Poem by the Swedish writer Lennart Sjögren

Pike-head

How sharp your teeth are: Pike-head

though the sun’s fried you to the wall

and though winter’s flayed your skin

and though this is already your third year hanging there.

Others have their Progress

others have their Sergeant.

I have you.

There is nothing in your head

that tends towards the friendly.

Even so I wish to count you

one of my closer friends

and possible to talk the language of muteness to.

You definitely do not belong among the demons

nor among the apocalyptics.

You are what you are

what you are is you.

Nor do I wish to include myself

among animal devotees

just because I keep your company.

I do not worship you, even though you belong to

the circle of consolation.

Your path went directly from the watery depths

to the air that is man’s but not yours.

Nor did you seek for mercy

not in my eyes nor those of others.

And what you said in silence when hauled up

I do not know.

Eyes you no longer have, scarcely skin

but your teeth

that slowly eat their way through the sun’s heat

you still bare at me.

Poem by the Flemish writer Jan Mysjkin

Nothingness

I delve into my memories: nothing,

I retrieve nothing.

I have written, and written, and written.

I have noted everything:

nothing.

The clouds drift by, the river

traverses the plains, the light opens

and shuts.

Nothing,

it leads to nothing.

I note the nothingness so as not to forget it.

Poem by the Dutch poet Peter Swanborn

At the holding of her body, tight

like a child craving attention, but

then silent, turned inwards, I observe

how a life slowly falls apart

To dust, to sand, through my fingers, like

water in a river circulating, first up

from underground, then through land towards

the sea, the shore now still and red.

She cries, I comfort. With closed eyes

she looks at no one, grasps my hand,

slides like a ring the memory

Around my heart. A mind evaporates,

congeals and takes pleasure in another

body, transiently, till I too blow away.

A poem from 'Hsieh', a collection by the Danish poet Klaus Høeck

i’m eating a burger with

        chips and all the

trimmings i often do this

        but today to de

        monstrate in partic

        ular my contempt

        for the kitsch and haute

        cuisine cult that has

plagued both poetry and

cookery for such a ve

ry long time – may my poem

        taste like a big mac

A final Danish translation for the time being of a poem by John Updike

Fugl fanget i mit rådyrsnet

Hækken må have set ud som altid,

med frø og taksbær gemt under den,

spiseligt små som kun et fugleøje kunne se,

blandet med det brune af tabte nåle og jord –

en tryg stille hule som naturen yder de ydmyge,

listet ind i, til fods, det fjedrede hoved vågent

over for det søgte, de klare øjnes skarpe blikke

overalt, bortset fra dér hvor net var lagt ud.

Og så, i et barmhjertigt ubevidnet øjeblik,

et forsøg på at stige, at flyve, bremset af en

næsten usynlig grænse, med flagrende, fastlåste

vinger, et benægtet dybt instinkt. O den paniske

flaksen og basken, i dagslys og luft,

deres frihed umuligt tæt på, allevegne!

Hvor mange udsultede timer af fortvivlet kamp genoptaget

i anfald af livsraseri blev brugt

for at forsegle og sy de bærklare øjne til

og løse et lillebitte hjertes vilde knude op?

Det kan jeg ikke vide, ved opdagelsen af denne tot

juncofnug, vægtløs og ordløs

i sit hjørne af net som end ikke rådyr kan tygge igennem

ej heller kan brydes af tyngdetrodsende fugleknogler.

To see the original poem go to here 

PS. An excellent example of a poem that should have started with the last verse!

Poem by the Dutch writer Anna Enquist

First violin

He has at most two yards

of strings, and pure white

flaxen hair. Thinks: I am

the resounding heart. Prefers

to play close to the bath,

shrouded by richoceted

sound, giddied

by stone and glass.

Reeling and dazed by boundless

height, bowing he makes

his own that which he dares not

think about: the steady

beat of time which steals all you hold

dear and later will destroy.

There is a dripping tap

but he’s consigned to paradise

as long as sound commands belief.

This poem can be seen together with one about the cello
posted a year ago here

Translation of a famous poem by the American poet Wallace Stevens

Snemanden

Man må have vinterens sind

For at betragte frosten og grantræernes

Grene med deres sneskorpe,

Og have frosset længe

For at se enebærtræerne med deres istakker,

Fyrretræerne uskarpe i vintersolens

Fjerne glitter, og ikke at tænke på

Nogen form for elendighed i lyden af vinden

I lyden af nogle få blade,

Som er lyden af landet

Fuld af samme vind

Der blæser på detsamme tomme sted

For tilhøreren, som lytter i sneen,

Og, selv intet, ser

Intet som ikke er der og det intet som er.

To see the original poem go to here

A poem that became a well-known Danish song, the text by the 19th century writer B.S. Ingemann

Peace rests o’er town and countryside

Peace rests o’er town and countryside,

no worldly noises mar:

at its own cloud the moon smiles wide,

till star can gaze on star.

And smooth and shining lies the lake,

the sky in its embrace,

on bleach greens guards keep distant wake

and praise the God of grace.

It is so still, with all at rest

in heav’n and here on earth,

be also still now in my breast,

you fugitive since birth!

Make peace, oh heart, with every soul

that fails to read you here,

And peace’s angel now behold,

o’er town and vale so near.

Like you, he is a stranger here:

his mind’s on heaven set,

yet in the tranquil starlight clear

like you, he lingers yet.

Oh, learn from him your evening song:

peace with each soul on earth!

We for a common heaven long,

although our paths diverge.

Peace with each heart, both far and near,

that restlessness may gnaw!

Peace with the few that hold me dear,

and those I never saw!

Poem by the Norwegian poet Erling Kittelsen

XV

Våren knirker, stilkens honning

vinteren går kvasst forbi

skillene

reflekterer

slutten

XV

Spring is creaking, the stem’s honey

winter keenly passes

the divisions

reflect the

ending

i (1995)

With my dripping schnozzle, it's time for an uplifting song from Benny Andersen's 'Svantes Viser'. For other translated songs, please consult the index.

THE SEASONS

Washing can flap while its drying.

Young kids get spots that are trying.

Girls must take teasing

and football’s unceasing

for now it is summer in Denmark.

Days now seem shorter and gloomy.

Schoolkids unruly and rheumy.

Clothes get outdated

tears flow unabated

for now it is autumn in Denmark.

Deaths. New divorces. Long novels.

Plans in cold storage and snuffles.

Noses start dripping

and schnozzles start dipping

for now it is winter in Denmark.

Flowers bloom in meadows or vases.

Beating of mats all surpasses.

Paths are regravelled

and poems unravelled

for now it is springtime in Denmark.

Poem by the Belgian poet Roland Jooris

Drawing

Can one draw a scratch of thought into the shaft

of a line that after long perusal suddenly head-on

finds its own depth?

Can one see hear it in the glance of the

white, in a wing that touches its shadow,

in the viewing that hatches a window-pane?

The artist stakes out silence, takes over time,

retreats, omits, only holds on to

what leads to essence: the stem of a

nude, the churlish chair, the cross, the man

alienated from his presence.

The artist seeks the detachment of nothingness

in the astonishment at what a line, a spot,

a streak can bring to life: the existence that

breaks out of things, the soul called pencil

or ink, graphite or chalk, the hand

that then comes from above

A poem by the Norwegian writer Torgeir Rebolledo Pedersen

LOVE A STICK

love isn’t just a stick that

can take us as

fast as possible

high as possible

love’s not something

you simply can throw

if love is just a stick then

what is desire

desire is a doggie

desire’s our best friend

assuming that love

is a stick

February poem from Klaus Høeck's '1001 POEMS'

        i picked up the ace

of clubs and didn’t find it

        all that odd because

        for me it repre

sented each and every tree

        out there in the win

        ter as well as all

the woods of turquoise deep in

        side my mind where the

        iron cross of poe

try tipped strangely northwards near

        langesø chapel