Translation of a poem by the Danish poet Morten Søndergaard

BEGINNING

A herb-garden in the sun,

a summer, at the bottom of the garden

and my grandma among the potatoes,

carrots and parsnips,

how old are you, grandma,

you skin is wrinkled,

not smooth and pliant like the potatoes in the soil,

or the sound of the potatoes

when you throw them into the bucket

and scrub them clean with a broom in the yard,

the water runs out of the bucket into the gravel,

down between the yellow and white stones

which I put into my mouth,

cool stones against the inside of my teeth,

I know their shape and taste,

and the potatoes in the big aluminium saucepan

with dill and salt and butter,

and we come in hot and out of breath,

we sit down on the bench,

we were busy doing something,

something we didn’t know what was,

something that took us places

that could not be seen in advance,

something that struck us with enormous force,

an obvious secret that annihilated us

because our minds wandered for a moment,

your skin is yellow and waxy, grandma,

they’re singing for you and closing the lid

with small silver-plated screws,

you’re to go down into the soil

down to the potatoes.

To see the original poem and hear the poet read it, go to here