Medieval Norwegian Ballad of the Dream (Maren Ramskeid version)

The Ballad of the Dream

Olaf he was a fine young man

like a sallow bush the same

Father and mother they wished him well

from the time that he spoke their name.

– And it was Olaf Aaknesonen who slept a sleep so long –

Olaf he was a fine young man

like a sallow twig the same

Father and mother they wished him well

from the time to this earth he came.

– It was etc.

He laid him down a Christmas Eve

and soon fell fast asleep,

he did not wake till past Twelfth Night

when folk their church shall keep,

He did not wake till past Twelfth Night

when sun’s dawn rays did gleam

today I will be off to church

I wish to tell my dream.

He did not wake till past Twelfth Night

when sun’s rays ended his dream

then did he saddle his fine steed

its harness like gold did gleam

Now at the altar you do stand

and reel prayers off by the ream

I in porch outside will stand

where I will tell my dream.

First on my journey I set out

o’er a plain of sand and thorns,

my scarlet cloak was sorely rent

from each finger the nail was torn.

– For the moon shines bright and the roads are endless wide –

Then on my journey I set out

through the narrow ring of thorns

my scarlet cloak was sorely rent

from each toe the nail was torn.

– For the moon shines etc.

Then I arrived at Gjallar bridge

a bad place to go o’er

The hounds they bite the snakes they sting

and the bulls stand ready to gore.

There did I see two snakes that fought

that struck at each other’s head

and there were siblings in that place

that wanted each other to wed.

Waded have I through miry bogs

where I foot can never touch ground

Crossed over Gjallar bridge have I

with grave-earth in my mouth.

Blessed are those who here on earth

the poor man gave some shoes

He need not walk o’er the thorny heath

barefoot should he not choose.

And blessed are those who here on earth

the poor man gave some rye

he need not take a dizzy walk

on Gjeddar bridge so high.

And blessed are those who here on earth

the poor man gave some corn

he need not fear on Gjeddar bridge

the fierce bull’s sharp-tipped horn.

And blessed are those who here on earth

the poor man gave some bread

he need not in the other realm

of any harm be in dread.

And blessed are those who here on earth

the poor man clothes did give

he need not fear in the other realm

with hatred or mocking to live.

Then I set out in wintertime

where the ice was glittering blue

but God put it clearly in my mind

so from there I fast withdrew.

Then did I see in wintertime

all on my right hand

I caught a glimpse of paradise

that gleamed like a distant land.

Then did I glimpse paradise

it could not have gone better for me

there with red gold on her hands

my godmother I did see.

There did I see my godmother

it could not have been better for me

now set you out to Broksvalin

for there Judgment Day shall be.

– The moon shines bright and the roads are endless wide –

Then it was I met the man

his cloak was blue to see

a child he bore upon his arm

and sank down to his knee.

– In Broksvalin for there Judgment Day shall be –

There it was I met a man

his cloak it was of lead

his sorry soul upon this earth

was miserly indeed.

– In Broksvalin etc.

A mighty host came from the north

and now I feared the worst

With Grizzly Greybeard at its head

upon a jet-black horse.

A mighty host came from the south,

and now I hoped the best

Archangel Michael at its head

closest to Jesus Christ.

A mighty host came from the south

and slowly it did ride

Archangel Michael at its head

his horn was by his side.

Archangel Michael took his horn

and blew it loud and clear

And now for every living soul

does Judgment Day draw near.

But then each sinful mortal shook

like aspen leaves in the wind

and each and every soul alive

shed tears for every sin.

Archangel Michael took the scales

and all did pay in kind,

all sinful souls that he there weighed

were to Jesus Christ consigned.

Then did I wake up when past Twelfth Night

after the midnight chime

may God preserve both one and all

who are out at such a time.

– It was Olaf Aakneson who slept a sleep so long

I first wake up at past Twelfth Night

have slept so long it seems

it is temptation to every soul

to fall into such dreams.

– And it was etc.

Poem from the cycle 'Laughing Crows' by the Swedish writer Ragnar Thoursie

XXVII

                                                 Inspection of Granhult’s old church

‘The evil elf bit without warning deep into my heart.’

Then did I flee to the Lord’s sacred sanctuary –

but found here too a place full of Devils painted on wood

in great magnificence, in green and gold, with jowls

run red and venom running down for a hundred years.

What succour came from the Vicar’s words and Dove above his head!

I was tormented by endless singing, from old crones with dragons’

necks and old men like me on the edge of the grave.

Only a deceased field-mouse under the pew kept my heart

awake. Finally the litany was over. We trooped out like

criminals. Though in the parish house the soul felt freer.

– God’s word is great; but its light does not light up our dead bodies

until after talk of this and that and several cups of coffee.

Poem by the Dutch writer Menno Wigman

MISUNDERSTANDING

This poem will be sad. I do not quite know why

I’m coughing up this secret, but for the past two

months or more the thought’s been haunting me

that poetry is not compassion. Rather an illness

shared with a handful of quite hopeless idiots,

an overcooked complaint that others will find dull

and after dark – it has no powers to heal.

The room is still a room, the bed a bed.

My life's loused up by poetry and even

though I once knew better, I don’t kid myself

when with this heap of print I plague three score

poor readers maybe more, or worse, have two trees felled.

Poem by the Norwegian/Danish writer Ludvig Holberg (1684-1754)

Til borgmesteren, der netop havde

Overstaaet en alvorlig sygdom

Vi gratulerer dig til din genvundne Helse!

Da du for Døden laa bad alle for din Frelse.

Grund havde vi dertil. Vi alle bange var,

din Efterfølger blev en endnu større Nar.

To the mayor, who had just

got through a serious illness

On your recovered health we would congratulate you!

When at death’s door we prayed that life might reinstate you.

For this we had good reason. All of us did dread

we’d get an even greater ninny in your stead.

Poem by the Norwegian writer Arnljot Eggen (1923-2009)

Village in an underdeveloped country

My small community in Norway
was also ravaged by tuberculosis
Young girls with high fevers lay screaming
that they didn’t want to die
Most of them had all their teeth pulled out
before they were twenty
The draughty old houses there
were also picturesque
For tourists
We played the five-card game for a cigarette
and sat on a doorstep and spat
That’s how you passed the time
when you didn’t have a job or go to school
There was ‘such peace and quiet’ about the place
like in the village here

I return home once more,
in strange clothes
I’ve been away about twenty-five years
I’ve lived in a country that wasn’t ours
Do you still recognise me, brothers

One more from Gerrit Komrij

NIEUWE KERKSTRAAT

The street is silent. You like walking there.

It seems unlived in, though, you ascertain.

‘No bread today’ a note says. You could swear

You’re in the eye of some great hurricane.

You whistle all the Marseillaise much louder.

Catch cholera. Catch galloping consumption.

Level with Top-Class Launderer ‘Van Buiten’

You glimpse a shuffling tramp all of a sudden.

‘The end is nigh,’ he cries. His babbles worsen.

He sputters plegm. He really is a baddun.

You well know who it is. It’s you in person.

Though you pretend you don’t know him from Adam.

Short poem by Rien Vroegindeweij

Poetry

Paper and pen

Day and night

Until way past when.

Most of Komrij's poems feel like sonnets - this one is one

 

BIOGRAPHY

A youth of shammy cloths and bacon rind,

Of vegetating with hydraulic jacks,

No understanding skill of any kind

And all that fuss about death at his back.

A middle age where he just feels constricted

By job careerists who display disdain,

While a pinched leering wife’s on him inflicted

And he just longs for summer nights, in vain.

During his final years his drunken spouse

Picks on his dentures and his gammy bowels.

She blows her top. She’s always on the moan.

A gallant noose comes gently floating past.

He puts his head inside it and, at last,

Three seconds of pure joy – the first he’s known.