Poem by the Norwegian writer Gro Dahle

I carve my daughter

I carve my daughter out of sallow. Whittle a flute

from her fingers. When I blow on her, I hear

how beautifully she cries.

I dress myself with my child. A coat of mail. Armour. A

daughter shield. Hold her in front of me on my lap.

My lap is a throne. The people are jubilant.

Poem by the Norwegian poet Olav Nygaard (1884-1924)

Now evening rises

Now evening rises at the western edge

through farmhouse yards his way he lightly treads,

hangs mountains inbetween with muted shading.

Through scrub and heather whispering’s heard soon

and as it sings the throstle changes tune

with twilight tremolo its call pervading.

But firmly of his steed’s reins day takes hold

puts on his great cloak etched with seams of gold

twixt far horizons hurries at light’s closing.

A breeze moves through cool vale and mountain side

where shadow’s waiting for the night, his bride

and swooning in his dreams of love is dozing.

And breathing gently night then enters in

with dark locks round her neck and cheek’s smooth skin

and shawl of elfine mists that swirl so lightly.

And dulcet tones, th’aeolian harp’s sweet charms,

rise shyly like a girl from mother’s arms

and float in cool realms light of foot and sprightly.

A quiv’ring bliss is felt twixt mountains tall

so seed starts growing, skins are sloughed and fall

and eyes turn upwards dazed by some great wonder:

from deepest heav’n sounds swell’s surge full and strong,

the endless urge to procreate, spheres’ song

that greets as kinsfolk those dark shores far yonder.

To see the original, go to here.

Poem by the Norwegian writer Aasmund Olafsson Vinje (1818-1870)

At Rondane

Once more such heights and valleys stand before me

as those I saw when my first youth held sway;

my heated brow the selfsame wind cools for me,

and gold lies on the snow, as once it lay.

A childhood language speaks that seems to awe me

and make me thoughtful, although also gay,

And childhood memories the words are wreathing:

It streams out to me, almost stops me breathing.

Yes, life streams out now as I felt it streaming

when under snow I saw the green shoots rise.

I’m dreaming now, as once I stood there dreaming

when I such mountains saw ’gainst bright blue skies.

Forgotten is day’s strife, as ’twas at evening

when glimpsing sun’s last rays would be my prize.

I’m sure to find a house that heeds my calling,

with sun to light my way home ere night’s falling.

All’s as before, transfigured, seen more clearly,

with daylight seeming brighter than way back.

And that which bit and cut me so severely

the actual shadow now makes seem less black;

e’en that which tempted me to sin, or nearly,

e’en that hard rock makes softer in attack.

Old thoughts, now reconciled, extend a greeting:

though older, it is still the same heart beating.

And every stone seems known where’er I’m wending,

for ’mongst such stones did I once run about.

As if they were great giants fiercely contending,

I ask this peak and that who’ll win their bout.

All things remind me in a chain unending

till deep down in the snow the sun goes out.

And till the final sleep one day enfolds me

old memories and shadows will console me.

A very famous poem. For the original, go to here.
To listen to the first two verses with music by Grieg, go to here. 

Poem by the Norwegian writer Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (1832-1910)

The hare and the fox

The fox he lay ’neath the birch-tree root

by the heather.

The hare she scuttled with agile foot

o’er the heather.

The day’s plain sunshine I do declare!

it’s shining here there and everywhere

o’er the heather.

The fox he grinned ’neath the birch-tree root

by the heather.

The hare she scuttled and off did shoot

o’er the heather.

I’m so delighted at everything

shoo-hay, can you match such leaps and springs

o’er the heather?

The fox lay still at the birch-tree root

by the heather.

The hare she tumbled right to his foot

o’er the heather.

But goodness gracious, can that be you! – –

– My dear, and dare you be dancing too

o’er the heather?

To see the original, go to here.

Poem by the Norwegian writer Tarjei Vesaas (1897-1970)

There’s rowing and rowing

The day is past –

and there’s rowing and rowing

The dark mass of rock,

darker than the evening,

leans over the water

with black folds:

A caved-in face

with its mouth in the lake.

No one knows all.

There’s rowing and rowing,

in rings,

for the rock sucks.

Confused splashes on deep water.

Exhausted creaks from wood.

Confused and faithful soul that rows

and soon can be sucked down.

He too stands there

the other,

the one in the rock-folds

in blacker than black,

and listens outwards.

Paralysed with shame.

Stiffly listening.

Stiff with fright

for here there’s rowing.

Then there must be gusts and blue-gleaming

back and forth

like warm breezes

and like frost.

There’s rowing and rowing tonight.

There’s no one seeing and seeing.

No one knows

who licks at the rock

when it is dark.

No one knows the bed

of Lake Angst.

No one knows

who it is that cannot row.

Poem by the Norwegian writer Paal-Helge Haugen (1945- )

Late day, dreary light

Late day, dreary light

in through grimy panes

high up on a wall

some wall or other

in some room or other

in some century or other

In the straw on the floor the dog

an old scrawny bitch

with a swollen belly

is lying on its reeking bed

giving birth, twitching and convulsing

while the light leaves her

slants higher up the wall

Gives birth to wet life in the straw

goes on giving birth beyond all

meaning, all reason

into the night that enters

through panes, down walls

as the convulsions subside

in all the bodies

Poem by the Norwegian writer Åsmund Sveen (1910–1963)

The birdcatcher

He went through the forest in the early light, hidden in the depths

he roamed past me, his steps fading softly in last year’s

leaves. I cried out in joy to the lime tree, glimpsed a golden

heart in its rustling, it quivered so lightly when I flew

to meet it, but the heart was a snare.

Oh then I knew who he was, the one who goes through the forest

setting out snares! I flapped my wings till they bled while the dew

sprayed from the branch, but the snare held. The snare of gold thread held

me fast all day long. The evening came and went with a smile,

friendly, without pity, and darkness crept close. In the dark the owls are

out with their yellow eyes, but I took no notice of them, out of fear

of the birdcatcher I did not not dread them. I called out to

God, he who blackly sweeps through the tree-tops each night, the lord

of all birds: Save me from the birdcatcher! Let the owls

have my heart’s blood!

But when he came in the silent dawn with his long knife and

his heavy gun and leaned over into the leaves and took me

up in his hand, my heart beat like a sky in great tumult.

– Evil birdcatcher! I breathed. His smile was

mild and sorrowful when my eyes broke. I am God,

he whispered. And my blood coloured his huge hands.

Poem by the Norwegian writer Nils Collett Vogt (1864-1937)

Were I but a forest spruce tree –

It’s already now late autumn.

Gone the quiver in the air.

Ice-blue now it stands and stares

at the columns of sleek birch,

which like yellow altar flames

gleam within the forest’s church.

At the winter storm’s arrival –

all the forest starts and shudders

and the altar candles’ light

at first tremble dies from sight,

leaves swirl round like sparks in flurries,

pale the sky grows, snow starts falling, –

tall spruce only are not passive,

but like banners, huge and massive

through the forest halls start calling.

Then it is I roam the forest,

and I hear the wind that’s sighing,

tugging at the well-worn summits,

howling round the rock’s black shelf

that from its great sheerness plummets.

And I think then to myself:

You’re no penny-candle light

that at some faint gust starts dying!

Were I but a forest spruce tree

which, when winter storms convene –

pale the sky grows, snow starts falling –

through the forest halls starts calling

like a mighty unfurled banner,

till the coming summer’s green!

Poem by the Dutch writer Gerrit Komrij

De schoolverlater

Een rijstebrijberg ben ik doorgegaan

Van schoolse weetjes en verplichte stof,

Waar drang naar vrijheid niet was toegestaan

Waar alles op mij viel en niets mij trof –

Tot ik belandde in een open veld,

Ver van de regels en de kouwe drukte,

Waar mij een pauw van wijsheid heeft verteld

En ik de kennis van de bomen plukte.

Ik had voor nutteloosheid alle tijd

En trof daar goud aan als ik kiezels zocht.

Die wereld heette universiteit -

Een wereld die nu, hoor je wel beweren,

Aan wolf en snelheidsduivel wordt verkocht -

Alsof je bankpapier op brood kunt smeren.

The school-leaver

A mountain of rice pud I waded through,

Set reading and a host of bookish facts,

Where every urge for freedom was taboo

Where nothing stuck though all fell on my back.

Until I landed in an open field,

Far from that rule-bound, cold, oppressive place;

Wisdom a peacock to me there revealed

And knowledge from the trees I picked apace.

For uselessness my time was all my own

And I struck gold when all I sought was shale.

As university that world was known –

A world that one can hear folk claim instead

To wolves and speed hogs now is up for sale –

As if you could spread banknotes on your bread.

Poem by the Norwegian writer Eldrid Lunden

Emptiness

Emptiness

is something we only can talk about

from a place outside emptiness

Emptiness does not exist

in a natural

state

In the atmosphere the empty space will

immediately

be invaded by what lies around it

If this seems highly abstract to us

we can set up an empty space

on the lawn and see

what happens

(Eldrid Lunden, 2005)

To see the original poem, go to here.

Poem by the Norwegian writer Olav H. Hauge, 1908-1994

Truth

Truth is a shy bird

a Roc that

roams outside time,

at times before

at times after.

Some say it

doesn’t exist

those who have seen it

stay silent.

I have never thought of truth

as a domestic bird,

but it it was such,

you can try stroking it along its feathers

rather than chasing it into a corner

till it turns owl-eyed and would claw you.

Others consider truth

a cold knife-edge,

it is both

yin and yang,

the snake in the grass,

and the wren lifting from the eagle

when it thinks itself highest.

I have also seen

truth dead:

its eyes those of a frost-stiffened hare.

Poem by the Norwegian poet Harald Sverdrup (1923–92)

Stroke the cat

If you’re feeling down,

then fix your hair.

If you’re still feeling down

then stroke the cat.

I’m not saying it’s cowardly

to take your own life.

To live it takes great courage

and a cat’s wildness,

think of being trapped

in a sack with stones

and submerged in water

(I have seen a cat

with life number ten intact

rub itself up against

its nine-time killer).

A poem by the Dutch poet Hans Dekkers

Max Reger aan het IJ

Halverwege het klarinetkwintet

zoek ik het water, waarop de zon

zijn koude ingewanden legt.

Gedachten stuiteren rond

vallen uiteen in brokken licht.

Meeuwen tuimelen,

terwijl jij langzaam wegglijdt,

diffuser wordt, oplost.

Ik kijk in de zon, wil een pijn voelen.

De laatste noten klinken,

applaus.

Max Reger on the IJ

Halfway through the clarinet quintet

I look for the water, on which the sun

is laying its cold entrails.

Thoughts skitter around

splinter into shards of light.

Seagulls tumble,

while you slowly slide away,

grow more diffuse, dissolve.

I look into the sun, would feel a pain.

The last notes sound,

applause.

A poem by the Norwegian poet Johan Sebastian Welhaven (1807-73)

The snow’s now falling thick and fast

The snow’s now falling thick and fast,

And the boy runs hither and thither.

A great many miles does he slither

And slide now before the day’s past.

Great blocks of snow in the courtyard he rolls,

And into stout soldiers he makes them;

Much effort and toil does it take him.

The soldiers are given eyes made of coal.

He trundles the snow as if in a trance,

While the towering warriors stand gazing;

A breastwork he now works on raising.

The broomstick he gives them serves as a lance.

And now he is done, and his strength is no more;

His hands are both frozen and stinging.

With strong dreams soon to be winging

A restless night the boy has in store.

You hear him exclaim, the tired little one:

‘Tomorrow they all will do battle!’

Then rainclouds the sky shake and rattle,

And his warriors soon are all gone.

(1838)