My turn - and a happy new year to you!

There are over 200 foxhunts in Britain, each hunting 2 to 4 times a week. The main season is from November until late March, although some carry on until the start of May. The hunt itself will gather in late morning, although an 'earth stopper' will have been out at dawn to block up any known fox earths, drains and badger setts, so that foxes returning from a night's foraging will be exposed above ground. The huntsman will lead the hounds to a wood or covert where there is a known earth. The hounds are sent into the wood to flush out any foxes. As all underground escape routes are blocked, the fox is forced to run to escape the hounds. Riders positioned around the wood will 'holloa' to let the huntsman know the direction the fox has run.

If the fox manages to find refuge in an un-blocked earth, the hunt employ terriermen who will put their terriers down the earth to force the fox into the open to be re-hunted, or attack the fox underground while the men dig down through the soil. Once they have dug out the fox, the terriermen are supposed to shoot it, but many will simply give it a blow with a spade. It is not unheard of for the fox to be thrown alive to the waiting hounds.

run to earth

the fox of desire

shall be flushed out with famine

but what of its mate

Hedvig Charlotta Nordenflycht (1718-1763) - Sweden's first major female poet

Concerning a hyacinth

To – – –

You wondrous plant whose match in colour,

In sheen, allure I nowhere see,

In Flora’s realm I find no other

Whose beauty so enraptures me:

Your petals Nature is suffusing,

In art, in splendour sets alight;

A subtle balsam-scent diffusing,

You bring me pleasure and delight.

My tender care shall never fail you,

You get to breathe a milder air,

No sudden squall shall e’er assail you,

No heat and cold shall you impair.

A gentle breeze shall worries banish,

And infiltrate your every pore,

And when from warmth you greatly languish

A cooling tide shall you restore.

But when at last, all blooms displaying,

You grace my hut in full allure,

The cruel law of change obeying,

You fade and die and are no more.

You soon forget my pleasant duty,

And tire of all my watchful guard,

Conceal in meagre dust your beauty,

Are you ungrateful, then, and hard?

But shall I censure this poor flower,

Accuse a being frail as she,

Whose lot’s to alter by the hour,

She has to be what she must be.

She is as grass, she has to perish,

I bear no grudge because of this.

And cold grows too a heart I cherish

It has to be the way it is.


To see the original poem go to here

A poem from Klaus Høeck's latest collection 'Palimpsest'

ODE ON LISTENING TO MUSIC

what appeals to me

so much about haydn’s mus

ic is you get what

you hear – man bekommt

was man hört – the same applies

to poetry i

sincerely hope – you

get what you read for if the

words meant something else

than precisely what

is there on the page why not

write that something else?

Poems about writing poems - one by Victor Vroomkoning

Hens

The trickiest thing is keeping

them in the run. Agreed,

put them together between margins

of gauze and hope that this

will do. On their perch

as far as I’m concerned almost

interchangeable. The cock I’m sure of.

But before you can be sure they

are secure, the fox is on the prowl,

they lose their heads, fly up

in all directions. Words

in a poem that lies open.

One more from Klaus Høeck

der er intet så koldt og

beregnende som at skrive et digt

kærligheden sorgen og de

dybeste følelser alle må

de gennem sprogets vride

maskine grammatikkens kalkule

alle ordene alle må de

ned på papirets liglagen

there is nothing as cold and

calculating as writing a poem

love mourning and the

deepest emotions all of them

must pass through the wringer

of language the calculus of grammar

all the words all of them must be

committed to paper’s shroud

From 'The shores' - part of Klaus Høeck's collection 'Fairytale'

(...)

“some day you will miss me”

        my mother

        had said

and it was true she was right

        about that – but

        what she hadn’t

realised was that i had

        always missed her

even while she was alive and we

almost saw each other every week

what she hadn’t realised was

        that the greatest

        longing was the longing

for what we already possessed

        that all longings

        really

sprang from this one longing

        which was

        only slaked

in the moment of acquisition when

longing and longing became one

and that was life’s hardest task:

        that what you have

        and are had to be

reconquered over and over each day

        and life’s greatest

        paradox: that

what you were to conquer could only

        be given to you

        in the great moment

of acquisition when you had

precisely lost it again

and all other longings were only

        lengthenings of

        this one

longing – journeys out of the mind

        towards the distant goals

        on the horizon of

the fairytale where the clouds’ castles

        hung so red

        with gold in the

evening sun – so you could return home

again to what you were and are

and that was life’s greatest fairytale

        to journey

        to the world’s end

to gain the simple insight

        that what you

        searched for you

had already found that who you

        wanted to be

        you already were

that all the time you were yourself

who else should you otherwise have been? (...)

For the whole collection in translation, go to here

This blog is taking time out

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qn67gkLr1Rw

A winter poem in Afrikaans - by Eugène Marais (1871-1936)

The translation of this poem has been revised.
To see the revised version, go to here

Another way of looking at Kunst der Fuge - from 'Heptameron' by Klaus Høeck

OS_PG_PF_PF_PG-X

 Kunst der Fuge

This poem refers to the poem 

on the opposite page, where it 

says ‘Kunst der Fuge’ as a 

tribute to Johann Sebastian Bach 

a literal gesture. Tell me now 

if this poem has been written before 

or after the poem to which it refers. 

It cannot have been written before, 

since there is then no poem 

to which it refers. And it can 

not have been written after, since the 

poem to which it refers cannot for 

similar reasons have been written 

before this poem. What then?

In this case the answer is simple 
enough. This poem is identical with 
the poem to which it refers on the 
opposite page. They have been written simultaneously.

OS_PG_PF_PF_PG-Y

Kunst der Fuge

This poem refers to the poem 

on the opposite page, where it 

says ‘Kunst der Fuge’ as a 

tribute to Johann Sebastian Bach 

a literal gesture. Tell me now 

if this poem has been written before 

or after the poem to which it refers. 

It cannot have been written before, 

since there is then no poem 

to which it refers. And it can 

not have been written after, since the 

poem to which it refers cannot for 

similar reasons have been written 

before this poem. What then?

In this case the answer is simple 

enough. This poem is identical with 

the poem to which it refers on the 

opposite page. They have been written simultaneously.

Another poem by Hester Knibbe in translation

 BEESLEY LTD

In love all is possible. You

grimly drape a tree with roses

and say: it was on this spot and

everyone who passes by shall

know that. Or someone decides: this dead

weight can be borne no longer, I’ll place it

like a stone at the foot of the rock, but

does not walk and breathe the lighter

afterwards. The asphalt that bridges

the river points upwards, on the radio

voices sing ah and oh and on the lorry

in front of me it shamelessly states in the dirt

of days: Now that you’re no longer there

you’re closer than ever. Exactly that. Who

dared with one finger in dust to clear

the way for what’s most steadfast? Soon

the bridge will tilt, the line obediently

will start once more to move, I will pass

by the sewage sludge of Beesley Ltd and

a declaration of love written in mud.

Two stanzas from the voyage of the spaceship 'Aniara' - the title of a long poem by the Swedish poet Harry Martinson

(...)

Jag skall berätta vad jag hört om glas

och då skall ni förstå. I varje glas

som står tillräckligt länge oberört

förflyttas glasets blåsa efterhand

oändligt sakta mot en annan punkt

i glasets kropp och efter tusen år

har blåsan gjort en resa i sitt glas.

På samma sätt i en oändlig rymd

där svalg av ljusårs djup sin välvning slår

kring blåsan Aniara där hon går.

Ty fastän farten som hon gör är stor

och mycket högre än en snabb planets

är hennes hastighet med rymdmått sedd

på pricken svarande mot den vi vet

att blåsan gör i denna skål av glas. (...)

(...)

I’ll tell you what I’ve heard concerning glass

and then you’ll understand. In any glass

that has remained untouched for long enough

the bubble in the glass will by degrees

move infinitely slowly to a point

elsewhere within the glass and will complete

this journey first after a thousand years.

It’s likewise in a space that’s infinite

where light-years’ deep abyss throws up its vault

round Aniara’s bubble as she moves.

For though the speed she travels at is great

far swifter than a rapid planet’s course

in terms of space velocities it would

exactly correspond to that we know

the bubble moves at in this bowl of glass. (...)

A poem by the Swedish poet Lars Gustafsson

Fernissa på en åra

Västvinden går.

Västvinden, nyfiken,

in genom öppna fönstret

och bläddrar i uppslagen bok.

Som alltså läser sig själv.

Fernissan på åran

torkar snabbare nu

och minst en fluga

blir alltid kvar

i den hårdnande, klara massan.

Liksom en fråga

utifrån den kristallklara tomma och

nattliga rymden.

Och boken läser sig själv

inte utan eftertanke.

Varnish on an oar

The west wind blows.

The west wind, curious,

in through the open window

and leaves through an opened book.

Which thus reads itself.

The varnish on the oar

dries more quickly now

and at least one fly

is always left there

in the hardening, clear substance.

Like a question from outside,

from crystal-clear, empty and

nocturnal space.

And the book reads itself

not without reflection.

Four poems from Klaus Høeck's Heptameron

OSPGPSPSPA-X

First Sunday in Advent.

        It is

        not the

events that are called

        miracles that

        are so hard

to grasp. More that

        i have to

        create them

myself each time by

        transforming the

        events into

miracles by virtue of my belief.

OGPAPFPAPA-X

Second Sunday in Advent.

        It is smoking

        from winter’s

crystal. My words freeze

        solid to

        the paper

like the tongue to iron, like

        the soul to

        its body.

Can the heat from two paraffin

        wax candles

        separate them again.

Or the heart’s secret fire?

OSPAPSPSPG-X

Fourth Sunday in Advent.

        The clouds look

        like boiling

lead; tracks dark with snow.

        But then the

        light of creation

is also black deep down

        within because

        this act

calls for so much light that

        everything else

        darkens slightly,

when a human child is born.

OGPAPGPGPG-X

Christ’s birthday. I do not

        go to church.

        Consider

instead a reproduction of

        Meister

        Francke’s

‘Christmas Night’. I don’t know

        much about births;

        only about the

spiritual (they hurt). But the

        sky is as

        red as the

glossy paper from my own childhood.

For all of Heptameron (383 pages!) go to this website

A poem by the Dutch poet Rutger Kopland

Die Kunst der Fuge

I

So do thoughts roam, in their roaming repeating

like mountain-meadow streams, always somehow different,

always somehow the same, all of them longing

for something, a somewhere, elsewhere a memory

searching towards. And their longing is only

the force of water, their memory only

banks of rivers, somewhere, elsewhere they are the sea.

II

The space of a wood of tall beeches in winter,

from whose tops there is falling, again and again,

repeating this movement from this once to later,

as long as that falling continues, leaf after leaf after

Their memory is only this space, and only

this falling their longing, this merging amongst

all the others, this unretrievably being all over.

III

The swarms of birds above the valley, the fleeting

moments of belonging together and falling apart.

all that repeating, where there is searching for that

one movement where memory and longing

disappear into each other, the finding of those moments,

and the losing. What binds them and drives them apart

are the cold, wind, grey roofs in the depths.

IV

And high in the rare winter air footprints in the snow,

a man and a woman who came this way, here

- prints were the only thing left of them, a pair of tracks

thin, twining tracks on the roam, memory

and longing, both of them, but of what and to where -

here where we are, only us, and the snow,

snow where no print has been set.

V

There is roaming, merging, falling apart, disappearing

and all this repeated, as if time and again there is something

that has to be sought, found, lost, sought,

as if time and again something must, must be something

before disappearing and after.

From 'Heron Heights' by the Norwegian poet Thor Sørheim

DA DET STORE TREET FALT

Da det store treet falt

slo lufta mellom greinene knallhardt

til begge sider, bladene gikk i spinn

og lauvsangerne svirret i tomrommet

uten feste. I fallet virket treet

mer skremmende enn selve

stormen, vi ante ikke hvilke krefter

vi hadde i vår egen hage før tørkestativet

av jern knelte som et kornaks

under stammen. Lamslåtte så vi

horisonten rase inn i synsfeltet

som en skogkledd planet vi aldri

tidligere hadde observert så nær huset,

og kollisjonen hadde vært uunngåelig

om det ikke hadde vært for lyskilen

som lynkjapt smatt imellom.

WHEN THE BIG TREE FELL

When the big tree fell

the air thwacked out between the branches

to both sides, the leaves went into a spin

and the willow warblers whirred in the empty space

without a hold. In falling the tree seemed

more frightening than the actual

gale, we had no idea what forces

we had in our own garden before the iron

clothes dryer bent at the knee like an ear of corn

under the trunk. Thunderstruck we saw

the horizon tearing into vision

like a wooded planet we had never

previously observed so close to the house,

and the collision would have been inevitable

had it not been for the wedge of light

that slipped through quick as lightning.

An advent poem by Jean-Pierre Rawie

Advent

In deze laatste week van de advent

zou het moeten gaan sneeuwen: ieder jaar

zijn het dezelfde dingen waar je naar

verlangt. Dus sneeuwt het niet; maar alles went.

Je steekt de kaarsen aan op het dressoir,

en denkt aan alle doden die je kent.

Terwijl je wacht op een gemist moment

schuiven de dagen naadloos in elkaar.

Je poogt je tegen beter weten in

iets te herinneren wat er niet was,

omdat wat weg is diepte heeft en zin.

Je draait muziek, drinkt thee, je leest en boek

dat je ook lang geleden al eens las.

Maar alles is onachterhaalbaar zoek.

Advent

In what is now the final advent week

it ought soon to be snowing: every year

the same old things are what you’d like appear

the most. No snow then - old hat, so to speak.

You light the sideboard candles once again,

and think of all you know who’re now deceased.

You’re waiting for some moment that’s been missed

while each day slots into a seamless chain.

Against your better judgment you would chance

to call to mind again what was not there,

since what is gone has depth, significance.

You put on music, drink tea, read a book

that you’ve already read long since, somewhere.

But it’s all gone for good, slipped off the hook.

Another Hester Knibbe translation

Light years

It’s a marvellous world, you said,

with those trees, marshes, deserts,

grasses, rivers and oceans and

so forth. And the moon’s all right too

with its more or less

soft-gleaming sheen and motion. Include

besides the wingèd M, voluptuous

Venus, hot-headed Mars, dead-lucky

J and that sour-puss Saturn of course plus

U and N and far-roamer P, in short the whole

solar family complete with its

milky way and then add on all those other

systems with specks and spots and in

that infinite void it’s a commotion of

well you know. It’s a magnificent

universe, you said, just take a good look

through the ready-made glasses of the dark

at a desert for instance or on your back

in oceans of grass, just take a good look

at that rorschach violence, that’s where we’re

standing somewhere, together.

Jellema again - in Dutch, Danish and English

DRIJFJACHT

Plat op de rug zijn lange lepeloren,

gedoken in de vore lag de haas,

en ik, terwijl ik naderbij kwam, deed,

mijn taak van drijver dus verzakend, of

hij niet gezien werd, niet zijn ogen puilend

van angst, blikloos alsof niet mij hij waarnam,

niet achter mij de wijde vrijheid, maar

een niets in zich, een gat waar hij voor lag,

te diep, te breed om nog te durven springen.

Toen, met een stap van mij aan hem voorbij,

in een seconde was hij weg - me wendend

(verwensing uit de slootwal, doch geen schot)

zag ik hem rennend naar de horizon,

al haast een stip op wit bevroren klei.

Hoe zal zijn einde zijn geweest? In wijn

gestoofd, onder een auto of gewoon

van ouderdom tussen de koude voren -

wanneer in 't voorjaar op het veld voor huis

de hazen buitelen, denk ik aan hem:

hoe angst een plotselinge kracht kan zijn

die je bevrijdt tot in je kloppend hart.

Misschien zal, als het gat dat groeit in mij

te diep, te breed wordt om te kunnen springen,

bij god, een haas mijn voorspraak zijn (want ook

een dier dat angst kent heeft een ziel die wordt

verlost), al was het maar doordat die morgen

mij heugt, die ene stap, en dat instinct

waarmee bestaan zich redt op eigen kracht.

KLAPJAGT

De lange skeører fladt ned langs ryggen,

sammenkrøben i furen lå haren,

og jeg, imens jeg trådte nærmere,

svigtende min klapperpligt, lod

som om den ikke var set, ikke dens angst-

sprængte øjne, tomme som om ikke jeg,

ikke den store frihed bag mig fandtes, men

et intet, et hul der lå foran den,

for dybt, for bredt til at vove springet.

Så, med et skridt fra mig forbi den,

på et sekund var den borte – da jeg vendte mig om

(til eder fra diget, men intet skud)

så jeg den pilende mod horisonten,

en lillebitte prik nu mod rimfrosset ler.

Hvordan blev mon dens endeligt? Grydestegt

i vin, under en bil eller helt almindeligt

af alderdom mellem de kolde furer –

Hver gang harerne om foråret slår kolbøtter

foran mit hus, tænker jeg på den:

at angst kan være en pludselig kraft

der frigør dig indtil dit bankende hjerte.

Kan det tænkes, hvis det hul der gror i mig

bliver alt for dybt, for bredt for at kunne overspringes,

en hare foran gud vil tale min sag (for selv

et dyr der kender angst har også en sjæl der

kan frelses), og var det kun fordi jeg husker

denne morgen, dette skridt, og det instinkt

med hvilket livet redder sig af egen kraft.

BATTUE

Long spoonlike ears against his back full-flattened,

huddled deep in the furrow lay the hare,

and I, as I drew nearer, pretended,

forsaking my task as a beater, not

to have caught sight of him, not his eyes bulging

with fear, void as if not perceiving me,

not behind me unbounded freedom, but

an inner nothing, a hole at his feet,

too deep, too wide to dare to think of leaping.

Then, as I made the step that took me past him

in a split second he was gone – and turning

(to cursings from the ditchside, though no shot)

I saw him make his dash for the horizon,

a mere dot now on white hard-frozen clay.

How did he meet his end I wonder. Braised

in wine, run over by a car perhaps

or simply from old age among cold furrows –

when in spring in the field outside the house

the hares romp and tumble, I think of him:

how fear can sometimes be a sudden force

that sets you free down to your pounding heart.

It could be, if the hole that grows in me

becomes too deep, too wide for any leaping,

a hare will plead my case with god (for

an animal that knows fear has a soul, too,

that is saved), if only since I remember

that morning, that one step and that instinct

with which life saves itself by its own force.

Johannes V. Jensen - time for this poem!

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.

The lovely fir tree green

betokens summer’s screen

of woods imposing.

        In Christmas candlelight

        like star-hosts bright,

        yes, star-hosts bright,

        sun’s wonder is in sight

and all the yellow flower-suns that now are dozing.

The fir-tree’s charry scent

gives air to summers spent

and each newcomer.

        Cool Danish years all swing,

        dance in a ring,

        yes, in a ring

        round an eternal spring.

Let all souls also sing of Denmark’s lovely summer!

Jellema in Dutch, English and Danish - Zeegezicht

ZEEGEZICHT

Op de palm van jouw hand, in dat landschap

van gevormde levenslijnen, niet groter

dan een flinke waterdruppel

– terwijl zonsondergang de hele

hemel boven de eindstreep van het eiland

ginds in Turner-kleuren zet –

die babykrab, voorzichtig

van tussen de basaltblokken geraapt,

zijn onderkomen waar hij wachtte op de vloed.

Nog kleiner dan de nagel van jouw pink,

zijn grijsblauw pantsertje nog niet verkalkt,

krabbelt hij zijwaarts over plooi en heuvel,

een onbekende wereld, verontrust

dat bodem warmte geeft.

Dan, op de rand van dat heelal,

laat hij zich zonder aarzeling terugvallen in

de veiligheid van spleten, zeezand, steen,

met achterlating van een beeld, van

haast een naam.

Nu is het of wij, samen onder aan de dijk,

worden gezien, terwijl het water stijgt

en in doorschijning spiegelt hoe de hemel kleurt.

Heeft iemand iets gezegd? Nee, niemand sprak.

SEA VISTA

In the palm of your hand, in that landscape

of shaped life-lines, no larger

than a good-sized drop of water –

while sunset colours all the

sky above the island finish line

out there in Turner shades –

that baby crab, carefully eased

from between the blocks of basalt,

its shelter where it waited for the tide.

Still smaller than your little finger’s nail,

its grey-blue armour not yet calcified,

it scrambles sideways over folds and hillocks,

an unfamiliar world, alarmed

at ground that gives off warmth.

Then, on the rim of that universe and with no

hesitation it lets itself fall back into

the safe terrain of fissures, sea sand, stones,

leaving behind an image,

almost a name.

It seems as if, down by the dike together,

we now are seen, while evening waters rise

and, in translucence, mirror the suffusing sky.

Did someone say something. No, nobody spoke.

HAVUDSIGT

I din håndflade, i dette landskab

af formede livslinier, ikke større

end en pæn dråbe vand

– mens solnedgangen farvesætter

hele himlen over øens målstreg

derovre med Turner-nuancer –

denne babykrabbe, forsigtigt

samlet op mellem basaltblokkene,

dens husly hvor den ventede på tidevandet.

Endnu mindre end din lillefingernegl,

dens gråblå lille rygskjold endnu ikke blevet til kalk,

kravler den sidelæns over fold og bakke,

en ukendt verden, ængstelig

ved et underlag der afgiver varme.

Så, på kanten af dette univers, lader den

sig uden tøven falde tilbage i

trygheden af sprækker, havsand, sten,

og efterlader kun et billede,

næppe et navn.

Nu er det som om vi, sammen nede ved diget,

bliver set, mens vandet stiger

og spejler gennemsigtigt himlens farveskift.

Sagde nogen noget? Nej, ingen talte.