One more Grundtvig Easter hymn

Hail, you Saviour and Redeemer,

crowned with thorns by the blasphemer,

you know well, my cross when seeking

I rose garlands would be weaving,

grant me courage and success!

What in God was there to grieve you,

what in dust to love or please you,

that, all your divineness waiving,

you mankind must needs be saving,

and be fully known to us?

Here were love and heart most fervent

mightier than death, their servant;

less for taking than for giving,

solely therefore you were willing

on the cross to take our place!

Ah! I savour now the wholeness

of heart’s hardness, of heart’s coldness!

What could rise from rocks unswaying,

worthy, able of repaying,

my Redeemer, your great love?

From your wounds, though, a great river

rose that can mankind deliver,

with such power each rock to tumble,

even icebergs cause to crumble,

and to wash the heart quite pure!

Therefore tearfully I’m praying:

Fill my veins without delaying

with that spring that makes rocks tumble,

that can make the iceberg crumble,

and our blood guilt wash away!

You, who me yourself have given,

let me love life, by you driven,

so my heart beats only for you,

so you in my thoughts ensure you

e’er their deepest meaning be.

Though like flowers I too must wither,

hand and breast must ice-cold shiver,

you’ll not let me taste death’s anguish,

you in sin won’t let me languish,

for its wages you have paid!

In your cross I trust completely,

Saviour, by your mercy heed me.

Help me when my foes travail me!

take my hand, when death assails me!

say: We go to Paradise!

An Easter hymn - by the Danish writer N.F.S. Grundtvig (1783-1872)

Easter flower! what would you here?

Common flower from village garden,

scentless, lustreless, austere!

Gift that no one e’er would pardon.

Who do you think fain had pressed

such as you to loving breast?

Dare a bird your praise send winging

when in Danish woods it’s singing?

Come alive in heart and mind

from your graves now be upstanding,

childhood days! And with me wind

your way out to father’s garden!

Let me during Easter song,

church bell’s ringing loud and long,

to my heart the flower be pressing

breast and head with it be dressing!

Winter flower! You herald spring,

now unfold in quiet chamber!

Only fools would shame to sing

of God’s work, their lot not savour.

Though your humble garb’s yet mocked,

dull you are and poorly frocked,

on my bier my wish is fully

to be like an Easter lily.

Not in sweetest summer air

did your roots begin to settle,

nor the rose’s scent did share

nor the lily’s silver petal.

During winter’s storms and rain

you put forth in harsh terrain,

joy alone on hearts to lavish

who your inner meaning cherish.

Common flower! but is it true:

Is your meaning that of waking?

Is your sermon really new?

Can the dead grave’s hold be breaking?

Did he rise up, as they claim?

Will his word rise up again?

Does from winding sheet of mourning

life spring forth at Easter’s dawning?

If the dead can’t rise again,

then our meaning has no substance,

we’ll die quickly and in vain,

grace no garden with our presence,

’neath the ground forgotten be

and our wax won’t wondrously

melt, be formed in darkest lining

candle-like on graves be shining.

Easter flower! A drop most strong

from your cup my thirst has sated,

and I quicken before long

wondrously refreshed, elated:

From a swan’s song or its wing

it would seem that it did spring.

Now I see the dead reborn in

early flush of Easter Morning

Oh, how dear to me you are,

common flower from village garden!

Dearer than the rose by far,

Easter flower on graves of fathers!

True spring-tidings bringing me,

of a holy jubilee,

as from death each noble flower

you’re transfigured at this hour!

Yes, it’s true what you allege:

that from death our Saviour’s risen

It is each Good Friday’s pledge ¬–

Easter Morning bursts death’s prison

What are sickle, shield and sword

’Gainst that master brave and bold?

Chaff his breath dispels for certain,

he who swore to bear our burden.

A sonnet by the Dutch writer Henriëtte Roland Holst (1869-1952)

Ook ik ben omstreeks ’t midden mijner dagen

verdwaald geraakt in levens donker woud,

maar mij heeft geen aardsche wijsheid ontvouwd

den weg uit smart en twijfel, noch gedragen

omhoog, en geen hemelsche oogen zagen

neer op mij, vanwaar hoog’re klaarte blauwt

m’in teed’re zorg omwakend, en met stage

stralen heffend naar waar men waarheid schouwt.

Mij leidt geen gids, als het eigen gemoed,

mij schoort geen steun, dan d’enk'le trouwe handen

die mij opbeuren als de kracht bezwijkt;

mij sterkt geen afgezant uit beet’re landen

dan soms het ruischen, als een vleugel doet,

van zachte hoop die langs mijn wangen strijkt.

I too, now somewhere in my middle years,

have lost my bearings in life’s forest dark;

No earthly wisdom though’s revealed the path

that leads away from pain and doubting fears,

nor borne me up; no heav’nly eyes have shone

down on me from those brighter climes above -

rays watching over me with tender love,

and raising me to realms where truth is won.

I have no other guide than my own mind,

no sure support than single faithful hands

that lift my spirits when my strength gives way;

no envoy strengthens me from better lands

than the soft swish of hope I sometimes find

can, winglike, stroke my cheek and fade away.

A poem by Jeppe Aakjær

The Hawk

My greeting, hawk above fir-trees high,

you proudest of birds in the forest!

Defiant you stare straight up at the sky,

your flight is as wild as it’s lawless.

You cleave the breeze with a wanton zest,

with green-tinted eye ever scouting;

you sink your beak in your quarry’s breast,

its right to survive always flouting.

A brigand you are before God and man,

your body blood-red from the slaughter:

the duck’s waggling rump with contempt you scan,

reflected down there in the water.

No love of your bloody claw have I,

but your flight-smoothed breast in all weathers;

your savage gaze from your home on high

and the glint of the sun on your feathers.

(Set to music by Carl Nielsen)

Translation of a poem by Tjitse Hofman

CRUMPLE ZONE

The bright red bike

of the young lad

lies crumpled

beside the road

Some blood

still sticks to

the handlebars

In the verge

lies a bell

with a smiling

Mickey Mouse next to

front-light fragments

He holds a balloon

and waves

with his hand

Byebye, laddie

Byeee.

A famous Danish poem by Heiberg (1791-1860)

Barcarole

Natten er saa stille,

Luften er saa klar,

Duggens Perler trille,

Maanens Straaler spille

Hen ad Søens Glar.

Bølgens Melodier

Vugge Hjertet ind;

Suk og Klage tier,

Vindens Pust befrier

Det betyngte Sind.

Barcarole

Calm the night, unstirring,

And the air so clear

Pearls of dew uncurling,

Moonlight rays unfurling

’Cross the glassy mere.

Dulcet waves appeasing

Heart that yearns for rest,

Sighs and sorrows ceasing,

Breath of wind releasing

Mind so long oppressed.

Set to music by Weyse. Hear a snippet sung by Aksel Schiøtz here

Entry from 24 March in the Danish poet Klaus Høeck's almanac '1001 POEMS'

        the night’s blueprint with

letters of the stars and im

        ages printed on

        the sky as if we

understood them just as clear

        ly as the illu

        strations on the great

star charts produced by the bear

        and the archer as

        if we understood

ourselves on the basis of

        our own projections

Poem by the Dutch writer Alfred Schaffer

THEORY AND PRACTICE

What’s right lies in the middle, graspable apparently, like

a punctured football in a pond, even with a stick you can’t

quite reach, a false start will make everything go haywire,

the risks are up to you. What can happen to us, what

is it we can’t see? The hands are motionless, or don’t we want

to know just how we’re parting with these precious minutes?

It’s always hard to start, each start is a disturbance of some rest,

an unsighted challenge, a sheer rock face, you climb and climb

until the pattern that you left makes you feel giddy, a jumble of

colours. And there you stand. Your hunch was right, that much is clear.

A poem by the Dutch poet Willem Jan Otten

ON THE THEFT OF TIME

Why else have you, reading,

ended up here of all places

from where you were before

unless to discover

from someone other than yourself

that every one of the fifty eggs

which agnostic Grandpa Otten

once collected and sucked

a century ago

and laid to rest in a

sky-blue set of drawers,

in time bequeathed to me,

that every one of the fifty eggs,

that of the linnet, too,

small as a little finger,

freckled with ochre,

will, in these very lines,

be gently feathered as in

their nest of former times

and, in your reading, hatched?

A poem by the Dutch writer Simon Vestdijk

The final second

For Ans

Dying is the art of tolerating

Live images with equal resignation

As when in life they still were operating,

At times annoyed, yet could bring consummation.

Here our house stood; here she took out the dogs;

Here she removed brown collars, let them loose;

Here's where we once found stinkhorns, witch's eggs,

Well sheltered deep inside some woods of spruce.

Dying is not the poignant thought that she

Alone from now on makes those paths her beat, –

For no one is alone who waits and sees,

And no one mourns who walks along the street, ¬–

All of this was though: a reality

That lasts until the final second’s logged;

The real race against time will always be:

The collar off, and she with the two dogs.

Section from Klaus Høeck's 'In Nomine'

               ‘i will dwell in my name’

     night rain once again

after the long dry spell in

     the month of july

     for a long time i

lie listening to the drum

     ming on the tin roof

     will it fertilise

my own roots deep down there

     in the dark will the

     drops fall over the

forgotten grave of my fa

     ther in birkerød?

     today i array

myself in a white shirt and

     a silken tie i

     begin to search for

a document at the back

     of the drawer of

     the writing desk it

seems to me that my hands have

     a smell of forma

     lin about them i

look up from my poems and

     thirty years have passed

     the sky has been rent

by light and the dark congealed

     at the bottom of

     yesterday’s coffee

cups i am looking at that

     pen-and-ink drawing

     of my father with

the seven black pine trees that

     hangs out in the hall

     how on earth am i

to remember what even

     he had forgotten?

     like the vast fields of

roses up behind the em

     bankments near bogen

     se like a single

quartet movement – allegro

     assai for exam

     ple like overheat

ed aluminium or

     like a thin drizzle

     is the secret life

that i never lived toge

     ther with my father

     i sleep with my head

facing north as in fairy

     tales and i dream

     almost allegor

ically of salt and of

     the larch boletus

     before waking at

your sharp scent of ascorbic

     acid my love – per

     haps it is an act

of treachery to be so

     utterly happy?

     time flies past on the

wings of a buzzard in ac

     ross the garden so

     swiftly that it is

only this morning that i

     discover the chan

     ges and notice that

i have come to resemble

     my father as he

     was on the final

photograph taken of him

     all that time ago

     i take back my name

i retake in the liter

     al sense of the word

     its dark syllables

of iron and of emerald

     after almost for

     ty years in exile

sign with my baptismal name

     once more i transform

     myself into who

i am closer i’ll never

     get to my father

     i practise in the

utmost secrecy writing

     it down in chinese

     notebooks that have red

corners and are dog-eared i

     whisper my name in

     great confidenti

ality once more as i

     used to do in my

     childhood when it was

embroidered on all my li

     nen and my washing

     i will dwell in that

name i have received by the

     grace of god and not

     by it being grant

ed with the royal seal of

     frederik the ninth

     i will make my a

bode in the name i one day

     will die in and clo

     ser i’ll never get

to a reconcilia

     tion with my father

     my father in ti

voli at the palladi

     um and in vester

     brogade my fa

ther in köthen-anhalt my

     father’s black dachshund

     his royal enfield and

toyota my father’s kid

     ney stone my father

     at the piano

in holsteinsgade: quasi

     una fantasia

     why did my father

spend his time in germany

     during the war why

     did he send me a

subscription to B.T. in

     my time at school why

     did he not come to

my confirmation why did

     he hide bottles of

     port in the cistern

why did he die without giv

     ing any answers?

     i never knew my

father have only heard a

     bout him and seen him

     from time to time (with

such a shaky hand that the

     spanish coffee ser

     vice still clatters in

my head still spins round on its

     bamboo pole in the

     chinese circus of

the memory) only met

     him from time to time

     like some parricide

i had turned my memory

     into a secret

     and inaccessi

ble place where my father lived

     alone with his shame

     his silk embroidered

eagle on the reverse side

     of his lapel or

     was all of it no

thing else than lies and poe

     tic fabrication?

     my inheritance

from my father amounts as

     far as i can as

     certain and recall

thirty years after his death

     to astigmati

     sm of the left eye

a certain melancholy

     a surname and a

     share in a summer

cottage near rørvig strand one

     that’s been sold long since

     did my father real

ly marry no less than five

     times is it true that

     he pawned my christen

ing present (a spoon of hall

     marked silver with bite

     marks on it from my

milk teeth) is he really to

     blame is his absence

     to blame for the fact

i have been seeking god (the

     father) ever since?

     birkerød ceme

tery is beautiful on

     such a late autumn

     day red with rust and

brick as if it lay partial

     ly hidden in a

     sonnet cycle but

i found neither my father

     nor his grave here nor

     his ghost of turquoise

could it be he had simply

     never existed?

     nor up at the gen

eral registry under the

     neon lighting was

     his name to be found

in violet ink in the

     city records where

     the accounts are kept

my father had disappeared

     without trace and i

     myself was the on

ly evidence that he had

     ever existed

     it shot through the roots

of my family tree like

     lightning from an un

     derground storm or the

pain from root surgery at

     the dentist’s or like

     st elmo’s fire from

søllerød cemetery

     where i at long last

     had managed to trace

my family’s and father’s

     final resting place

     and a great recon

ciliation took place as

     my father rose with

     in me like an x

ray photo dark with night-time

     rain and alumin

     ium and the small

bitterness dissolved like salt

     in my blood like a

     thimble of hemlock

juice that’s emptied into the

     sea and disappears

An attempt at a Danish translation of Jellema's poem

KVERNES

Til tider, uforudset, ankommer du dér

hvor du ønsker at være, du ligger i græsset,

øjnene lukket. Det du så: de genspejlede

blånende bjerge, fra bred til

bred en færge en prik i det dybe

krusede vand, nær ved Kvernes’

stavgamle trækirke, under træer

stenen mosbegroet af sine døde –

allerede et billede i dit hoved, som

deler dette med din famlende hånd langs

kirkevæggen, din fods trin fra

gravsten til gravsten, du ligger med

ryggen mod klippegrunden, en hviskende

vind i din øremusling, du indånder

græsset, den duftfrie varme af

sensol, denne lyse nordlige

september: her er jeg – en kort stund uden

tænkning, mere levende en sandhed gennem

sanserne, alt det, som samlet fortæller om

det vedvarende (som om ingen

myrdes et eller andet sted på

flugt fra sult, som om), dette

helhed bag mine hudtynde øjenlåg – dog

som sædvanligt vinder formuleringer frem: så

huser min krop, tilfreds udstrakt og

for mig med hvilket troværdigt indre

øje iagttagelig som fra oven, hvilende

dér i græsset ved fjordens bred,

her nu et landskab: det blev

det som den iagttog, men véd dette, derfor

varer ikke ved – da ingen steder, selv ikke

her, kan ankomst være for altid.

Re-revised translation of Kvernes by the Dutch poet C.O. Jellema

KVERNES

Sometimes, unforeseen, you arrive

where you want to be, lying in the grass,

eyes closed. What you saw: the reflected

blueing mountains, from shore to

shore a ferry a speck in the deep

crinkling water, close by the wooden

stave-old church of Kvernes, beneath

trees the stone moss-covered with its dead –

already pictured in your head, which shares

this with your hand that feels along the

church wall, the tread of your foot from

gravestone to gravestone; you lie with your

back to the rocky ground, a whispering

wind in the shell of your ear, you breathe in

the grass, the unscented warmth of

late sun, this transparent northern

September: here I am – briefly voided of

thinking, living a truth through the

senses more, all this which together

tells of the lasting (as if not

somewhere someone is murdered when

fleeing from hunger, as if not), this

wholeness behind my skin-thin eyelids – though

as usual wording wins through: so

here now my body, contentedly outstretched and

to me with what credible inner

eye perceptible as from above, resting there

in the grass by the edge of the fjord,

houses a landscape: it

became what it perceived, but knowing that

can’t last – for nowhere, not even

here, is arrival for ever.