Poem of the day in the Dutch poetry calendar, by Henriëtte Roland-Holst

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.

Poem by the 17th century Swedish post Lars Wivallius

Dirge over this dry and cold spring

A dry and cold spring speeds summer’s demise,

of winter food us depriving.

Grant help, heav’nly King, see spring how it flies

and little joy we’re deriving.

Sun warm us, don’t harm us!

For winds chastise

and cold the summer is riving.

This is the first of the twenty-two stanzas. For a full version, go to here

What constitutes craftmanship?

I wonder if anyone noticed that Gustafsson's 'Sestina' operated within strict formal constraints? That there are only six rhymes throughout, which vary during the sestets and are compressed into internal and end rhymes in the final tercet?

Here is another scheme:

xXxxX, xXxxX
xXxXxxXx
xXxxX, xXxxX
xXxXxxXx
xXx, xXx
xXxX
xXxXxxXx

the capitals indicate stress, the different colours different rhymes.

Who is capable of writing a wonderful poem of 22 stanzas within these constraints? The next blog will tell you. The poem is from 1642.

A sestina from the collection 'Sonnets' (1977) by Lars Gustafsson

XI (SESTINA)

There was a time each grain of time was whole.

As is the tennis ball when hanging a

razor-sharp hundredth of a second, waiting

above the net. Not ‘recently’ or ‘soon’

but a third something, which is all we see.

The rest is expectation or is time

that was, not mine though, someone else’s time.

The clean shot is what once more makes you whole.

This is the sole reality we see.

Expectations and memories fill a

mainly random personality, soon

for the next ball you can see it waiting.

Who is it though that stands there ready waiting?

All time is eaten up by thoughts of time

that was, or something that will happen soon.

Expectations and the rest memories. Whole

is only he who no longer sees a

second ball in the ball there is to see.

Such an event as that we really see

is more anonymous than we were waiting

for. Years and princes existing in a

past age seem to live in a stiffened time.

By name we make the broken vessel whole.

It’s borne with caution to a well that soon

seems deep and full of powerful voices. Soon

only a lonely echo’s left – you see

the water’s gleaming mirror, which is whole.

It lies down there below you waiting,

so inaccessible. It’s you. Your time

is brief. A single stone’s enough. And a

thousand splinters now glitter in a

well against whose grey-stone sides there soon

play flickering reflections. Which are time.

The only time we understand. We see

in splinters. In stiffened pose stand waiting.

The clean shot is what once more makes you whole.

We all live in a nameless world. We see.

We die as soon as we recall; die waiting.

There was a time each grain of time was whole.

Another poem by the Swedish poet Gunnar Mascoll Silfverstolpe.

Gårdens själ

Jag stannar plötsligt mitt på trädgårdsgången

en sommarkväll, då jag är sjutton år.

En våg av gyllne skönhet tar mig fången.

Jag känner att jag darrar där jag står.

I gröna lövverk aftonsolen lågar,

och rymden är en rymd i skylös vila.

Med guld på vingen gårdens svalor pila

i tvära kast och långa, mjuka bågar.

Och genom svalkan ångar som en brygd

en doft av timjan, timotej och klöver.

I lätta, blonda dagrar står den bygd,

som sommarnatten snart skall sjunka över.

Så rikt och fullt kan alltså garden tona,

så rikt och fullt och helt, att jag kan tycka

att svallet över päronträdets krona

är som ett löfte om en häftig lycka.

Det känns som hjärtat vidgat sina gränser,

och för en brinnande, en flyktig stund

med allt som doftar här och allt som glänser

min skygga ungdom slutit ett förbund.

Den gamla gården vill ett hjärta väl.

Den sett så många mänskor i det farna

– och så en afton kan den plötsligt klarna

och slösa givmilt med sin friska själ.

The soul of the farm

While on the garden path I stop enraptured

one summer evening, when just seventeen.

By surging golden beauty I am captured.

I feel how I am trembling at the scene.

In trees’ green leaves the evening sun is flaring,

The sky above is one of cloudless calm.

Wings tinged with gold, the swallows of the farm

make sweeping arcs or veer with lightning daring.

And through the coolness like a brew there steams

a scent of thyme, of timothy and clover.

In flimsy light the countryside still gleams

which summer night will soon be sinking over.

So rich and full, then, can the farm appear,

so rich and full and whole that I can sense

the radiant flush that crowns the pear-tree here

can promise happiness that is intense.

The heart feels it has gone beyond its knowing

and for an instant, blazing but intact,

with all the scents and everything that’s glowing

my timid youth has made a lasting pact.

The old farm wants to cheer the human heart.

It’s seen so many lives of yesteryear

– and can one evening suddenly grow clear

and its live soul unsparingly impart.

From the same collection as the former poem, to be located here