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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.