Theobald Hock, early-baroque German poet: A poem about experience and knowledge

HCA: 'Kartoflerne'

The Potatoes

‘Sooner or later, whatever is good will be respected and revered!’ Grandma said. ‘Just bear in mind the potatoes – they could say a thing or two about that, provided they could speak, of course!’

They had certainly experienced not being appreciated. It didn’t even help when the minister preached from the pulpit that they were both useful and a source of delight – people simply didn’t believe it; even kings handed them out so they could be put down, but were they ever? Dear me, no! There was, to name but one, the great King of Prussia, who people called Old Fritz – now there was a man for you! – he took good care of the potatoes too, gave away a whole cartload to one of the towns in his kingdom and had everyone summoned to the town square to the sounding of the drum; the town council, no less, had to show people the new vegetable, and instructions were read out as to how it was to be planted, tended and prepared. But it all went in one ear and out the other – people didn’t understand what was being read out, and went straight ahead and took a bite of the raw potatoes. ‘Ugh, how terrible they taste!’ they said and threw them into the gutter, where they could see that not even the dogs would eat them. But there actually were some people who were willing to give it a try, and some of them stuck their potatoes into the ground, one here and one there, and waited for a tree to grow up so they could shake potatoes from it; others threw the whole lot into a big hole, where they all got tangled up into one great lump and went into leaf.

– The next year the king had to start all over again, but the idea only sank in very slowly. – ‘The same there as here!’ said Grandma. ‘People have failed to appreciate the best vegetable that’s ever come our way! But now the potatoes can stand on their own two feet! – Now they are appreciated. Whatever is good will be respected and revered, sooner or later!’

How often, when faced with much of what seems to have to suffer so badly in the world, have I not thought of the potatoes and Grandma’s words.

Schack Staffeldt: 'Indvielsen'

             

                INITIATION

I sat far out on the sound’s still shore,

     The heavens smiling;

And filled with longing I gazed down o’er

     The waves beguiling.

The sun slipped into the sea’s embrace,

The coast and sky found a blushing grace.

With sweet foreboding a harp I heard,

     The clouds now rending;

The muse descended, in sunlight girt,

     Her lyre extending.

Sealing my lips with kiss of fire

She plunged into her glittering pyre.

Then all around me the world was new:

     The winds spoke softly;

From pale clouds drifting before the moon

     Called spirits lofty;

In all creation a loving heart beat,

My own reflection from all did me greet.

Since then the earth each thought and desire

     Does now emprison;

Though longing is eased by dream, plucked lyre

     And premonition,

The kiss still consumes me, no peace will see birth

Until the heavens are brought to earth!

Schack von Staffeldt: 'Aftenrøden'

                       SUNSET GLOW

       Rose held in a vase of clearest glaze

Up from wat’ry sunlight-grave ascending

       Every time from nature’s mourning gaze

Her close friend to other worlds is wending!

       Moon’s pale visage, in lone blush for you,

Dares observe your crimson petal cluster;

       Heavens’ stars maintain their distant view,

Lovers, though with silent, hidden lustre.

       Beauteous heav’nly flower of light and air,

Of the purest ones a holy daughter!

       Evening garners all spring’s fragrance fair

In your crimson calyx as an altar.

       Night, alas, advances from the east,

Its domain so stealthily diffusing;

       Heav’nly rose! for eyes though still a feast,

You anon dull petals must be losing.

       Roses! your sweet sister’s life is told,

Weep in tribute dear your dew of mourning!

       Larks! rejoice when you again behold

Hope’s sweet rose on eastern peaks of morning!

First published in Nye Digte, Den academiske Boghandling, Kiel, 1808

Morten Søndergaard: Poem from 'Vinci, later'

SWAN MILL

Last night I got the answer to

       what goes on at Swan Mill.

There is a machine there to mechanically debone swans,

for swan meat tastes good.

       But according to a doctoral thesis

I apparently had written about the subject

there is not much meat on a swan.

Most of it is eustatic

I explained during my defence,

without wondering about that word.

The meat is chopped fine with the aid of oblique

rotating knives, the so-called cutters,

       and the intestines are emptied in long trails of sea grass.

Afterwards, the carcass is hoisted up by its webbed feet

       and driven off for incineration.

Then the surroundings changed.

The foreman began to explain

       about the new political situation,

the rules for offside and the recipe for mock turtle.

I was to read out a poem,

but had the feeling

       that the things that took place

were part of a socio-psychological experiment,

and that those responsible for the experiment

were themselves part of a socio-psychological experiment.

       It is reality on all channels.

To see the entire collection in translation, go to here.

August Strindberg: 'Göken' in English translation

Göken

När ängarne börja blomma,

Och björken lövas i lund,

Då sjunger göken i skogen

Båd arla- och särlastund.

När lien gått fram på ängen

Och blomstren ligga på bår,

Då tystnar göken i skogen,

Och tiger tills åter blir vår.

Men bönderna tro han är döder,

Och barnen tro han blir hök,

En kärng har hört honom skratta;

Han är för besatter den gök.

I marknan vid tyska torget,

Hos urmakar Schnabelbart

Där kan du få köpa gökar

Som gala båd timme och kvart.

De gala till jul och påska

De gala med urets lopp,

Om blott de smörjas i munnen

Och verket dras riktigt opp.

The cuckoo

When the flowers appear in the meadows,

And the birch trees leaf in the bower,

The cuckoo will sing in the forest

At both morning and evening hour.

When the scythes have swept through the meadow

And the flowers all lie on their bier,

The cuckoo is mute in the forest

And stays silent till spring is near.

But the farmers believe he’s dead now

And kids he’ll turn into a hawk,

An old crone has heard him just laughing;

His call is then more like a squawk.

At the German square’s weekly market,

At clockmaker Schnabelbart’s stall

Are cuckoos for sale that will call out

Four times every hour, one and all.

They call out at Christmas and Easter

They call as the clocks tick away,

If their throats are greased as they should be

And the clocks wound up once a day.

Emma Crebolder: 'Mijn kleine tijd'

MY LITTLE TIME

He prowls around in every tongue

my fox, as renard or mbweha,

he was foha, he was puccha–.

His name became story and

his story name. In Japan he

rose to Fox God, Inari.

To the highest, to

the lowest. I follow him

hounded on by fear

and pleasure. Name

and feel him my little time,

my plunder, my bounty.

To see the original poem, go to here.

HCA: 'I Danmark er jeg født' (all four verses)

I Danmark er jeg født, der har jeg hjemme,

der har jeg rod, derfra min verden går.

Du danske sprog, du er min moders stemme,

så sødt velsignet du mit hjerte når.

Du danske friske strand,

hvor oldtids kæmpegrave

står mellem æblegård og humlehave,

dig elsker jeg! - Danmark, mit fædreland!

Hvor reder sommeren vel blomstersengen

mer rigt end her, ned til den åbne strand?

Hvor står fuldmånen over kløverengen

så dejlig, som i bøgens fædreland?

Du danske friske strand,

hvor Dannebrogen vajer, -

Gud gav os den - Gud giv den bedste sejer! -

Dig elsker jeg! - Danmark, mit fædreland!

Engang du herre var i hele Norden,

bød over England, - nu du kaldes svag,

et lille land, og dog så vidt om jorden

end høres danskens sang og mejselslag.

Du danske, friske strand,

plovjernet guldhorn finder,

Gud giv dig fremtid, som han gav dig minder!

Dig elsker jeg! - Danmark, mit fædreland!

Du land, hvor jeg blev født, hvor jeg har hjemme,

hvor jeg har rod, hvorfra min verden går,

hvor sproget er min moders bløde stemme,

og som en sød musik mit hjerte når!

Du danske friske strand

med vilde svaners rede,

I grønne øer, mit hjertes hjem hernede,

dig elsker jeg! - Danmark, mit fædreland!

In Denmark I was born, my home’s no other,

here lie my roots, my world spreads out from here.

You Danish tongue, your voice is of a mother,

and you’re my heart so wonderfully near.

You bracing Danish strand,

where ancient barrows slumber

midst hops and apple orchards without number,

you are my love! – Denmark, my native land!

Where else does summer strew as rich a cover

of meadow-flowers, down to the open strand?

Where is the full moon over fields of clover 

as bright as in the beech’s native land?

You bracing Danish strand,

where Dannebrog flies surely, –

God’s gift to us, – God give us might and glory! –

You are my love! – Denmark, my native land!

You once held sway o’er all the Nordic region,

ruled over England, – now you are deemed weak,

though small, your songs and chisel-blows are legion

and still throughout the world are heard to speak.

You bracing Danish strand,

the plough unearths your gold horn,

God grant you future life, your past now full-born!

You are my love! – Denmark, my native land!

You land where I was born, my home – no other,

where my roots lie: my world spreads out from here.

Your language is the soft voice of a mother

that to my heart is music sweet and dear.

You bracing Danish strand,

where wild swans do their nesting,

you verdant isles, the home where my heart’s resting,

you are my love! – Denmark, my native land!

Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson: 'Haren og ræven'

Haren og ræven

Og ræven lå under birkerod

bortved lynget.

Og haren hopped på lette fod

over lynget.

Det er vel noget til solskinsdag!

det glitrer for, og det glitrer bag

over lynget.

Og ræven lo under birkerod

bortved lynget.

Og haren hopped i vilde mod

over lynget.

Jeg er så glad over alle ting!

hu – hej, gør du slige svære spring

over lynget?

Og ræven vented bag birkerod

bortved lynget.

Og haren tumled ham midt imod

over lynget.

Men Gud forbarme sig, er du der! – –

– Å, kære, hvor tør du danse her

over lynget?

The hare and the fox

The fox he lay ’neath the birch-tree root

by the heather.

The hare she scuttled with agile foot

o’er the heather.

The day’s plain sunshine I do declare!

it’s shining here there and everywhere

o’er the heather.

The fox he grinned ’neath the birch-tree root

by the heather.

The hare she scuttled and off did shoot

o’er the heather.

I’m so delighted at everything

shoo-hay, can you match such leaps and springs

o’er the heather?

The fox lay still at the birch-tree root

by the heather.

The hare she tumbled right to his foot

o’er the heather.

But goodness gracious, can that be you! – –

– My dear, and dare you be dancing too

o’er the heather?

August Strindberg: 'Taga rävar.'

      Taking foxes

The taking of foxes is quite an art

though hardly a gentle pursuit. 

Hunting with hounds across fields isn’t smart

for a poor man to try for the brute,

since that calls for a lot of expensive gear

apart from the fact the fox has the habit

of not crossing fields in the open, hides near

to thick bushes to ambush a rabbit.

Instead, one takes carrion – some dead bod

that’s lain for a while and stinks highly –

sufficiency rotten to tempt a tod,

who, though he is cunning and wily,

finds quite irresistible such a strong taste.

The carrion though with strychnine’s been laced,

a poison that pharmacists sell in the main,

one that medicines often contain.