Monday 9 September 2024

P.C. Boutens: 'Nachtstilte'


 

Nacht-stilte

 

Stil, wees stil: op zilvren voeten 

Schrijdt de stilte door den nacht, 

Stilte die der goden groeten 

Overbrengt naar lage wacht... 

Wat niet ziel tot ziel kon spreken 

Door der dagen ijl gegons,

Spreekt uit overluchtsche streken, 

Klaar als ster in licht zoû breken, 

Zonder smet van taal of teeken 

God in elk van ons.

 

 

 

Night-silence

 

Hush now, hush: on feet of silver

Through the night see silence go,

Silence that from gods delivers

Greetings to the watch below...

What ’twixt souls could not be spoken

In the daytime’s empty din

From high realms that night has woken,

Into light star-bright now broken,

Sullied by no word or token

God speaks deep within.

 




 

Sunday 8 September 2024

Jeppe Aakjær: 'Jeg bærer med smil min byrde'



Jeg bærer med smil min byrde

 

Jeg bærer med smil min byrde,

jeg drager med sang mit læs,

jeg er som den vilde hyrde,

der genner sit kvæg på græs.

 

Se, duggen driver fra norden

hen over det bøjede korn,

mens solen stiger af jorden

imellem oksernes horn!

 

Jeg ser over tindrende marker

og langt mod den blånende fjord,

jeg stirrer på sejlende arker,

men finder ej tolkende ord.

 

Jeg slænger skalmejen for munden,

jeg trækker så lang dens lyd,

at kilderne klukker i lunden,

og bukkene bræger af fryd!

 

Hvor kan I dog gruble og græde,

så længe Guds himmel er blå!

Mit hjerte skælver af glæde,

blot duggen dynker et strå.

 

 

I bear with a smile my burden

 

I bear with a smile my burden,

I carry with songs my load,

I’m just like the untamed herdsman

who cattle to grass would goad. 

 

Look, dew from the north is drifting

out over the bowed fields of corn,

the sun from the earth is lifting

its disc among oxen’s curved horns!

 

Past glittering meadows I’m gazing

across to the fjord turning blue,

the craft sailing there find quite dazing,

but fail to find words that speak true.

 

The shawm to my lips I press tightly,

its sound let bleat o’er the lea,

till springs in the grove babble brightly,

and bucks begin braying with glee!

 

How can you keep brooding and weeping

while all of God’s heaven is blue!

My heart with joy can’t stop leaping

at grass blades sprinkled with dew.

 

 

 

Tuesday 3 September 2024

Erik Lindner: 'Alles hangt waterpas...' (PS 18)

 

Alles hangt waterpas, de afnemende

maan

de datum aan de muur

 

zij die aan tafel de stilte uitzet

hij die ramen donker spoelt

 

brokken uit de uren dat we samen zitten

scheeploos in de donkere regen

 

de duiven die plotseling alle opvliegen

de ogen aan de takken op het plein.

 

 

 

Everything hangs perfectly straight, the waning

moon

the date on the wall

 

she who spreads out silence at table

he who flushes the windows dark

 

shards of the hours we sit together 

unshipped in the darkness of rain

 

the pigeons that suddenly all fly up

the eyes on the branches in the square.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 18

 

Sunday 1 September 2024

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Mørket' (1832) - an adaptation of Byron's poem 'Darkness'

 


Mørket

Efter Byrons: ’Darkness’

 

Jeg drømte - dog en Drøm var det ei ganske!

Udslukt var Solens Glands, og Stjernerne

Gik uden Straaler, uden fastsat Vei

I Mørket i det grændseløse Rum,

Hvor Jorden, som en død og sortgraa Klump

Hang i en Luft, hvor ingen Maane lyste.

Og Morgenstunden kom, gik – kom, men uden Dag.

I denne Jammer glemte Mennesket

Hver Lidenskab, og hvert et Hjerte bad

Allene kun om Eet: om Lyset atter.

Man levede ved tændte Blus – og Throner,

Selv Fyrsternes Paladser, Hytterne,

Hvert lille Skuur, hvor Dyrene fandt Ly,

I Flammer lyste; Byerne blev’ Aske,

Men mens de brændte stod man rundt omkring,

For dog endnu engang at see hinanden.

Man tændte Skovene – men Stund for Stund

De styrtede og svandt – og Stammerne

I Gnister slukkedes – og Alt var sort.

Paa Mandens Pande, hvor hiint Rædselsblus

Som Lynglimt zittred’, læste man kun Rædsel. –

En Deel laae tause, skjulte deres Ansigt

Og græd – en Deel krampagtigt knytted’ Haanden,

Og hviled’ Kinden paa den mens de loe;

Her sværmed nogle om og nærede,

Med hvad de fandt, de sidste Flammebaal,

Vanvittig’ saae de til den mørke Himmel,

Liiglagnet for en uddød Verden her,

Og kasted’ sig igjen i Støvet, bandte

Og hylede i deres Tænders Gnidsel.

Rovfugle skreg’ og flagred’, slog’ med Vingen;

De vilde Dyr kom bævende og tamme,

Og Slangerne i Hobe samled’ sig,

Kom, hvislede, men uden Braad og Gift.

Man dræbte dem til Spise. Snart igjen

Brød Krigen ud, der for en Stund var ophørt;

Sin Føde kjøbte man for Blod, og hver,

Imens han mætted’ sig, sad mørk og harmfuld,

Der var ei Kjærlighed; een Tanke kun

Beherskede den hele Jord og den var: »Død«,

Død uden Hæder. Hung’ens vilde Qval

Aad Alles Indre; Menneskene døde;

Ujordet henlaae deres Kjød og Been;

Den Magre blev et Bytte for den Magre,

Og Hunde anfaldt’ deres egne Herrer;

Kun een blev troe et Liig og afholdt Fugle

Og Dyr og Mennesker fra dette ene,

Til Hungeren afkræftede den selv

Og Liget blev et Aadsel. Dog endnu

Den Intet aad, men under dybe Hyl

Og Jammersskrig den slikkede den Haand,

Der ei gjengjældede med Klap – og døde.

Snart dræbte Hung’ren alle. Ikkun to,

Fra een og samme mægtig Stad, var’ til;

Men de var’ Fjender. Begge traf hinanden

Ved Al’trets halvudslukte Kul,

Hvor det Indviede var til vanhellig Brug

Lagt i en Hob. De greb’ deri;

De nøgne, knokkelmagre, tunge Hænder

Med Zittren rørte kraftesløse i

Den tynde Aske, deres svage Aande

Oplivede den halv udslukte Flamme,

Der spottende belyste dem; og da

Det nu blev klart, de hæved’ Øiet,

Og saae hinanden Ansigt imod Ansigt –

De saae –der lød et Skriig og de var’ døde.

Af Afsky mod hinanden døde de,

Uvidende om hvem af dem det var,

Hvem, paa hvis Pande Døden ridsed: »Djævel.«

– Død, øde, laae den folkerige Verden,

En mægtig Klump, der eied ingen Aarstid,

Og ingen Urter, Træer, Mennesker!

Nei, intet Levende; Alt her var dødt;

Et Chaos af et tørt, et livløst Leer.

Søe, Flod og Verdens-Hav, Alt stod nu stille,

Og intet rørte sig i Dybets Afgrund;

De stolte Skibe raadnede dernede,

Og stykkeviis faldt Masten ned og laae

I Dybet, hvor der nu var ingen Bølger;

De vare døde; Draaben selv var død,

Og Vindene, thi Luften var et Stille;

Og der var’ ingen Skyer meer – thi Mørket

Ei mere brugte dem, – det var nu Alt.

 

 

Darkness

Adaptation of Byron’s poem of the same name

 

I dreamed – though no dream did it seem at times!

The sun’s bright gleam was gutted, and the stars

Were without rays, without their pre-set path

In darkness in the endless tracts of space,

Where Earth hung like a dead and black-grey lump

In air in which no moon afforded light.

And daybreak came and went – but no day came.

And in this misery man now forgot

Each trace of passion, and each heart prayed but

For just one thing: the swift return of light.

Man only lived by what was lit – and thrones,

Even the palaces of princes, huts,

Each shed where animals some shelter found

Now was aflame; where cities turned to ash,

But while they burned folk stood around in crowds

So as to see each other one more time.

They lit the forests, but as time passed by

They dwindled and collapsed – until the trunks

Lay gutted there – and everything was black.

On every brow, where this horrific blaze

Quivered like lightning, all one read was dread. –

Some lay there without speaking, hid their face

And wept – some clenched their fist in great despair

On which to rest their cheek while there they laughed;

And others swarmed around and sought to feed

The final flames with everything they found,

Distraughtly gazing at the leaden sky,

The winding sheet for an extinguished world,

Then threw themselves down in the dust and cursed

Out loud and howled while they did gnash their teeth.

Birds of prey screeched and loudly flapped their wings;

The tame and savage beasts came shivering,

And crowds of coiling, hissing snakes appeared

Possessing though no venom and no bite.

They were all killed for food. And then the war

That for some time had stopped broke out once more;

Man bought his food for blood, and everyone

While eating sat there grim and full of hate,

No sign of love was found; one single thought 

Ruled over all the world and that was: ‘Death’,

Death without honour. Hunger’s savage pangs

Devoured all entrails; human beings died;

Their flesh and bones unburied lay about,

The meagre for each other were now prey,

And dogs attacked their masters unprovoked;

And only one did guard a corpse from birds

And beasts and humans from among them all,

Until from hunger it no longer could

And then the corpse was carrion. And yet

It still refused to eat, emitting howls

And wails of woe, it sought to lick the hand

That now no longer stroked it – and it died.

Soon famine killed all humans. Only two,

Who came from one great city still remained;

But they were enemies. They chanced to meet

At the low embers of the altar stone

Where what was sanctified lay in a heap

For use profane. There they had raked;

Their naked, bony, heavy hands stirred through

With ineffectual quaking movements what

Of ashes still remained, and their weak breath

Brought life back to the half-extinguished flames

That mockingly illuminated them;

And when it thus grew clear, they raised their eyes

And looked directly at each other’s face,

They saw – a cry rang out and they were dead.

Of mutual repulsion they did die,

Not knowing which of them had scratched the name

Of ‘Devil’ on the adversary’s brow.

– Dead and deserted lay the densely peopled world,

A mighty lump where seasons held no sway,

No single plant, tree, form of human life!

No, nothing living; everything was dead;

A chaos of a dry and lifeless void.

Lakes, rivers and great oceans, all stood still,

And nothing stirred within the great abyss;

Proud ships began to fall apart down there,

And one by one the masts collapsed and lay

There in the depths, where waves no longer stirred;

They were all dead, and every drop was dead,

The winds too, for the air was motionless;

And there were no more clouds – for darkness had

No further need of them, since it was all.

 

 

In a letter to Henriette Hanck, completed on 14 Jan. 1832, Andersen mentions ’en Bearbeidelse af Byrons ”the Darkness”, der ret er lykkedes mig’ (an adaptation of Byron’s ’Darkness’ I have been quite successful with).

 

 To see the original poem, go to here.


 

Friday 30 August 2024

ZKV 112

ZKV112

 

While exploring the outer reaches of my ancestry on the distaff side, I came across Florence Knox, a niece of my maternal grandmother. Florence married Charles Harold Andrews in 1917. Their son, George Harold, was born in 1926. A couple of days back a death certificate plinged in from another user of the genealogy software. George Harold had died at the age of 10, on 13 October 1937, and I had been wondering why – illness, disease perhaps? Not so.

Cause of death: Haemorrhage left middle meningeal artery as a result of fracture of the left temporal bone. 

Struck on head by piece of dirt thrown by another boy in playground at school. – Accidental.

 

My brother Mike and I are hiding in our neighbour’s garden, which has lots of bushes and trees. We pick up pebbles and throw them in each other’s direction. I am hiding behind an apple tree, but am struck on the forehead with some force. My brother, (my guess is he is about nine and I seven) tells me to comb my fringe down to hide it. But it’s bath night. Ma baths us together, for it costs a lot to heat the tank. Ma spots the impressive swelling immediately. ‘I bumped into something,’ I explain. ‘Some something,’ Ma remarks. Mike keeps quiet. We sit facing each other in the bath tub. Ma chooses not to press the matter further.

 

Struck on head by piece of dirt thrown by another boy – accidental. Close shave.

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Lille Lise ved Brønden' (1830)

 


Lille Lise ved Brønden (1830)

 

”Unschuld, nur wenn du dich nicht kennest, wie die kindliche,

dann bist du eine; aber dein Bewustseyn ist dein Tod.”

               Jean Poul

 

Tæt ved Huset Brønden staaer,

Lille Lise til den gaaer,

Stirrer tankefuld derned,

Thi hun af sin Moder veed,

At man her fra Brøndens Vand

Trækker Børnene i Land;

Ja, hun selv, som her nu staaer,

Kom derfra for fire Aar,

Og en Broder tog’ de nys,

Ham, som faaer saa mange Kys.

 

Stivt hun ned i Brønden seer;

”Mon der nu er ingen fleer?

Eller sidde hver og een,

Skjult bag Brøndens Kampesteen?

Rigtignok har Søster sagt,

At os Børn har Storken bragt,

At han har bag Redens Tjørn,

Piger og smaae Drenge-Børn;

Men hvor skiller han de Smaae,

Naar de ei har Klæder paa?

 

Nei, de boe i Brønden her!

Jeg har selv jo været der;

O, nu kan jeg ogsaa see,

Een igjennem Vandet lee!

Hun som lille Lise staaer,

Og har ogsaa gule Haar.

Kunde jeg dog bare faae,

Kun den mindste af de Smaae!

De er’ meget bedre der,

End min dumme Dukke her!”

 

 

Little Lizzy by the well (1830)

 

‘Unschuld, nur wenn du dich nicht kennest, wie die kindliche,

dann bist du eine; aber dein Bewustseyn ist dein Tod.’

               Jean Poul

 

Near the house the deep well lies,

From close to it Lizzy spies

Down into it thoughtfully,

For her mother’s said that we

All our children from below

Haul up to the world we know;

Yes, that she came from there too

Four years earlier when new,

And a brother recently

Who gets kissed so frequently.

 

She peers down with her best stare;

Aren’t there any others there?

Or is every single one

Hidden by the well’s huge stone?

Could my sister then be wrong,

That the stork’s brought us along,

That behind its thorny nest

Baby girls and boys all rest;

How can it tell which from which,

When they’re wearing not a stitch?

 

No, down here is where they dwell!

I too once was down the well;

Oh, just look, now I can see

One that’s laughing back at me!

Standing just like Lizzy there,

And she also has blond hair.

If I just could have one too,

Just the tiniest would do!

They are so much better there

Than my stupid doll, I swear!’

 

Thursday 29 August 2024

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Gurre' (1842)





 

Gurre

 

Hvor Nilen vander Ægypterens Jord

I Africas brændende Lande,

Der mødtes to Fugle, de kom fra Nord,

De talte om Danmarks Strande:

’O husker du Sjølund, den deilige Ø,

Hvor de vilde Skovduer kurre,

De duftende Bøge, den stille Sø,

Husker du Gurre?’

— ’Ja, der har jeg bygget en Sommerdag,”

Saa talte den lille Svale,

„Jeg havde min Rede ved Bondens Tag,

Jeg hørte ham synge og tale.

Jeg troer der er skjønnest i Danmark!’

         CHOR

Jeg troer der er skjønnest i Danmark!

         ECCHO

         — skjønnest i Danmark!

 

 

Ved Gurre-Sø laae Kong Valdemars Borg,

Den saae ham med Tovelille;

Den kjendte hans Lykke, den kjendte hans Sorg,

— Ak Trøstens Harper hang stille;

Hans Glæde blev skrinlagt bag Kirkens Muur,

Hvor de vilde Skovduer kurre.

— Om Tovelille sang Guds Natur

Deiligst i Gurre!

Der havde de vandret hver lønlig Sti,

Naturen blev her til hende;

Han kunde ei gaae en Blomst forbi,

Den sagde: „Kan Du mig kjende?”

Jeg troer der er skjønnest i Danmark!’

         CHOR

Jeg troer der er skjønnest i Danmark!

         ECCHO

         — skjønnest i Danmark!

 

Ved Gurre-Sø holdt Kong Valdemar Jagt,

Smukt Hornet lød gjennem Skoven,

Den stod i sin rigeste Sommerpragt,

Og Stjerner funkled’ foroven;

Da raabte Kongen saa lystelig,

Hvor de vilde Skovduer kurre:

„Lad Gud beholde sit Himmerig,

Har jeg kun Gurre!”

— Det er saa deiligt en Sommerdag,

Men deiligst i Nattens Stille,

Naar Stjernerne blinke og Droslens Slag

Fortæller om Tovelille.

Jeg troer der er skjønnest i Danmark!’

         CHOR

Jeg troer der er skjønnest i Danmark!'

         ECCHO

         — skjønnest i Danmark!

 

 

Gurre

 

Where Egypt’s soil is refreshed by the Nile

In Africa’s lands hot and searing,

Two birds from the North met and talked awhile

Of Danish shores so endearing:

‘You remember Sealand, that beautiful isle

Where wood pigeons coo without ceasing,

Where sweet-scented beeches and calm lake beguile,

And Gurre so pleasing?’

– ‘Yes, one summer’s day there I built my nest,’

Replied the small swallow discreetly,

‘High up on the farmer’s roof it did rest,

I heard him repeat this so sweetly:

Here’s loveliest surely in Denmark!’

         CHOIR

Here’s loveliest surely in Denmark!

         ECHO

         — surely in Denmark!

 

Near Valdemar’s castle lay Gurre Lake

It saw him with Tovelille,

It knew his delights, it knew every ache,

– Ah, harps of solace hung still there;

His joy was entombed behind church walls dank,

Where wood pigeons coo without ceasing.

– Of Tovelille God’s nature sang

In Gurre so pleasing!

When along every secret path they strayed

All nature turned into Tove;

Each flower he would pass now seemed to say,

‘Do you know me?’ over and over

Here’s loveliest surely in Denmark!

         CHOIR

Here’s loveliest surely in Denmark!

         ECHO

         — surely in Denmark!

 

At Gurre Valdemar hunted with hounds,

Through woods the horn sounded sprightly!

They stood in their summer’s greenest gowns

And stars from above sparkled brightly;

The king then uttered a joyous cry,

Where wood pigeons cooed without ceasing:

‘Let God retain all his realms on high,

Gurre’s more pleasing!’

It’s lovely here on a summer’s day

Though best at night when it’s stiller,

When stars all twinkle, when thrushes’ play

Reminds me of Tovelille!

Here’s loveliest surely in Denmark!’

         CHOIR

Here’s loveliest surely in Denmark!

         ECHO

         — surely in Denmark!

 

Gurre – Royal hunting lodge by Gurre lake in North Sealand

Tovelille (Little Tove) – King Valdemar IV’s mistress

 

 

To listen to Sven Erik Werner’s fine choral setting of the poem, go to here.