A suite of poems by the Swedish writer Lennart Sjögren

Crow suite

Searched out my soul

creatures with crow’s wings

the three-legged

and every other possible thing

outside the normal.

Everything outside the normal.

Was submerged in my soul

a late-Roman pair of twins

with wolf fangs

and the fish of fishes.

They copulated with each other

and what wasn’t given birth to

because of these acts.

*

Had lived peacefully quite some time

had sought my food among the classical

and even the refuse bin had a classical touch.

Had spent quite some time among

the embalmed

where right was right and evil was evil.

*

Come for a night into my soul

dwarves with cow-horns in their forehead

spiders with faces of closest friends

and my own portrait

brought in by wood-lice.

Talking lilies and stone barriers.

And self-flagellators

child-flagellators

the shipwrecked on the island of death.

Come down into my soul: the female weepers

the female laughers

but something to weep or laugh about

wasn’t visible just then.

Even so they were at hand as a deliverance.

And I thought that all that was now taking place

did so in an age

that was not only that of man.

And I listened to the far-off hills

and I heard there

the utterly clear laughing

and utterly clear weeping

*

All the low-slung frogs came leaping

those who at night form

one great protracted clucking –

A clucking for all forms of what is alive

not least the hybrid forms.

And I asked myself if I was a frog

in the circle of frogs

a monkey in the monkey cage.

Or a crow

in the cunningly laid snare.

*

This very night

an old well-known discus thrower

descends from his marble plinth

he is tired of the white

he asks for the pig’s snout

the crayfish’s leg.

And the pair of twins with wolf fangs

do not hold him back

nor does the fish of fishes.

He then flings his discus

way, way beyond the stands.

What do the marble staircases say then

yes,

what do the city planners say.

After staying there for a while down in

the world of the crayfish

he makes his way back to the marble

but

what one once has abandoned cannot be recovered

all that easily.

And it was not the night

that then gained its completeness

and it was not the night’s morning

but it certainly was a seduction.

Yes, it was like a resurrection from the

graves of time.

And the dream of the discus thrower

to be sculpted stone once more

came to nothing.

Far too uncertain and sown with doubt

was his craving for the stone

and far too many memories existed in the wind

above the square.

Then

he left the stone for good

and went to those free in the disease.

Laugh oh my soul, he said

try a laugh at the moment of abandonment.

*

Then I heard once more

how the plains and more distant mountains laughed

and I went out to meet them.

And I went to the old snake –

she the female snake among the boulders

with her cleft tongue

she who sloughs her skin

and swallows her food whole

she with her inflexible smile

who guards the origin of the world.

She looked at me playfully

and held out the poison to me

when I approached.

Be of good cheer, she whispered.

Here's one by Brorson!

Up! Everything that God has made

Up! Everything that God has made,

His glory now be praising,

The smallest creature too is great,

And proves his might amazing.

Though earth’s great kings came forward, clad

In all their might and mettle,

The smallest leaf they could not add

To but a single nettle.

Yea! all the angels with their power,

Like sceptres in high station,

Have never caused at any hour

A speck of dust’s creation.

The smallest blade in vale or wood

No wonder can excel it,

Where should I wisdom gain and could

Find ample words to tell it?

What should I do now when my mind

Is slow in comprehending

How great the host of humankind

Their earthly way are wending.

What shall I utter, when I see

The woods with life abounding,

The many birds that leap with glee

Beneath the heaven’s rounding?

What shall I utter, when I walk

Among the meadow’s flowers,

When all the birds in song do talk

Like thousand harp-string showers?

What shall I utter, when my mind

Down on the sea’s bed merely

So little in its depths can find

And many mouths see clearly?

What shall I utter, when I yearn

To gaze at heaven rightly,

And all my thoughts will upwards turn

To where the sun reigns brightly?

What shall I utter, when I see

How hosts of stars are gleaming,

How mildly each smiles down at me,

And I return their beaming?

What shall I utter, when I soar

In spirit to my Maker?

And see th’angelic hosts in awe

Stand mustered by the acre?

What shall I utter? All I say

Says nothing and seems mindless;

Oh God! Your wisdom rules alway,

As do your power and kindness.

All that’s imbued with spirit shall

Our Maker soon be meeting.

His praise shall sound in hill and vale,

This earthly world completing.

Oh! Praise the Lord all those below

With voice and senses willing,

And all who dwell above now show

Our Maker’s praise in singing.

Let all below with one accord

Join joyfully in winging

Their Hallelujah! Great our Lord –

Amen the heav’ns are ringing.

A well-known hymn by the Danish writer Grundtvig, in the true Kingo and Brorson tradition

To rightly bid the world farewell

To rightly bid the world farewell

at life’s first dawn or evening knell

is hard for us to fathom.

It never would be learnt on earth,

were you not with us in your word,

Oh Jesus, as in heaven.

Though solace oft I found with you,

when my heart quaked, and tears broke through,

and worldly waves did thunder,

my soul to dust yet seeks to cling,

my heel the serpent yet does sting,

though you its head did sunder.

Oh Jesus, Master, brother sweet!

Death’s bitterness you know complete,

for you all death did vanquish.

You know us fully, every one,

know well, time’s sands that ever run

our hearts do fill with anguish.

Oh come, as once you did, I know

you will yourself quite clearly show

in all your Father’s glory,

were it at dawn or evening knell,

I’d rise up with but brief farewell

your heav’nly cloud before me.

But should death come before you do,

come secretly, remember too

the grave will all things darken!

Enhalo me, that darkness end,

anoint the eye of your sick friend,

so I may see God’s garden!

In the last night watch, come, draw near,

arrayed in clothes of one who’s dear

and sit down close beside me,

and speak with me, as friend to friend,

of where we soon will meet again,

forget what pains us direly!

Come as you wish! For well I know

you’ve said your voice may here below

reveal you to creation:

that voice, though all the world should rage,

which makes our heart within us blaze

and melt in consolation.

Oh, let me at my final hour

hear from your mouth that with great power

can speak of life and spirit:

how heaven beckons constantly,

how in your halls a chair for me

awaits which I’ll inherit!

Ere death with icy hand should strive

’twixt dust and spirit to divide,

and make heart’s warmth grow dimmer,

with trusting eagerness I’ll rest,

as does the child at mother’s breast,

embraced by my redeemer.

(for a hymn by Kingo, see 06.12.09)

A poem by the Swedish writer Lars Gustafsson

An early summer day at Björn Nilsson’s grave

(Midsummer 2005)

Väster Våla graveyard in the light of early summer

and with the kindly southwesterly wind over

Brusling’s meadows that must have been there

that mild morning in the sixties

when we invented the Monster in Bo Gryta.

The monster was a huge mole, and we needed it

to have something to write about in Expressen.

(It was one of those irritating weeks

when everything refused to happen,

world history hesitates or meditates

on what the next really lousy surprise

is to look like and no star had broken his leg.)

Bo Gryta is a deep-hole in the Åmänningen lake

To be found a few kilometres outside

the villages of Bodarne and Vretarne, on a line

between the former Boda harbour, where the wreck

of an ore smack that capsized and sank is said

to lie, though no one knows where, and Dentist’s Point.

How deep is this deep-hole? Nobody knows.

Many have tried with plummet and line.

And when the line came up, snipped

just as elegantly as with a razorblade

or the chain they tried instead,

the cut just as shiny and neat

from what can only be

extremely large teeth, the attempts

were abandoned. Christopher Middleton

described them in his poem ‘The Mole’.

This really had an effect:

for a couple of summers latter a busload

of Englishmen, eccentrics and experts

came for the monsters of the deep. They sounded

and took notes. Per Brusling offered them coffee,

now an old man who knows quite a lot about the lake.

The summer wind passes over Björn Nilsson’s grave.

And I’m afraid I am the only one left who knows

how it really happened.

The expedition returned

deeply convinced that this giant mole

not only gigantic and malevolent,

is also sly, extremely sly,

and knows how to hide in murky depths

whenever anyone comes there

in search of it.

A poem by the Dutch poet Hanny Michaelis

Amongst the other trees,

luxuriant green colossi,

that one, scantier of bud each year

and now merely a finely ramified

skeleton, frail enlargement

of a leaf in autumn

wasted down to the very nerve.

A caricature of Goethe’s

green-golden tree of life,

but closer to the truth.

Klaus Høeck's variations on a theme by Grundtvig, from 'In Nomine'

        i walked abroad one

summer’s day to hear all kinds

        of transistorra

dios blaring at full volume from

rugård landevej and my own

too for that matter from here

inside the green labyrinth well mixed up

        stirred and thoroughly

blended with songs of birds that

        through my heart could sear

        songs of birds that through

my heart could sear at three ’o

        clock in the morning

(before the devil’s up and a

bout and even the holy spirit’s

still asleep drunk on roses on him

self and on the damp scent of grain)

        i listened in ex

celsis and from far below

        in the deep green vales

        in the deep green vales

beneath the heart and the a

        bysses of the mind

grundtvig’s hymns blossom and set

their hips and their itching powder and their

living word along with their

ultimative demands made on the flesh

        and on the soul that

attempts to conceal itself

        midst the nightingales

        midst the nightingales

that are not singing any

        more (since midsummer

has long since passed like a secret

fire at the back of the head) among

the trees in the garden of udby

rectory i count the beats of

        the cuckoo’s heart and

of my own and all those small

        birds that speak so clear

        and the other birds

that speak so clear and that sing

        and cheep and chirp and

chatter and kick up a racket

from morning to evening and cackle

and crow i drown out completely with my

very own variation

        on the old danish

folk song: ‘i walked abroad one

        summer’s day to hear’

        and the other birds

that speak so clear i ask the

        following question:

will you lend me your wings when the time

comes in gratitude for all the

grain and white bread and sunflower

seed will you – you small jackinaboxes

        so my soul can fly

away up to paradise

        midst the nightingales?

        midst the nightingales

and the fires caused by pyro

        maniacs in lang

eskov amidst summer light

ning and caravans we extravagant

ly frittered away our lives on what

is referred to as nothing: long

        walks that took us out

to the sea and excursions

        in the deep green vales

        in the deep green vales

beyond any form of sense

        and of utili

tarianism midst mozart’s

horn concertos and forgetmenots

behind trinitatis’ tremen

dous mirrors we wasted our time on

        what is referred to

as nothing: songs of birds that

        through my heart could sear

        i walked abroad one

summer’s day to hear a fair

        ytale that i know

extremely well but that even so

is new every time it is told

(almost like evening church bells peal

ing or like the folk high school song book)

        by the tall trees in

the forest and all those small

        birds that speak so clear

(for a translation of Grundtvig's original poem, go to here)

A poem by the Flemish writer Peter Holvoet-Hanssen

The magician comes

Picture a southern terrace in let’s say Marseilles
you occupy a lousy room in the Rue de Mazenod
eat and drink like a jolly frog with an imaginary companion
look up, rub your eyes: no richly rhymed rhetorics
Dutchman, the Flying Dutchman ties up at the quay

A seigneur descends the gangplank in a natty cape
his trunk advances jauntily beside its master
the cutlery stands to attention at the Marseillaise
and your friend chokes on his bouillabaisse
you knew the magician would come

His palace is as big as your imagination, picture it to yourself
it is enthroned in creamy clouds like Nephelokokkugia
the female slaves there lick his wand, he flicks pearls at their navels
thrusts his little battering ram between the guru’s chubby cheeks
throws him into a dungeon so dark even the enlightened one shudders

When the magician comes

You do not fear his wrath – you’re lucky, you certainly had it coming
even more, you smash all the plates at his feet
you fill his boots with pastis before he can even say ‘abra...’
you place him in front of a carnival mirror and paint his portrait
he genially crooks the corners of his mouth, finds it ‘impressionnant’

You imitate a sunset, most impressionist
until he starts to nod – dismount your easel while he’s still asleep
for if he suddenly starts, sea horses will run aground
if his balls nag, consumptives will shag themselves sound
if you summon him, you’ll be astounded

The magician comes

The last Heaney translation for the time being

 Odderen

Da du sprang i,
Dirrede lyset af Toscana
Og svingede gennem bassinen
Fra øverst til nederst.

Jeg elskede dit våde hoved og knusende crawl,
Din fine svømmerryg og -skuldre
Der brød overfladen gang på gang
Dette år og hvert år siden.

Jeg sad med tør hals på de varme sten.
Du var uden for min rækkevidde.
Den modnede klarhed, den druetunge luft
Tynnede ud og skuffede.

Gudskelov for den langsomme nedtyngning,
Når jeg holder dig nu
Er vi tætte og dybe
Som atmosfæren på vandet.

Mine to hænder er loddet vand.
Du er min hukommelses håndgribelige,
Smidige odder
In øjeblikkets bassin,

Der drejer for at svømme på ryggen,
Med hver tavse, lårrystende spark
Som gentipper lyset,
Hæver køligheden ved din hals.

Og pludselig er du ude,
Tilbage igen, opsat som altid,
Tung og sprælsk i din opfriskede pels,
Sættende aftryk på stenene.

Opening poem of 'Rib Cities' by the Swedish poet Eva Ström

The floods

The floods have not reached us

not wiped out the roadway, not overflowed the fields

The squalls have not reached us

not torn up trees by the roots, not

blocked the roads, tossed the train from the rails

Three thousand railway workers have not cleared

one thousand one hundred trees. No stable roof has blown off

near Petersborough, no aircraft was forced

to make a second landing attempt with terrified

passengers. No Sharon Black, 40, was still shaking

when saying the words: I honestly thought

I was going to die. The entire reality

from Aberdeen to Dover, from Dublin

to the English Channel was enacted in the

virtual emptiness that unexplored is called your brain

And you shut your eyes and said: Where you are is not death

where death is you are not. But the water continued to rise

and the two schoolboys at Robertsbridge, East Sussex

continued their arduous path through the expanses of water

leading their bikes through the vast defoliation

since the river had once more burst the embankments

and inundated the land one could not see

until Stan Lewis stepped out onto the staircase of his shop in Bewdley

to feed seven swans floating on a mirror of calm.

One more Danish translation of Seamus Heaney

Field Work

I

Where the sally tree went pale in every breeze,

where the perfect eye of the nesting blackbird watched,

where one fern was always green

I was standing watching you

take the pad from the gatehouse at the crossing

and reach to lift a white wash off the whins.

I could see the vaccination mark

stretched on your upper arm, and smell the coal smell

of the train that comes between us, a slow goods,

waggon after waggon full of big-eyed cattle.

II

But your vaccination mark is on your thigh,

an O that’s healed into the bark.

Except a dryad’s not a woman

you are my wounded dryad

in a mothering smell of wet

and ring-wormed chestnuts.

Our moon was small and far,

was a coin long gazed at

brilliant on the Pequod’s mast

across Atlantic and Pacific waters.

III

Not the mud slick,

not the black weedy water

full of alder cones and pock-marked leaves.

Not the cow parsley in winter

with its old whitened shins and wrists,

its sibilance, its shaking.

Not even the tart green shade of summer

thick with butterflies

and fungus plump as a leather saddle.

No. But in a still corner,

braced to its pebble-dashed wall,

heavy, earth-drawn, all mouth and eye,

the sunflower, dreaming umber.

IV

Catspiss smell,

the pink bloom open:

I press a leaf

of the flowering currant

on the back of your hand

for the tight slow burn

of its sticky juice

to prime your skin,

and your veins to be crossed

criss-cross with leaf-veins.

I lick my thumb

and dip it in mould,

I anoint the anointed

leaf-shape. Mould

blooms and pigments

the back of your hand

like a birthmark –

my umber one,

you are stained,

stained to perfection.

Feltarbejde

I

Hvor gråpilen blegnede i enhver brise,

hvor den rugende solsorts fuldendte øje kiggede,

hvor én bregne altid var grøn

stod jeg og så dig

tage stien fra portbygningen ved vejkrydset

og række ud for at lyfte hvidt vasketøj ned fra tornbladsbuske

jeg kunne se vaccinationsmærket

stramme på din overarm, og lugte kullugten

fra toget der kommer imellem os, et langsomt godstog,

vogn efter vogn fuld af storøjet kvæg.

II

Men vaccinationsmærket har du på låret,

et O som er helet ind i barken.

Bortset fra at en dryade ikke er en kvinde

så er du min sårede dryade

i en moderlig lugt af våde

og ringormede kastanjer.

Vår måne var lille og fjern,

var en længe betragtet mønt

skinnende på Pequods mast

tværs over Atlantens og Stille Havets vande.

III

Ikke slamstriben,

ikke det sorte udkrudtsvand

fuld af ellekogler og koparret løv

Ikke vild kørvel om vinteren

med dens gamle afblegede skinneben og håndled,

dens hvislelyd, dens skælven.

Ikke engang sommerens beskgrønne skygge

tyk af sommerfugle

og svampe buttede som en lædersadel.

Nej. Men i en stille hjørne,

fastgjort til dens stenpudsede mur,

tung, draget mod jorden, lutter mund og øje,

solsikken, drømmende umbra.

IV

Lugt af kattepis,

med åbne lyserøde blomster:

jeg trykker et blad

af blodribsen

mod bagsiden af din hånd

så at den tætte langsomme sviden

af dens klæbrige saft

kan grunde din hud,

og dine årer kan

krydsskraveres med bladårer.

jeg slikker min tommelfinger

og dypper den i muld,

jeg salver den salvede

bladform. Muldet

blomstrer og pigmenterer

bagsiden af din hånd

som et modermærke –

min kære umbra,

du er bejdset, bejdset

til perfektion.

A Danish translation of a poem by Seamus Heaney

Sang

En røn som en læbestiftsminket pige.

Mellem sidevejen og hovedvejen

Elletræer i våd, dryppende afstand

Står ud fra sivene.

Der er dialektens dyndblomster

Og immortellernes absolutte gehør

Og det øjeblik hvor fuglen synger helt tæt

På musikken af det der sker.

To see another poem by Seamus Heaney in Danish go to 09.11.09