Werner Aspenström: 'Svalor'

svalor 

Stanna du som sneddar över backen

med korgar i båda händerna! 

Stanna, säger jag, en liten stund,

inte längre än ett gult blad behöver

för att lossna och falla till marken.

Fyll dina korgar med aftonens svalsång

som droppar i luften,

droppar på den sjunkande solen,

droppar på koppartrådarna som ett regn, 

när det trevande närmar sig.

Fyll dina korgar med svalungarnas mjuka bröstdun,

deras tafatta vingar,

som flaxar som läderlappar

och ingenstans kommer.

Denna aftonskönhet bortom allt känt

dessa svalors vingspel och du och jag.

Vem vågar tro på solens återkomst?

Stanna, säger jag, en liten stund,

inte längre än ett gult blad behöver

för att lossna och falla till marken.

swallows 

Stay, you who are cutting across the hillside

with baskets in both of your hands! 

Stay, I say, a little while,

no longer than a yellow leaf needs

to loosen and fall to the ground.

Fill your baskets with the evening’s swallow song

that drips through the air,

drips on the setting sun,

drips on the copper wires like rain

when it tentatively approaches.

Fill your baskets with young swallows’ soft breast down,

their clumsy wings

that flap like bats

and get nowhere.

This evening beauty beyond all that’s known

these swallows’ wing-beats and you and I.

Who dares believe in the sun’s return?

Stay, I say, a little while,

no longer than a yellow leaf needs

to loosen and fall to the ground.

Hölderlin: 'Hälfte des Lebens' (New Translation 2019)

For a decade or more, I have been wrestling with a translation of Hölderlin's 'Hälfte des Lebens'. If you go to this entry, you can see the workshop describing the process. One of the thorny issues is the German construction hängen + in + accusative, which implies both statis (the intransitive use of the verb) and movement (the use of the accusative). This has been analysed in various ways: Das Land hängt in den See (hinein)//Das Land hängt nur teilweise im See, etc.

I have tried 'Poised land becomes lake'. But cannot face looking at it. It feels wrong. Often the most obvious is right under one's nose. So I have taken that instead. What can never be captured is to let the word for 'hänget' hang at the end of the first line. That is sheer brilliance.

HÄLFTE DES LEBENS

Mit gelben Birnen hänget

Und voll mit wilden Rosen

Das Land in den See,

Ihr holden Schwäne,

Und trunken von Küssen

Tunkt ihr das Haupt

Ins heilignüchterne Wasser.

Weh mir, wo nehm ich, wenn

Es Winter ist, die Blumen, und wo

Den Sonnenschein,

Und Schatten der Erde?

Die Mauern stehn

Sprachlos und kalt, im Winde

Klirren die Fahnen.

HALF OF LIFE

With yellow pears full-laden

And covered with wild roses

Land hangs into lake,

You swans alluring,

And drunken with kisses

Dipping your heads

In sacred-sobering water.

Ah me, where will I, when

The winter’s come, find flowers, and where

The sunshine and

The shadows of the earth?

The walls all stand

Speechless and cold, the wind-caught

Weather-vanes clatter.

Joachim du Bellay: 'Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage' (1558)

Sonnet XXXI – Les Regrets

Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage,

Ou comme cestuy là qui conquit la toison,

Et puis est retourné, plein d’usage et raison,

Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son aage !

Quand revoiray-je, hélas, de mon petit village

Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison,

Revoiray-je le clos de ma pauvre maison,

Qui m’est une province, et beaucoup d’avantage ?

Plus me plaist le séjour qu’ont basty mes ayeux,

Que des palais Romains le front audacieux,

Plus que le marbre dur me plaist l’ardoise fine,

Plus mon Loyre Gaulois, que le Tybre Latin,

Plus mon petit Lyré, que le mont Palatin,

Et plus que l’air marin la doulceur Angevine.

Sonnet XXXI - Regrets

Happy, like Ulysses, the one whose journey’s done,

Or like that man of fame who gained the golden fleece

And then returned, more seasoned and more wise, to Greece

To live among his own with all his battles won!

When will I see, alas, the smoke from chimneys rise

Once more in my small village, at what time of year

I see once more the plot of my poor home so dear

That is to me a province – more, despite its size?

More pleasing is the place my ancestors have built

Than Roman palaces, their grandeur and their gilt,

More than the marble’s hardness does my fine slate please,

More than Tiber’s swift waters, my Loire calm and still,

More my Lyré so small than the Palatine Hill,

And more than strong sea-air, the Angevine soft breeze. 

Philippe Jaccottet: 'Plus aucun souffle'

Plus aucun souffle.

Comme quand le vent du matin

a eu raison

de la dernière bougie.

Il y a en nous un si profond silence

qu’une comète

en route vers la nuit des filles de nos filles

nous l’entendrions.

(Leçons)

Not a breath more.

As when the morning wind

has vanquished

the last candle.

There is within us a silence so profound

that a comet

heading for the night of our daughters’ daughters 

would be audible to us.

(Lessons)

Olaf Bull: 'Digter'

Digter

Jeg synes, alverden smiler

bag zobel og skind i løn,

fordi jeg blaafrossen piler

i vaarfrak, tynd og grøn!

Dér kommer en festlig frue

i skinnende pelsverks pragt

og lysende hermelinshue — —

jeg smutter i foraarets dragt!

Skal det være en viol fra mit knaphul,

en blomst fra en vaargrøn vei — —?

Skal det være lidt fuglekvidder — —?

Kvirrevitt — — —! Faaes gratis hos mig!

Poet

I feel the whole world is smiling,

in sable and furs unseen,

since I dart around half-frozen

in a spring coat, thin and green!

Just look, a lady so stately

her gleaming furs swish and swing

and topped by a bright ermine beret — —

I scurry around dressed for spring! 

How about my own buttonhole’s violet,

a roadside spring flower maybe — —?

How about some twittering chirrups — —?

Chirpy chirp — — —! From me it’s for free!

HCA: 'Qvæk'

Croak

All the birds in the forest sat in the trees on branches where there were reams of leaves, even so they agreed they wanted the leaves of a good journal, they longed for a critical publication, such as humans have so many of that half will do. The songbirds wanted a musical critique that praised their own singing and found fault with that of others, wherever faults were to be found. But they were unable to agree about finding impartial critics among the birds, ‘A bird, though, it will have to be,’ said the owl, who had been elected president of the assembly and is the bird of wisdom, ‘one can hardly choose from some other part of the animal kingdom unless perhaps from the sea, there fishes fly as birds do in the air, but that is also the only thing they have in common. But there are still plenty of animals between fish and fowl.’

Then the stork took over, his beak clacking. ‘They are creatures between fish and fowl: the children of bog-water, the frogs, are who I vote for. They are extremely musical, sing in chorus, like church bells in the solitude of the forest. I feel the urge to travel abroad!’ the stork said, ‘an itching under my wings when they strike up.’

‘I vote for the frogs too,’ the heron said, ‘they are neither fish nor fowl, live among the fishes yet sing like birds. ‘

‘That was the musical aspect,’ the owl said, ‘but the journal must also deal with everything that is beautiful in the forest, there must be members of staff. Let us ponder the matter in our separate families.’

Then the little lark trilled so cheerfully and beautifully: ‘The frog must not be in charge of the journal, no, the nightingale.’

‘Stop your chirruping!’ the owl said, ‘I’m hooting for order. I know the nightingale, we are both of us night-birds; each bird sings with its own beak, so neither he nor I ought to be chosen. For then the journal would become an aristocratic or a philosophical journal, a superior journal, where those of rank reign supreme, it must also be a voice for the common man.’

--------------------

They disagreed as to whether it should be called the Morning Croak, or the Evening Croak or just Croak. The last-mentioned was decided on.

They now needed proficient – or considered proficient – staff.

The bee, the ant and the mole promised to write about industrial and engineering matters, subjects about which they had great insight.

The cuckoo was the nature poet, not counted among the songbirds, though of great importance for the common man. ‘He is always vaunting himself, he is the vainest bird of all, though nothing much to look at,’ the peacock said.

Then the blowflies came to the editor in the forest. ‘We offer our service. We know human editors, human criticism, one lands on a piece of fresh meat and blow on it, it is rotten within twenty-four hours, we could destroy anyone’s talent completely if necessary in the service of the editors. As a party one can be so highly placed a journal that one can dare ride rough-shod and should one lose a subscriber gain ten instead. Be coarse, give nicknames, make a laughing stock, whistle with one’s fingers, like the League of Youth, then you become a force to be reckoned with within the state.’

‘What an aerial vagabond!’ the frog said about the stork; ‘when I was little, I really looked up to him and felt a quivering reverence, and when he walked around in the marshes and talked about Egypt, he broadened my horizon to strange, marvellous lands, but now he doesn’t elevate me any more, there is only an echo left, I have become wiser, thoughtful, important, I supply critical articles to Croak. I am what is referred to in The Correct Spelling and Pronuncuation of the Danish Language as a Croaker! There are also such people in the human world. I have written a piece about it in the bottom section of our journal.’

Olaf Bull: 'Stenen'

Stenen

Jeg var i den yderste evighed, 

bagom de synlige fjerners brand – 

da var det, at nogen imod mig skred 

frem paa en ukjendt stjernes rand. 

Nogen, som bøiet sig frem og lo 

bag slør, som hyllet dens hoved til, 

og holdt en sten i sin ene klo 

og hviskede kold og mild:

“Jeg slipper en sten i himmelrunden, 

den golde sten, jeg her dig tér; 

i næste sekund er den forsvunden; 

den aflader aldrig at falde mer.

Begriber du, usle, hvad jeg gjør? 

Jeg drypper en faldende sten i dit sind; 

jeg saar i dit væsen en uro ind, 

en uro, som aldrig dør.

Hvorhelst du forbrænder i lysets haller, 

i elskov hos kvinder, blandt vaarhvide buske – 

Stenen, som samtidig falder, falder 

i ødets mulm, skal du huske” – – – 

– – – – – – –

                      * * *

Og billedet brast, og jeg sænkedes ned, 

ned paa min seng – jeg vaagnet i sved; 

i bølger af iskold stjernedugg 

hamret mit hjerte, hug i hug –

                      * * *

Men drømmen forblev i mit hjertes nat; 

fra ungdom til moden alder 

søgte mit sind forgjæves at gribe 

den sten, som bestandig falder – 

– – – – – – – –

The stone

I was in the furthest eternity, 

past visible distances’ fire by far – 

when someone I saw was approaching me

on the rim of an unknown star.

Leaning towards me, he laughed behind gauze

that made his head awkward to see,

and held a stone in one of his claws 

and cold and mild whispered to me:

‘I release a stone into vaults of space,

the barren stone I hold out to you;

a split second later it’s gone apace

and will never cease falling anew.

Do you realise, wretch, what this signifies?

I drip into your mind a falling stone;

I sow an unrest that your heart can’t disown,

an unrest that never dies.

Where’er you’re on fire in light’s bright halls,

in love-acts with women, midst bushes in bloom –

You’ll recall the stone, which all the while falls

and falls into fate’s dark gloom’ – – – 

– – – – – – –

                      * * *

And the image shattered, and onto my bed

I was lowered, lowered – I woke in a sweat;

in surges of freezing-cold stellar dew

my heart pounded and pounded anew –

                      * * *

But the dream remained in my own heart’s night; 

my mind sought in vain without stalling

from youth to late manhood to gain a hold

of the stone that forever is falling –

– – – – – – – –

Olaf Bull: 'Avmagt'

Avmagt

Rend ikke panden mot dødens dør —

du vet det jo godt:

En verden af muld

er alle vore døde!

Vet, hendes legemes fri form

med stjerner og hav og sol fyldt,

er nu en tom

graa muld

skaffet med angst tilside!

Og over det hele

en raa høi

med kraftløse blomster,

gjennem hvis duft

en levende fryvil

slaar ut sine livstørste vinger.

Og du føler det klart,

naar du øiner det kryp

drikke af en sjælløs himmel,

straalende, tomt, med sine blikke:

Dette, det er livet — —

Og hun, din eneste ven,

hvis heftige øine speilet

dig, din kjærlighet ind,

dypt dernede i verden

er blindt forraadt stof —

Bare en del af den tro,

grønne og maalløse grund,

mot hvilken det lille insekt

vimrer sin livsrike dans,

og hvortil det stundom mødigt sig hviler.

— — — — —

Du skal ikke drønne mot dødens port.

Du vidste det før:

En verden af muld

er alle vore døde.

Reis dig fra grønsværet nu og staa.

Solen er omme, natten staar blaa

mot dødens bronsedører.

Graat dine taarer, sig dine ord —

ord for ord

er det kun du, som hører:

«Sov søtt

mulds søvn

i gravens nat,

hvor sol ikke stiger —

der, hvor dit omrids stund for stund

over i verdens mørke viger —

Lev den evige fred

som ikke kjender sig selv

og derfor er dypest fred.

Lev vel — o du — lev vel

i aftenens have!

Vi møtes i skovlen, som øses

         paa fremtidens grave.»


Helplessness

Don’t run your head against death’s door —

you know that full well:

A world of earth

are all our dead!

Know, the free form of her body

filled with stars and sea and sun

is now but an empty

grey earth

shovelled aside out of fear!

And over it all

a rough mound

with now sapless flowers,

through whose scent

a live butterfly

unfolds its life-thirsting wings!

And you feel it clearly

when glimpsing the earthbound 

insect drink from a soulless sky,

gleaming, empty, with its gazing:

This, this is life — —

And she, your only friend,

whose intense eyes mirrored

you, your love within,

deep down there in the world

is blind, betrayed matter —

Only a part of the faithful,

green and purposeless plot

towards which the small insect

quivers its vibrant dance

and at which it sometimes wearily rests.

— — — — —

You are not to crash against death’s door

You knew that already:

A world of earth

are all our dead.

Rise from the grassy earth now, stand up.

The sun is over, the night deep blue

against death’s doors of bronze.

Weep your tears, say your words —

word for word

you alone can hear them:

‘Sleep sweetly

earth's sleep

in the night of the grave

where the sun does not rise —

there, where your outline hour by hour

fades into world’s darkness —

Live the eternal peace

which does not know itself

and therefore is deepest peace.

Farewell — oh you — farewell

in evening’s garden!

We’ll meet in the shovel that’s strewn

         over graves of the future.’