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

WOMAN WITH WILD FLOWERS

(1907)

it’s easy enough –

i give my love a bouquet

of roses with this

poem stuck onto

the cellophane as a flo

ragram – now comes the

hard bit how is this

possible before the po

em has been finished

(which is not until

now) when i’ve already giv

en her the roses?

January 26, from Klaus Høeck's '1001 POEMS'

        what had become of

‘the good old days’ when the grand

        father clock had a

        more resonant chime

throughout my childhood and snow

        storms could be relied

        on with clockwork pre

cision not like nowadays

        only in fairy

        tales of ‘the good old

days’ when all the fairytales

        actually took place

        it was not all that

        simple with all that

freedom or rather with that

        sliver of freedom

        humans despite e

verything possess and i am

often tempted to lose my

        self in calculat

        ing totals and to

talities to lose my way

        in ramanujan’s

        splendid formulas

        tombeau de robert

jacobsen has now taken

        ‘the old days’ with him

        behind the rust and

red lead there where the secret

        hexagram has been

        welded into the

inside of the iron leaving

        us still alive on

        ly the chance of read

ing his last signature mir

        rored on the steel pane

        memory is quite

spiritless since all that is

        spirit relates to

        itself (otherwise

only to god) while he who

        remembers has pre

        cisely to relate

to a timespan outside the

        moment (point in time)

        which is thereby at

a point outside him because

        all time is present

        the first word ought to

have stood in the last poem

        that much i could re

        member though not quite

        where - whether it was

to take place on the far side

of the fairytale or in

        the depths of winter’s

        box of varnish and

        chinese ink i could

no longer recall and the

        rest i’d forgotten

Danes are good 'September' poets - here's one by Thorkild Bjørnvig

September

Gold ground behind the branches,

Evening stillness,

as if I were alone

with the blackbird’s screech.

But everything is present,

The lizard peeks

vigilantly

from a gap in the dike.

From the water

the pure bell-motion

of the jellyfish rises

through my mind

The small tortoiseshell

shuts itself black

on the rafter, to

quietly winter.

A new-fallen apple

swells in my hand

smoothing out the

lifeline for a while.

Oh, cool savour,

everything is present,

and streams timelessly

through my mouth.

This seldom

hour of composure,

that comes unsought

is the gift of patience.

Look, the air has been lifted

by the sunset

and is hovering high

and golden above the garden.

The four winds

are at last brought together –

where distant trees

spread their crowns,

where the sun sinks,

they find repose

like big birds

in high nests.

From 'Logos' by the Dutch poet Rozalie Hirs

LOVE SONG

Now the middle of the night

dubs me a knight in

a dozen hours become 0

and the sentry gets the word,

I shoot at golden speed

through the wooden bead

in the rose – a mirror-box that lies

in a crimson disguise,

with sword and grail too,

my prince consort, for you,

bearing alive our fire.

We drink from the hands

of the moon, her strands

a string of milk teeth –

the surface a pool gleaming

towards me: Language glides

into our mouths and resides

in the change of the heart,

the wounded senses: eye

for eye, tongue for tongue –

the lung of love. With no lead

the light plumbs death upon death.

A poem by the Danish Romantic poet Adam Oehlenschläger

Hvor blev I røde Roser dog

Hvor blev I røde Roser dog

Fra Ungdoms Dage glade?

I min Erindrings Psalmebog

Jeg giemmer Eders Blade.

Og skiøndt hvert Blad er guult og graat,

Som Farven af de Døde,

Den Sommerdag jeg mindes godt,

Da de var purpurrøde.

I deres fine Væv endnu

Jeg kiender hver en Aare.

Som for af Morgen duggen, nu

Den fugtes af min Taare.

Where are you now, you roses red

Where are you now, you roses red

From days of youth so blissful?

I keep your petals long since shed

In recollection’s missal.

And though each petal’s dull and grey,

Its shade like those departed,

I still recall the summer day

When crimson they all started.

In their silk weave I still can view

Each vein so finely fretted.

Once moistened by the morning dew,

Now by my tears it’s wetted.

The amazing Swede Lennart Hellsing

FISK

Det är ett jobb att fiska fisk

på sjön när vinden friskar.

Det är ett jobb att sälja fisk

vid fisketorgets diskar.

Det är ett jobb att välja fisk

bland alla dessa fiskar,

men ingen konst att svälja fisk

när den är kokt och benad

och med sin sås förenad!

FISH

It’s quite a job to fish for fish

at sea with fresh winds whishing.

It’s quite a job to sell such fish

on fish-slabs tails a-swishing.

It’s quite a job to pick a fish

when fish are for the wishing,

but simple stuff to down a fish

when dished up boned and whited

and with its sauce united!


It's proof of his genius that you can't translate this poem without tying yourself in knots!

A poem from 'Lyrisch van Rembrandt' by Jan Erik Harmens

BANG

on looking at The Militia Company of Captain Frans Banning Cocq and Lieutenant Willem van Ruytenburgh make ready to march out, better known as The Night Watch


I grasp my gun and I fill it with powder and I aim and I shoot
bang

this is me paint me
let me come out into the light name your fee
we’ll palm off or pretend something that
make you scurvy-scudding wet

what are you doing with your hand you’re waving
quit that
musketeers aren’t sailors

we’ve just been sort of plonked down
and dram here steers things with his brush
from neck right shoulders right flag right
as if everything on the canvas is at a slant
and from that drummer at three o’clock not a stroke’s expected

and all of us are that drummer
boom! boom! time for brandy wine
happiness is missing something and killing it
and therefore lingering and a cask of consolation

bang
shoot aim powder feel my gun and grasp

One more from the forthcoming collection by the Swedish poet Lars Gustafsson

 Time

The fountain stands at the end

of the old park’s

worn-out pathways, the parasol of water

is thing and event in the same appearance.

Andromeda rotates out there

in the darkness. Right now.

Right now will last for quite a while.

Right now one of the

innumerable intelligences

that dwells in Andromeda is musing

over a very old fountain.

Right now was a long while ago

Right now is nowhere at all.

Another poem by Hanny Michaelis

Vanavond hoorde ik

dat de maan niet rond

maar peervormig is

met tenminste twee

uitstulpingen, misschien

wel drie. Toen ik later

naar buiten keek

klom een ronde

witgloeiende schijf

boven de daken uit

en ik betrapte me

op dezelfde koppigheid

waarmee ik andere

gedeukte illusies

in ere houd.

This evening I heard

that the moon is not round

but shaped like a pear

with at least two

protruberances, maybe

three. When I looked

outside later

a round incandescent

disc was climbing

above the rooftops

and I found myself guilty

of the same stubbornness

with which I uphold

other dented

illusions.

I aftes hørte jeg

at månen ikke er rund

men pæreformet

med mindst to

udbulinger, måske

tre. Da jeg senere

kiggede udenfor

steg en rund

hvidtglødende skive

op over hustagene

og jeg greb mig selv

i den samme stædighed

med hvilken jeg

værner om andre

bulede illusioner.

A famous poem by the Dutch poet Hendrik Marsman

Memory of Holland

Thinking of Holland

I see wide rivers slowly

flowing through endless

low-lying land,

inconceivably

gossamer poplars

on the horizon

in wispish ranks;

and in the expanses of

space, sunken farmsteads

randomly strewn over

flat countryside,

tree-clusters, hamlets,

truncated steeples,

churches and elm trees

in a net flung wide.

The sky there hangs low

and the sun slowly stifles

in vapours where multiple

greys become blurred,

and in every far corner

the voice of the water

with its countless disasters

is feared and is heard.

A poem by the American poet Mark Strand translated into Danish

My Mother on an Evening in Late Summer

1

When the moon appears
and a few wind-stricken barns stand out
in the low-domed hills
and shine with a light
that is veiled and dust-filled
and that floats upon the fields,
my mother, with her hair in a bun,
her face in shadow, and the smoke
from her cigarette coiling close
to the faint yellow sheen of her dress,
stands near the house
and watches the seepage of late light
down through the sedges,
the last gray islands of cloud
taken from view, and the wind
ruffling the moon's ash-colored coat
on the black bay.


2

Soon the house, with its shades drawn closed, will send
small carpets of lampglow
into the haze and the bay
will begin its loud heaving
and the pines, frayed finials
climbing the hill, will seem to graze
the dim cinders of heaven.
And my mother will stare into the starlanes,
the endless tunnels of nothing,
and as she gazes,
under the hour's spell,
she will think how we yield each night
to the soundless storms of decay
that tear at the folding flesh,
and she will not know
why she is here
or what she is prisoner of
if not the conditions of love that brought her to this.


3

My mother will go indoors
and the fields, the bare stones
will drift in peace, small creatures --
the mouse and the swift -- will sleep
at opposite ends of the house.
Only the cricket will be up,
repeating its one shrill note
to the rotten boards of the porch,
to the rusted screens, to the air, to the rimless dark,
to the sea that keeps to itself.
Why should my mother awake?
The earth is not yet a garden
about to be turned. The stars
are not yet bells that ring
at night for the lost.
It is much too late.


Min mor en sen sommeraften

1

Når månen kommer til syne
og nogle få vindhærgede lader træder frem
i de lavhvælvede bakker
og skinner med et lys
som er sløret og støvfyldt
og som svæver over markerne,
står min mor, med håret i en knold,
og overskygget ansigt, og med røgen
fra cigaretten der snor sig tæt
op ad kjolens svagt gule skær,
i nærheden af huset
og ser på sivningen af det svindende lys
ned gennem tagrørene,
de sidste grå øer af skyer
der udviskes, og vinden
der kruser månens askefarvede dække
på den sorte bugt.


2

Snart vil huset, med skodderne lukkede, sende
små tæpper af lampeglød
ud i disen og bugten
vil begynde sin højlydte stigen og synken
og fyrretræerne, flossede kroner
der stiger op ad bakken, vil synes at græsse
himlens sidste gløder.
Og min mor vil stirre ind i stjernestierne,
de endeløse tunneler af intethed,
og imens hun stirrer
under timens fortryllelse
vil hun tænke på hvordan vi hver nat
overgiver os til forfaldets lydløse storme
som flår i det slappe kød,
og hun vil ikke vide
hvorfor hun er til
og hvad der holder hende fangen
hvis ikke kærlighedens vilkår som bragte hende hertil.


3

Min mor vil gå indenfor
og markerne, de nøgne stene
vil drive i fred, små væsner –
musen og mursejleren – vil sove
ved den modsatte gavl.
Kun fårekyllingen vil være oppe,
gentagende sin ene skingrende tone
til verandaens rådne brædder,
til de rustne skodder, til luften, til det randløse mørke,
til havet som holder sig for sig selv.
Hvorfor skulle min mor vågne?
Jorden er endnu ikke en have
der snart skal vendes. Stjernerne
er endnu ikke klokker der kimer
om natten for de bortgangne.
Det er alt for sent.

A boutade from the Dutch writer E. du Perron

P.P.C.

Goodbye, Clary. I wish you no good luck.

For such sounds stupid, even without fooling.

You’ve sold yourself a treat. So have no truck

with all the rest: for everyone likes mewling.

Your house was small. Your master’s lent it size.

The fount of his good fortune flows unending.

Your fame grows great, can last till his demise.

Your soul is small. With that there’s no contending.

Your body’s fine. You’ll make a lovely wife.

You’ll bear your master lovely sons and daughters.

Your heart’s shut tight; you’ll lead a faithful life.

You’ll stay high-minded, far from muddy waters.

Goodbye Clary. You’ll see me nevermore.

I’ll steer well clear, no dream of yours I’ll clutter.

You were my dream, until I truly saw.

You are yourself. And my disdain is utter.

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

P.P.C. = Pour Prendre Congé – taking leave

A poem by the Flemish writer Hugo Claus

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

Here the soil is most rank.

Even after all these years without dung

you would be able to raise a death leek here

to take on all markets.

The English veterans are getting scarce.

Every year they point to their yet scarcer friends:

Hill Sixty, Hill Sixty One, Poelkapelle.

In Flanders Fields the threshers

draw ever-decreasing circles round the twisting trenches

of hardened sandbags, the entrails of death.

The local butter

tastes of poppies.

Dutch poem - anonymous, 14th century

Ghequetst ben ic van binnen

Ghequetst ben ic van binnen,

Doorwont mijn hert so seer,

Van uwer ganscher minnen

Ghequetst so lanc so meer.

Waer ic mi wend, waer ik mi keer,

Ic en can gherusten dach noch nachte;

Waer ic mi wend, waer ic mi keer,

Ghi sijt alleen in mijn ghedachte.

My breast is sore afflicted

My breast is sore afflicted,

My heart tormented so,

By thy great love inflicted

The wound does ever grow.

Where’er I turn, where’er I go,

By night, by day no rest is given;

Where’er I turn, where’er I go,

With thoughts of thee my heart is riven.

Another poem by C.O. Jellema

BODY

Tomb of my recollections.

Comb of accumulated truth.

Urn in which I rest

Urn for what I'm left.

Ash – sample it.

Ash – a word.

As good as grass.

As grey as god.

My turn - in English and Danish

LE MORBIER

to protect leftovers of their comté

until the next day

the farmers of morbier

covered it with a layer of ashes

then placed more comté on top:

le morbier

in the heated pool

suddenly

day month and year

escaped me

were out of mind

for several minutes

since then

reality seems the same

but whenever

access to a word

is briefly but firmly denied

there is this taste
of ash

LE MORBIER

for at beskytte resten af deres comté

til den efterfølgende dag

dækkede morbiers bønder den

med et lag af aske

og placerede så mere comté ovenpå:

le morbier

i det opvarmede bassin

kunne jeg pludselig

ikke komme på

dag måned eller år

de var sporløst forsvundet

i adskillige minutter

siden da

ser virkeligheden ud som før

men hver gang

adgangen til et ord

nægtes kort men bestemt

er der denne smag

af aske

A poem by the Norwegian poet Thor Sørheim

KEEN-SENSED CHILD

I listened to the hymn-singing and the sexton

creaking in the chancel, I shot side-glances

at freethinker Frederik who always followed

the vicar obediently home to Sunday dinner,

I was a thoughtful child that during the sermon

could wonder if it was to be a move forward or

back to start in the game that was set out

on the living-room table, Christ came ever

closer during the ‘Crown Him, Crown Him’,

and when the grown-ups closed their eyes

on the rim of the chalice, I decided to

approach the future from the other side.

Translation of a poem by Erik Menkveld in 'Lyrisch van Rembrandt'

THE SECRET SONG OF THE NUN

For viola da gamba, harp and female voice

In the manner of ‘Più dogliosa mia vita’

Why do you hate me so, from love?

What purpose does it serve to ban my bones as relics?

My love, you I do not understand.

Oh, to you it is mere duty. No

noble longing, no gracious hope took

refuge behind my deeds. That you know.

A prelate fails in his obligations

if what seems holy he would canonise

without first making his inquiries –  that you did.

Oh greatest bliss, fully known. Because of you

I lie in unhallowed ground. You’ll never know

one moment, guys, what does it say here precisely?

Another Aarestrup sonnet

ER DU EN CHRISTEN? -
SPURGTE DU MIG NYLIG

Er Du en Christen? - spurgte du mig nylig -
Hvadeller en fortvivlet Hedning?
Snart til at troe det ene, snart det andet
Gav mine Ord dig, Glut, Anledning.

Jeg tilstaaer dig, at det er længe siden,
Jeg tænker paa en Sag saa vigtig,
Og det er vanskeligt for Øieblikket
At fatte distinktionen rigtig.

Dog eet: paa mine mange Synder troer jeg,
Og paa en Himmel - fast i Blinde!
Men jeg er sandselig, og kan min Lykke
Ei i Protestantismen finde.

Het Hellige maa mine Hænder røre,
Maa med det Jordiske sig blande,
Maa sig forvandle, under mine Bønner,
Til Guddomslegemet, det sande.


ARE YOU A CHRISTIAN? -
WAS YOUR RECENT QUERY

Are you a Christian? - was your recent query -
Or are you a despairing heathen?
My answers, lass, went one way then the other
And offered little rhyme or reason.

I must admit that many years have passed now
Since I considered such a weighty matter,
And it is somewhat difficult at present
To know the former from the latter.

Except: my many sins I can believe in,
As in a heaven - although blindly!
And, sensual, I find no joy in taking
The Protestant persuasion kindly.

That which is holy must needs touch my fingers,
Must with the earthly go in harness,
Must, in my prayers, become transsubstantiated
Into what is true God incarnate.

A typical sonnet by Emil Aarestrup (1800-1856)

TAG DETTE KYS, OG TUSIND TIL, DU SØDE

Tag dette Kys, og Tusind til, du Søde,

Lad Øiet tale frit, Amor indskrænker

Kun Stemmens plumpe Sprog; og i hans Lænker

Er Kys, Omfavnelser ei nogen Brøde.

Jo tiere sig vore Læber møde,

Jo meer beruust paa ingenting jeg tænker.

Min Prosa jeg til Cancelliet skjænker,

Og saa kan Riim og Vers elskværdigst gløde.

Vel føler jeg, for Elskovsild tilfulde

Er Formen, skal den være reen og plastisk,

Kun den, som dine Arme aabner, Hulde.

Men for min Tænksomhed et Net jeg fletter,

For mine Viisdomssuk, et ret elastisk,

Og dog et smukt og snævert, i Sonetter.

ACCEPT THIS KISS, A THOUSAND MORE, MY TREASURE

Accept this kiss, a thousand more, my treasure,

Let eyes be darts, for Cupid muddles letters

To tongue-tie lovers’ speech, while in his fetters

Are kisses and embraces guiltless pleasure.

The more our lips fulfil their fated mission,

The more my thoughts intoxicated hover.

My prose to state officials I hand over,

So rhyme and verse can find their sweet fruition.

It’s true I feel, for passion’s flame is really

Form pure and simple, if it would be plastic,

But that, my love, which your arms open freely.

But for my thoughtfulness a net I fashion -

One for my sighs of wisdom quite elastic -

The beauteous sonnet’s fine and tight-meshed scansion.

A poem from Henrik Nordbrandt's collection 'Sea Dragon' (2004)

DRAGONFLIES

I thought I was walking on water

because it was frozen.

Then I discovered the banks had been covered

with yellow flowers

and the weeping willow by the jetty

was about to come into leaf.

When the water closed over my head

I experienced what it felt like

seen from above, without me

by two dragonflies in a mating dance.

The poem 'Fuut' by Eva Gerlach in translation

Grebe

J., I saw your father on the bridge

by the supermarket. Shopping bag next to his shoes

that shimmered in the light of almost March.

He stood beneath white hair, no hat, bending

forwards to look down at the water where

a grebe had dived and you saw how his gaze

travelled on to the spot where according to

his gauging it the grebe would reappear

and how he gave a smile when it was so.

A diving grebe swims underwater like

a snake so smooth and lightning-fast, seizing

the fish then surfacing. Does not look back

to where its dive began but swims, the fish

whole in its throat, on to the plunge ahead.

Your father gave a nod and then walked on.

He was less young than in some of the photos but

just as in those wore his heart on his face,

simply a skin that anyone may see,

eternity in his hand and the hem of his coat

surged and fell with his steps. Cautiously

down off the bridge. J., ‘to be two birds’ – the

gods that in former times once

roamed the earth, were they alive? as truly as only

in thoughts, where all things reside.

Denmark's answer to Walt Whitman is the poet Johannes V. Jensen (and he even won the Nobel literature prize too!)

On Memphis Station

Half awake and half dozing,
Struck by a drear reality, but still lost
In an inner sea fog of Danaidean dreams
I stand teeth chattering
On Memphis Station, Tennessee.
It is raining.

The night is so desolate and extinguished,
And the rain flays the ground
With a senseless, dark energy.
Everything is clammy and impenetrable.

Why does the train wait here hour after hour?
Why has my lot ground to a halt here?
Am I to flee from rain and mind-numbingness
In Denmark, India and Japan
Only to be rained in and rot in Memphis
Tennessee, U.S.A.?

And now the day is dawning. Light dismally
Seeps in over this wet prison.
The day exposes mercilessly
The cold rails and all the black mud,
The waiting room with the chocolate vending machine,
Orange peel, cigar stubs and burnt-out matches,
The day gapes through with spewing gutters
And an eternal grid of rain,
Rain I say from heaven to earth.

How deaf and irremovable the world is,
How devoid of talent its creator!
And why do I keep on paying my dues
To this plebeian water cure of an existence!

Quiet! See how the engine,
That enormous contraption, stands calmly seething
Enveloping itself in smoke – it is patient.
Light your pipe on an empty stomach,
Curse God and swallow your pain!

Go on then and stay in Memphis!
After all, your life is nothing else
Than a soggy downpour, and it was always
Your lot to hang around delayed
In some miserable waiting room or other –
Stay in Memphis, Tennessee!

For inside one of these poster-yelling houses
Happiness awaits you, happiness,
If only you can devour your impatience –
Here too a curvaceous young maid sleeps
With her ear buried in her hair,
She will come to meet you
One fine day in the street
Like a wave of perfume
With a look as if she knew you.

Isn’t it spring?
Doesn’t the rain fall lushly?
Doesn’t it sound like an amorous murmuring,
A long muted billing and cooing
Mouth to mouth
Between the rain and the earth?
The day dawned so mournfully,
But look – the rainfall gleams now!

Do you grudge the day its right to fight?
After all, it is light now. And the smell of soil
sets in between the rusty iron struts of the platform
Mixed with the rank breath of the rain-dust –
A hint of spring.
Isn’t that consoling?

And see now how the Mississippi
In its bed of flooded forests
Wakes to the day!
See how the huge river enjoys its winding!
How regally it gushes in curves, swinging flotillas
of trees and tattered driftwood in its eddies!
See how it leads a huge paddle steamer
Into its Deluge-embrace
Like a dancer that masters the dance-floor!
See the sunken headlands – Oh what a vast calm
Over the landscape of drowning forests!
Can’t you see how the morning waters of the current
Dress themselves a mile wide in the day’s paltry light
And soundly journey under the rain-heavy clouds!

Compose yourself, you too, implacable one!
Will you never forget that eternity was promised you?
Do you withhold from the earth your poor gratitude?
What do you want then with your lover’s heart?

Compose yourself and stay in Memphis,
Seek citizenship on the market square,
Go in and take out a life insurance among the others,
Pay your premium of meanness,
So that they can feel secure,
And you won’t be thrown out of the association.
Court that maid with roses and a gold ring
And set up a sawmill like everyone else.
Look around, smoke your pipe of wisdom
In sphinx-abandoned Memphis,
Hitch up your rubber boots without a qualm...

Ah, there comes that miserable freight train
That we have waited six hours for.
It comes in slowly – with crushed sides,
It whistles feebly, the cars limping on three wheels,
And the stove roof dripping with earth and mud.
But on the tender among the coals
Lie four motionless figures
Covered with blood-drenched coats.

Then our great express train snorts,
Moves slightly forwards and stops with a deep sigh
Ready to leap forward. The track is clear.

And we journey on
Through the flooded forests
Beneath the gaping floodgates of the rain.

Another poem by Lars Gustafsson

Just this piece of wood

Hands deal with a silvered piece of wood

that the waves have washed ashore

parts of it decayed, parts of it

so hard it responds like a violin string

under a hammer and chisel

The wind, constantly complaining,

through these gaping openings

The saw that goes

The wind that blows

Most of what happens

takes place far from here.

Another poem by the Dutch poet C.O. Jellema

ALWAYS BLOWING

On such a terp, we said, right close

to such an ancient little church,

we too perhaps – and pointed out

the symbols to each other: butterfly.

hourglass, as a ring round names

the serpent biting its own tail.

It was a day in spring, flowers

already dotting the grass,

the reassuring droning of a tractor

from the field, there was

much wind.

Lightly those things are said as long

as you can speak, can look at me so doing

with that familiar face of yours, but

now that I write it down, search for a word

not made flesh, that did not dwell among us,

for when all that’s left

to me is to think of your voice,

to imagine your face:

what is it calls itself lasting,

what omits itself anywhere;

for when that whole

idea of idyll

goes underground,

what then,

on such a terp, in

it bloweth where it listeth

and thou hearest the sound thereof

but canst not tell whence it cometh

that eternal

wind?

Poem by the Swedish poet Lennart Sjögren

En kalv med stora ögon

står en morgon nere vid stranden

för att dricka.

De gamla sjökorten visar en annan strand.

Det vet inte kalven.

Med ögonen vidöppna dricker den

och som alltid vid stilla vatten

möts kalven av en annan kalv

från vattnets botten.

Och deras ögon och deras mular

dricker ur samma hand.

A calf with large eyes

is standing one morning down by

the shore to drink.

The old sea-maps show another shore.

The calf does not know that.

Its eyes wide-open, it drinks

and as always by still water

the calf is met by another calf

from beneath the water.

And their eyes and their muzzles

drink out of the same hand.

A poem by the Dutch poet Hanny Michaelis

Als de maat vol is

en het uur gunstig

wekt het andante uit

de Oxford-symfonie van Haydn,

het onmerkbaar verflensende

zomergroen of de verveloze

achterkant van huizen

in een vervallen buurt

de roes van melancholie

waarin het mogelijk lijkt

vrede te sluiten met een bestaan

dat aan volstrekte zinloosheid

zijn zin ontleent.

When the measure is full

and the hour propitious

the andante from

Haydn’s Oxford symphony,

the imperceptibly fading

summer greenery or the

drab backs of houses

in a seedy precinct waken

the rush of melancholy

in which it seems possible

to make peace with an existence

that from utter senselessness

derives its sense.

Når målet er fuldt

og timen gunstig

vækker andanten fra

Haydns Oxfordsymfoni,

det umærkeligt falmende

sommerløv eller den farveløse

bagside af huse

i et forfaldent kvarter

rusen af melankoli

hvor det virker muligt

at slutte fred med en tilværelse

der fra fuldkommen meningsløshed

henter sin mening.

Here is the poem for January 1 in Klaus Høeck's four-year almanack collection '1001 POEMS'

        and so i opened

the new year with a scarlat

        ti sonata: the

        spirit’s champagne and

        heavy metal for

every metaphysician

all believers in the ho

        ly common life of

        everyday and in

        the great flintstones of

reality that god has

        strewn for all to find

To understand the principles underlying the almanack go to here
To see the entire collection go to here