!

Let penance rescind them, since we would live

our new lives free from illusion.

Though wroth, be you loath our

hearts to misgive,

though free from harmful delusion!

 

Restrain our desires, and teach us through prayers

to rightly use what you’ve given!

Whatever transpires, pray lessen the cares

of those to frugal life driven,

assist and resist not

the hand that bears

a bowl that’s empty and riven!

 

Grant them a good year, and o’er them let reign

your sun that seasons does sever,

the moon too so clear, to wax and to wane

that its pure light they lack never!

But those who oppose you,

what’s sick disdain,

may each house shun them for ever!


To see the entire facsimile original, go to here.



Thursday, 22 January 2026

Georg Stiernhielm (1598-1672): Kling-dikt ('Hålt stilla mitt Förnuft')

 


               Kling-dikt

         pÃ¥ Authoris Sinn-beläte,

              En Silkes-matk.

 

Hålt stilla mitt Förnuft, tig sachtelig besinna/

     Hwad thetta wara mÃ¥! du sijr här en Figur/

     En vsel, naken Kropp/ en Matk, ett Creatur/

Som ingen skapnad har, ther intet är til finna,

Som ögat lyster see. Men märck; här ligger inna/

     Meer än en tänkia kan; en nyttig/ ädel/ pur/

     En sälsam/ underlig af Gud beredd Natur:

En Matk/ theß Spijs är Blad/ theß ijd är artigt spinna;

Theß Spona Silkes-tråd; theß wärck och wäf är Sijden.

     Af Blad gör han en Skatt; til theß han, toom och mager/

     Inwicklat in-dör i sin wäf/ och lijwet stäcker.

Men sij! En ny Figur, med Wingar prydd/ med tiden/

     Här kommer fram igen/ vpqwickter/ fin och fager:

     En lijflig Sool hans Siäl med kraft/ en gang/ vpwäcker.

 

 

              Sound-Poem (sonnet)

     on the emblem of the author,

               A silk-worm

 

My reason stay awhile, reflect ere you propound

     What this perhaps may be. What you see here’s a figure,

     A paltry naked hulk, a silk-worm, a mere creature

Without appearance and where nothing can be found

Designed to please the eye. Yet note: there lies within

     More than a mind can grasp, a useful, fine, pure nature

     Of rare and curious kind in each God-given feature:

A worm whose food is leaves, whose sole delight to spin,

Whose spun thread, toil and web on silk are all inclined.

     Of leaves it treasure makes, till empty, thin and abject,

     Cocooned within its web its own life it then takes.

But look, a brand-new figure, graced with wings fine-lined,

     In time will re-emerge, refreshed and fair of aspect,

     Once a vivacious sun its soul now re-awakes.

 

Henrik Wergeland: 'Pigen paa Anatomikammeret'


Pigen paa Anatomikammeret

 

– – Jo det er Hende! O lys hid!

Og slip ei Kniven end paaglid

i denne Armes Hjerte!

O, der er rædsom Vittighed

i Lampens Blik, som stirrer ned

paa denne døde Smerte.

 

Saa kold, dengang den aanded, saae

den stolte Verden jo derpaa?

Og frække Øine skar

det Slør igjennem tidligt, som

den stakkels Piges Fattigdom

af gyldne Drømme bar.

 

Som Blomst i Isen frossen ind

jeg seer et Træk paa denne Kind,

som vel jeg bør at kjende.

Thi Fryden i min Barndomsleeg,

før altfor høit min Skulder steeg,

– o var den ikke Hende.

 

Tversover boed’ hun for os,

i Armod født, som i sit Mos

paa Taget Stedmorsblommen.

Fornemme Folk kun fatted’ svært,

at Blod saa fagert og saa skjært

af Fattigfolk var kommen.

 

Ak, mangt sligt Aasyn dog jeg saae

som Maanedsrosens Pragt forgaae,

som Sommerfuglestøvet!

Dem Skjebnens Haand for haardt vel tog,

og Syndens Spor dem overjog

som Sneglens Sliim paa Løvet.

 

 

The girl in the dissection room

 

– – Yes, it is her! Oh light here, quick!

Let not the knife yet even flick

across this poor girl’s heart!

Oh, what cruel irony does glow

in this lamp’s gaze that stares down so

on dead pain set apart.

 

So cold, yet when it breathed did not

the proud world gaze at it a lot?

And bold eyes soon sliced through

the veil of golden dreams that she

the poor girl against poverty

wore when as child she grew.

 

Like flower frozen in the ice

this cheek bears traits that in a trice

should be well-known to me.

For childhood games that brought me joy,

before I was no longer boy,

– Oh surely it was she.

 

She lived just opposite from us,

of humble birth, like in its moss

the roof’s heartsease could thrive.

Fine folk could hardly contemplate

that blood so fair and delicate

from paupers could derive.

 

Ah, many a face as this saw I

like monthly rose’s splendour die,

as butterfly-dust brief!

Fate’s hand too firmly must have grasped,

and sin’s trace to such lives have clasped

like snail’s slime on the leaf.


Henrik Wergeland: 'Med en bouquet'

 


Med en bouquet

 

Den har ei Sjel, som ikke troer,

     Naturen er en aaben Bog,

at Mossens blege Klippeflor

     saa vel som Rosen har sit Sprog.

 

Det kjender Du, min Elskte, vel.

     Du Drømmen seer i Klokkens Bund.

Du fatter Liljens tause Sjel

     og Ordene fra Rosens Mund.

 

Lad da din skjønne Fantasi

     blandt Somrens Blomster sværme om!

For Hende, Blomster, taler I!

     Hun er jo selv saa favr en Blom.

 

Paa Morgenrødens Høie groe

     kun Roser lige hendes Kind,

paa Lysets Bjerg, hvor Engle boe,

     kun Liljen reen som hendes Sind.

 

Og ikkun hist, hvor Dagens Blaa

     frembryder som en Kilde klar,

saa fagre Blaavioler staae

     som hendes søde Øienpar.

 

 

With a bouquet

 

He has no soul who won’t believe

     that Nature is an open book,

that moss’s pallid rock-flowers have,

     like roses, voice as well as look.

 

My love, you know this as of old.

     The bell-flowers dreams to you disclose.

You know the lily’s silent soul,

     the words soft-spoken by the rose.

 

Let then your fantasy now seek

     midst summer flowers to roam so free!

And flowers, for her I charge you speak!

     For such a lovely flower is she.

 

On hills where dawn’s flush casts its spell

     there grow but roses like her cheek,

on peaks of light, where angels dwell,

     but lilies pure as she is meek.

 

And only there where blue of day

     like spring so clear does now arise,

grow violets in blue array

     as lovely as her pair of eyes.

 

 

Wednesday, 21 January 2026

Inger Hagerup: 'Emily Dickenson'

 


Emily Dickinson

 

Meget spinkel. Meget liten.

Alltid sirlig kledd i hvitt.

Gjennom huset trippet hennes

veloppdragne pikeskritt.

 

Tørket støv og vannet blomster

med små travle husmorhender.

Bakte brød. Gikk tur i parken,

og skrev brev til slekt og venner.

 

Kjærlig søster. Lydig datter.

Slik var dagens dukkelek.

Men den skjulte ilden herjet.

Og det stumme skriket skrek.

 

Og bak jomfruburets låste

dør og lette blondekapper

lå en fremmed ingen kjente.

Altfor ensom. Altfor tapper.

 

LÃ¥ en kald kirurg og lyttet

til sin egen nakne smerte.

Og mens puten kvalte skriket,

obduserte hun sitt hjerte.

 

 

Emily Dickinson

 

Very slender. Very tiny.

Always neatly dressed in white.

Through the house she used to trip with

girl-like steps well-bred and light.

 

Wiped off dust and watered flowers

with small busy housewife hands.

Baked bread. In the park went walking,

wrote to family and friends.

 

Loving sister. Duteous daughter.

Doll-play was her daily fare.

But the hidden fire ravaged.

And the silent scream did tear.

 

And behind the locked door of her

girl’s room and her bonnets’ lace

lay a stranger known to no one.

All too lonely. All too brave.

 

Lay a surgeon listening coldly

to her naked pain apart.

And while cushions choked her screaming,

she dissected her own heart.

 

 For information on photographs of Emily Dickenson, go to here.