Monday, 26 December 2011

A poem by the Dutch writer
Jacobus Revius (1586-1658)

CREATION

God with his wires invisible has strung the world
As ’twere a lute, with all of its accoutrements.
The welkin is the bowl, full-ribbed from end to end,
The rose, the sun and moon whose orbits round us twirl.

The two coarse bass strings that forever boom and roar
Are earth and ocean: the high chanterelle, so sweet
Upon the ear, the sky: the others that complete
The choir are the trees and beasts of every sort.

This lute th’Almighty plucked with His accomplished fingers,
The angels then joined in as His proficient singers,
The mountains listened rapt, the rivers all stood still:
And man alone hears neither singers nor the strings,
Unless it please God to reveal to him such things
According to His prudent plan and heav’nly will.

Sunday, 25 December 2011

Poem by the Dutch writer
Nachoem M. Wijnberg


THE RACKET IN RODIN’S STUDIO

His apprentices’ sole task is making hands
and placing them in boxes, ordered as to type,
while he himself kneads the remaining clay bodies
attaching to them the hands already prepared.
He prises apertures open and moistens the clay
with spit from his mouth, to save himself some time.
He moves between the heaps of clay and the models
kneeling on sheets while the apprentices watch him
and hold onto hands that grip and let go.

Wednesday, 21 December 2011

First verse of 'Solstice Song' by the Danish poet Johannes V. Jensen


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.

Tuesday, 13 December 2011

Another poem by Ekelund

Then the beeches were light

Then the beeches were light, then isles of
floating marsh buttercups riddled the river,
light its crown the bird-cherry swayed where I
        roamed as a boy. –

Soundless the rain. The sky hangs low over
barren tree-tops. A whistle: the train starts to
move on again. Toward slowly darkening evening I
        journey friendless.


To see the original poem and comments on it, go to here

A poem by the Swedish writer
Vilhelm Ekelund (1880-1949)


After rain the chestnut trees...

After rain the chestnut trees
wearily incline the blossom
of their heavy sceptres.
The large wet
clusters of the lilacs
gently rock.
Shyly and hesitantly
the nightingale
already starts to call.

Heart, and you feel
the endless balm of
rebirth and of silence
flowing over you:
heart, and yet your song
is this minor –
this mute song of longing.

Monday, 12 December 2011

A poem by the Dutch poet
Hanny Michaelis

This afternoon - the room
filled to the brim with sun
and sweeping baroque music –
I thought unawares
of what you once said
to me about
sorrow being the keynote
of existence.
That night tears
came to my eyes. Now
I just slightly
moved my head
like a donkey
plagued by flies.

Friday, 9 December 2011

Yesterday's poem on the Dutch Meulenhoff calendar, by Gerrit Komrij


THE WORLD UPSIDE-DOWN

In order to collect the doubtful prize
For all the pain she caused that’s gone before,
The holy trinity adopts the guise
Of three air pilots, sticky still with gore.

And Destination Hell’s their aircraft’s mission
“The devil waits with fat cigars and bourbon.”
The airmen’s journey seems an endless prison.
For years the blood-red airscrew whirring’s droned on.

Not far from Saturn, a ring her station,
Combing her hair, they see a raffish belle.
Clearly they display their admiration
But nowhere can they rest. There is no hell.

Thursday, 8 December 2011

Danish translation of yesterday's poem


Havet ælter sine minder

Havet ælter sine minder,
indtil de bliver glatslebne:
og alligevel betyder de så lidt.
For havet selv er en eneste
stor hukommelse
et eneste stort nu.
Derfor: forlang af frasen
det fuldkomne blads fløjlsbløde glans,
eller tving den til at forme sig til en klippes knæskal!
Hvor lykkeligt intet at huske,
intet! Og dog være et vidnesbyrd
om noget forgangent– et vidnesbyrd i ansigtets
dristige linje, i håndens frigjorthed,
i mundens lukkethed – et vidnesbyrd i stemmen.
Og hvad du siger er ligegyldigt
som de knuste æggeskal i en forladt rede.

Wednesday, 7 December 2011

Poem by the Swedish-language Finnish writer Rabbe Enckell (1903–74)


Havet ältar sina minnen

Havet ältar sina minnen,
tills de blir glattslipade:
och ändå betyder de så litet.
Ty havet självt är ett enda
stort minne
ett enda stort nu.
Därför: avkräv frasen
det fullkomliga lövets sammetsmjuka glans,
eller tvinga den att forma sig till en klippas knäskål!
Hur lyckligt ingenting minnas,
ingenting! Och dock vara ett vittnesbörd
om något gånget – ett vittnesbörd i ansiktets
djärva linje, i handens frigjordhet,
i munnens slutenhet – ett vittnesbörd i rösten.
Och vad du säger är likgiltigt
som de krossade äggskalen i ett övergivet näste.



The sea kneads its memories

The sea kneads its memories
until they are smoothly polished:
and yet they mean so little.
For the sea itself is a single
great memory a single great now.
Therefore: demand from the phrase
the velvet-soft lustre of the perfect leaf,
or force it to form itself into a rock’s patella!
How fortunate to remember nothing,
nothing! And yet to be a testimony
of something bygone – a testimony in the bold line
of the face, the emancipation of the hand,
the reserve of the mouth – a testimony in the voice.
And what you say is of no consequence
like the crushed egg-shells of an abandoned nest.

Monday, 5 December 2011

Anon. Norwegian song, originally
sung by Alf Cranner on his LP
'Fiine Antiquiteter" in the mid-1960s


Vil man se fagre piger i mengde,
da skal man øverst i Hallingdal gå.
Fagre som roser, skjønne som liljer,
gullgule lokker og øyne så blå.
En sådan var min,
med gruber på kinden
den falske til malurt forvandlede vin.
Skulle jeg sørge, da var jeg en dåre.
Skulle jeg gråte, da var jeg en narr.
Skulle jeg la kvinnfolk mitt hjerte bedåre,
da var det skitt å vera vaksin som kar.
Takk og ære for meg!
Den pige skal aldri,
nei, aldri i verden min kjæreste bli.


Will you see fair maids, fair maids a-plenty,
high up in Hallingdal’s where you should be.
Fair as fine roses, lovely as lilies,
fine golden locks, eyes as blue as the sea.
A like girl was mine,
with dimpled cheeks rosy
the false one to wormwood did turn the sweet wine.
Were I to grieve now, with fools you’d compare me
Were I to weep now, a numskull I’d be.
Were I to let every woman ensnare me,
it would be hard as a man to stay free.
Praise and honour to me!
That girl, she will never,
no, never whatever my sweetheart e’er be.


For a snatch of a more recent version by Alf Cranner, go to here. The text differs slightly from this one.





Sunday, 4 December 2011

A poem by another Romantic poet, a Swede this time - Erik Johan Stagnelius (1793-1823)



Till Natten

Redan med Cynthias lampa i hand, omglimmad af stjärnor,
        Kommer Du, vänliga Natt! åter från skuggornas land.
Tystnaden jämte Dig går och sömnen, af vallmo bekransad,
        Lekande drömmars tropp följer Ert segrande tåg.
Heliga Natt! i din famn jag med lågande känslor mig kastar,
        Uslingens enda skatt, slafvarnes frihet Du är.
Dölj mig för människors syn, bjud människorösterna tiga
        Och på moderlig arm vagga ditt gråtande barn.
Kan Du ej hela de blödande sår, mig Dagen har gifvit,
        Klaga min smärta för Dig skall Du ej neka likväl.
O att Du evig blef! men allt är förgängligt i tiden,
        Vågorna skifta ej så fjärran på sjöarne om.
Snart är ditt välde förbi, snart strålar den rosiga Eos,
        Fordom min glädje och nu fasans och sorgernas bud.
Dock jag känner en natt, som aldrig sig ändar, en hvila,
        Aldrig af spöken störd, aldrig af drömmarnes här.
Mäktige Gudar! unnen mig den! snart, snart mig den unnen!
        Icke en annan bön har jag att ställa till Er.


To Night

Surrounded by bright-gleaming stars, and clasping Cynthia’s lantern,
        You have already returned, kind Night, from shadowy lands.
Silence accompanies you, sleep too, with poppies its garland,
        Playful batallions of dreams swell your victorious train.
Ah, Holy Night, to your bosom with feelings ablaze I now hasten,
        Wretches’ sole treasure you are, freedom for all those enslaved.
Hide me from all human sight, bid all human voices fall silent
        And on your motherly arm cradle your tearful young child.
Should it not be in your power to heal the foul wounds day’s inflicted,
        You’ll not deny me to tell e’en so at length of my woes.
Oh, were you but without end! Though all in time has its season,
        Waves on the lakes so far off seem not to constantly change.
Soon will your reign have its end, soon will pink Eos be gleaming,
        Formerly source of great joy, heralding fear now and grief.
One night does though exist, one that’s a rest-place unchanging,
        One that no ghosts e’er disturb, one that no dream-hosts frequent.
Grant this to me, mighty gods! Soon, soon please let it be granted!
        No other wish have I to beg for from you.

This poem is written in elegiac couplets, each made up of a hexameter followed by a pentameter. 

Friday, 2 December 2011

Another poem by the Danish writer
Schack von Staffeldt


Initiation

I sat far out on the sound’s still shore,
        The skies were 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 joined in blushing grace.

With sweet foreboding a harp I heard,
        The clouds now rending;
The muse descended, in sunlight girt,
        Her lyre extending.
She sealed my lips with kiss of fire
And sank down into her shimmering 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 in all did I meet.

Since then the earth each thought and desire
        Does now imprison;
Though dreams ease longing, as do song’s lyre
        And premonition,
The kiss consumes me, no peace can see birth
Before the skies I bring down to earth!

To see the original poem, go to here


Thursday, 1 December 2011

Another poem by Edith Södergran



Ingenting

Var lugn, mitt barn, det finnes ingenting,
och allt är som du ser: skogen, röken och skenornas flykt.
Någonstädes långt borta i fjärran land
finnes en blåare himmel och en mur med rosor
eller en palm och en ljummare vind—
och det är allt.
Det finns icke något mera än snön på granens gren.
Det finnes ingenting att kyssa med varma läppar,
och alla läppar blir med tiden svala.
Men du säger, mitt barn, att ditt hjärta är mäktigt,
och att leva förgäves är mindre än att dö.
Vad ville du döden? Känner du vämjelsen hans kläder sprida,
och ingenting är äckligare än död för egen hand.
Vi böra älska livets långa timmar av sjukdom
och trånga år av längtan
såsom de korta ögonblick då öknen blommar.


Nothing

Calm now, my child, there’s nothing there,
and everything is as you see it: the forest, smoke and ever-receding rails.
Somewhere far off in a distant land
there’s a bluer sky and a wall with roses
or a palm and a more temperate wind –
and that is all.
There’s nothing there except the snow on the spruce tree’s branches.
There’s nothing there to kiss with warm lips,
and in time all lips grow cool.
You say though, my child, that the heart is powerful,
and that to live in vain is less than dying.
What did you want of death? Do you feel the repugnance his clothes spread,
and nothing is more repulsive than to die by one’s own hand.
We ought to love life’s long hours of illness
and oppressive years of longing
just as the brief moments when the desert is in flower.

Wednesday, 30 November 2011

Short poem by the Dutch (and Frisian) writer Tsead Bruinja



a choir sings

a choir sings
and compassion makes the air around us
as thick as syrup

then the record stops
all the entrails
fall out of the song

we are looking at
as if our first manger
was a guitar case

Tuesday, 29 November 2011

A poem by the Danish Romantic poet
Schack von Staffeldt


By the lake

– And while all the waves are borne off apace,
I feel as if I there too had my place,
And staring into the image-filled lake,
In some strange longing my parting would take.

From still azure depths me greeting, I spy
A different nature, different sky;
All is ethereal there and ideal,
Like things in their pristine form more real.

My very first I from the purest blue,
My once purer self then whispers anew:
Why did you leave me, just leave me and go?
Oh, how I do love you, I love you so!

How strangely afraid and aching I seem,
My spirit escapes to more than a dream:
There appear to be gods and humans who
Embrace and mingle in depths of pure blue.

From Digte (1804). To see the original, go to here.

Another Swedish-speaking Finnish poet: Edith Södergran

The world bathes in blood

The world bathes in blood that God should live.
That his glory may persist, all else must perish.
What do we humans know of the eternal one’s pining
and what the gods drink to renew their strength.
God will create anew. He will reshape the world into a clearer sign.
Therefore he girds himself with a belt of lightnings,
therefore he wears a crown of flaming spikes,
therefore he envelops the earth in blindness and night.
Therefore he observes cruelly. His creator’s hands forcefully squeeze the earth.
What he creates no one knows. But it passes like a shudder
through half-awake minds. It is like giddiness at the sight of the abyss.
Before rejoicing choirs break out in songs of praise
it is quiet as in the forest before sunrise.

(1918)

Sunday, 27 November 2011

An early poem by the Swedish writer Gustaf Fröding


Guitar and accordion

Two neighbours reside in my dwelling
– the one sentimental in vein,
– with loud voice I hear him declaiming
of sorrow and life’s pain.

At times he is gloomy and bitter,
and melancholic, bizarre,
at times soulful, quite elegiac,
and sings at times to his guitar.

The other is sprightly and cheerful,
bucolic and coarsely burlesque.
For him are all sorrows and troubles
distortions, mere fancy, grotesque.

He broods not at all – for life is
a joke he just chortles on,
and whistles and sings while playing
his old accordion.

– You soon tire of hearing such antics
– and yet I’ve grown used to the pair;
the one quite resembles my present;
the other my past laid bare.

And sometimes, when sadness oppresses
and days to me seem too long,
I write down in music notation
small snatches of both their songs.

And should people say that the music’s
melodically poorly turned,
and isn’t quite all that it should be
where harmony’s concerned,

it comes from the fact that guitar song
and accordion song can quite
often both strike up at the same time
and come from left and right.

To see the original poem, go to here

Friday, 25 November 2011

Poem by the Finnish writer
Johann Ludvig Runeberg (1804–77) who wrote in the Swedish language

Joy and sorrow

Joy and sorrow both
resided in my heart,
joy in the one chamber,
sorrow in the other.
irreconcilably separate,
first the one ruled
then the other, solely.
Since the one and only came here,
she’s opened, it would seem, the door
and has united both,
for my joy is sadness
and my sorrow bliss.

Thursday, 24 November 2011

Translation of a poem by the Swedish poet Esaias Tegnér (1782-1846)


Spleen

I stood where my life’s slopes had reached their summit,
Where watercourses strain and would untwine
And with their foaming wave would downwards plummet;
There it was clear, and standing there was fine.
I gazed towards the sun and all its planets
Which, after setting, in the sky did shine;
I looked down at the earth, so green and fair,
And God was good and man was honest there.

An evil spleen-filled elf appeared, who merely
Bit without warning deep into my heart;
Lo, all at once the world was void and dreary,
And sun and stars quite suddenly went dark;
My once gay landscape lay autumnal, weary,
Each grove grew dun, each flower stem broke apart,
All vigour died within my frozen mind,
All joy, all courage shrivelled up and pined.

What’s it to me, reality’s dead matter,
So dull, oppressive and so coarsely raw?
How hope’s once rosy hue has, ah, grown flatter!
How memory once blue, ah, clouded o’er!
And poetry itself! Its idle patter,
Its tight-rope saltos I would have no more.
Its vain illusions none can satisfy,
But skimmed from surfaces of things nearby.

For you, mankind, I should be praises saying,
You in God’s image made, how apt, how true!
Two lies though you are guilty of displaying,
Woman is one and, by her, man makes two.
Of faith and honour the old song needs praying,
Best sung when we deception would pursue.
You heaven’s child! What’s true, I would maintain,
Is, branded on your brow, the mark of Cain!

So legible a mark, writ by God’s finger,
Why did I fail to notice such a sign?
Through human life a corpse-like stench does linger
Which poisons spring’s air, summer’s pomp maligns.
That smell comes from the grave and seeks to injure;
Graves are walled up, by marble guarded fine.
Alas, though, foul decay is on life’s breath,
No guard shuts out its constant reek of death.

Tell me, you watchman, how the night progresses!
Is it unceasing, will it never end?
The moon, half-eaten, through the sky’s still presses,
The tearful stars still through the heavens wend.
My pulse beats fast as in my youth’s successes,
Hours of affliction though it cannot mend.
Each pulse beat’s pain, how endless and how raw!
Oh, my poor heart, devoured and bleeding sore!

My heart? Within my breast I none discover,
’Tis but an urn wherein life’s ashes lie.
Show pity on me, Hertha, you green mother,
Oh, let that urn be buried by and by;
In air earth’s pain erodes but still will smother,
In earth, though, surely it must cease its cry,
Perhaps time’s orphan, when earth’s school is done,
Will see its father – far beyond the sun.

To see the original, go to here.

Tuesday, 22 November 2011

Maybe the best-known Swedish poem!
C.M. Bellman's 'Gubben Noach'


            No. 35

            Old boy Noah ://:
            was a decent man.
            Once the ark had grounded
            in the fields he founded
lots of vineyards, lots of vineyards:
            Noah had a plan.

            Noah rowed out://:
            from his ancient ark,
            bottles he bought plenty,
            maybe more than twenty,
meant for drinking, meant for drinking
            in our green new park.

            He ne’er doubted ://:
            that all humans are
            by their nature thirsty
            like the beasts, so first he
planted vines, yes, planted vines, yes,
            growing near and far.

            Old girl Noah ://:
            was a decent wife;
            she let him drink early,
            if I’d such a girlie,
I’d get married, I’d get married,
            ere you could say knife.

            She ne’er scolded ://:
            Oh, you naughty man,
            put that pitcher down then,
            No, she didn’t frown when
at one draught he, at one draught he
            quaffed wine by the can.

            Old boy Noah ://:
            Had hair thick as thatch,
            chubby chins and goatee,
            cheeks so pink and rosy;
he could down it, he could down it,
            Cheers and down the hatch!

            Times were good then ://:
            on our earth so fair;
            food and drink ne’er lacking,
            no parched throats a-cracking,
all sat glaring, all sat glaring
            at a spread so rare.

            Formal toasting ://:
            people gave a miss;
            no one said at leisure:
            May I have the pleasure!
No, you drank it, no, you drank it
            at one go – like this!
 

Monday, 21 November 2011

Poem by the Danish poet F.P. Jac (1955-2008)

i’ve been on the booze

i’ve been on the booze ever since i could make head or tail of myself,
a late-flowerer i refused war threats abstained from being for or against
christ and began to take my own pictures straight from the skin, dis–
appeared at every crucial moment so as to find peace at some outer place,
find value perhaps next to a girl’s temple that clearly reflected orgasm.
i had to get away from noise with a finger in my mouth and flowers in my hair,
find a corner and down a massive finger of gin while the leaves came out on all
the trees i mean i’m best on the whisky and porter boundary,
and no picture will be able to surprise me in my window haunt at night,
nix i’m a drunk but i carry around with me one of the biggest and the
tenderest of earthly hearts i’ve innumerable black cats on that, just ask the
girls on the street they know what state i’m in they know how i like to have
my neck caressed they know how the tongue’s to be laid out along the nose,
they will be able to attest to my decline be able to light up the beauty,
they will be able to admit that i am the last thing from the aesthetic universe,
i’ve been on fear longer than the tulip would probably put up with,
i have loved more glitter pictures than most people could possibly understand
in sorrow and confusion i have seen the rooms fall down like artificial ice,
i was on the booze long before the poem and love ever became
a possibility and i have seen a mother who changed her nature while she cried,
i have seen them dying emptying themselves while they called out in desperation for a
father who did not exist i have seen the pulse completely open one early morning
and i don’t want to get out of it don’t want to be subdued i bloody want to see the
girls when they entrust me their genital opening and ask me to clip,
let me be a damned sight more precise i want to radiate the seamy side i want to make
everyone beautiful and they are all to come and see the flower shoot from the very
lump of shit there’s no difference between soil and fertiliser there is life,
no one’s to deny me my boundlessness i belong to a cultural pause
i belong to an empty space inside the world i belong of a world,

The poem really does end with a comma! For a review, go to here.

Another poem by Nils Ferlin

 
Not a single

Not a single grey little songster
that chirps on a green-leafed bough
is found in what lies beyond here
and the prospect seems sad right now.
Not a single grey little songster
and never a birch that stands white –
But on summer’s most beautiful day I’ve at times
even so wished it were in sight.


A haunting poem, partly because of the music by Lille Bror Söderlundh to which it is often sung. The language of the original is extremely simple and difficult to capture in English. The author has deliberately introduced an archaic, folk-song like tone by adding an inflectional ending to the word for 'green'.
To see the original Swedish, go to here. To hear Sven-Bertil Taube sing a snatch from it, go to here.

Sunday, 20 November 2011

Poem by the Swedish poet Nils Ferlin


Couplet

Dedicated to Victor Arendorff, Högalid

In Arendorff’s day
skies were vast, never grey,
with the stars almost touching your hat.
People laughed til they dropped;
if at night you got copped
there was nothing so special in that.
And high spirits were there for the telling,
though a barrel made do for a dwelling.
And you starved and you froze
but you won by a nose.
There was nothing so special in that.

But now life is plain hard
in both street or backyard
in a pub or café or small flat.
You sit quiet as can be,
like a bust or a tree:
can you see something special in that?
No, in Arendorff’s day you breathed freely,
mixed with barons and counts ten times yearly.
If you spoke like a lout
well, you soon got thrown out:
There was nothing so special in that.

Times were quite debonair,
but with sleek head of hair
social levelling came in to bat.
We became, hardly odd,
just like peas in a pod.
Can you see something special in that?
People pay all their taxes, are civil,
but all recklessness shun like the devil.
Now life’s zest has been quashed
like a hat that’s been squashed.
I see nothing so special in that.

Yes, you live without pause
off the body that’s yours
and then whoosh, one-two-three, that was that.
And in some makeshift dray
you’re then carted away.
There is nothing so special in that.
Should a bird feel the urge to start trilling
at your passing, t’would be almost thrilling.
Though the vicar’s no bird,
mumbles hardly a word,
there is nothing so special in that.

To hear a snatch of the wonderful Sven-Bertil Taube LP, with Lille Bror Söderlundh's music arranged by Ulf Björlin, go to here. To see a recent YouTube version, with the old man still going strong, go to here. To see the original text, go to here.
 


Saturday, 19 November 2011

And a self-epitaph by the Danish writer Johan Herman Wessel (1742-85)


The poet’s epitaph upon himself

He ate and drank, was never glad,
He wore his boot heels down one side;
Ambition – that he never had,
And finally just upped and died.