Calendar poem of the day by P.A. De Genestet

 

Boutade

Oh land of filth and fog, of vile rain chill and stinging,

A sodden fetid plot of vapours dank and damp,

A vast expanse of mire and blocked roads clogged and clinging,

Brimful of gamps and gout, of toothache and of cramp!

Oh dreary mushy swamp, oh farmyard of galoshes,

With marsh frogs, dredgers, cobblers, mud gods overrun,

With every shape and size of duck that therein sploshes,

Receive this autumn dirge from your besnotted son!

To mud your claggy climate makes my blood set slowly;

Song, hunger, joy and peace are all withheld from me.

Pull your galoshes on, ancestral ground most holy,

You – not at my request – once wrested from the sea.

Klaus Høeck - 75th birthday today!

                  totality

                  no rules without an

exception – isn’t that what

                  people always say? –

                  but in that case the

exception itself becomes

                  a rule – ah yes schwamm

                  darüber and it

is precisely that which i

                  am doing right now

                  by crossing the krus

aa border although the pro

                  ject’s name is: denmark

                  because no total

ity can be described from

                  within (the old prob

                  lem) but not from with

out either since the person

                  describing is him

                  self part of the to

tality (das alte pro

                  blem) is himself dan

                  ish – what then so i

drive a bit in the german

                  maze – eingang – ausfahrt

                  or denmark seen from

gottorp castle as in the

                  old days with the count

                  y prefect poet’s

eye and as now with my grey

                  green cloudy gaze: ach

                  das kleine däne

mark wie ich liebe dich – a

                  long the motorway

                  home again to but

ter and bacon – vielen dank

                  für ihren besuch

To see this collection, and six others, in English translation, go to here.

Bob Hanf

This is a section from a long poem 'Christiaan Philippus' mijmeringen over de nachtzijde van het leven' written by Robert (Bob) Hanf, (1894-1944).

 

Amsterdam, home-town unmatched,
by the ruling proles, no less,
sponged on, plundered to excess!

Here I’d still have gone on living

though I’d known this in advance.

Here’s my home. For joy and grieving,

fame, and scorn, and dreamt-of chance

(fame and scorn too but mind’s weaving),

all of this you caused to dance

in canals’ reflecting shine,

in the wide, deserted waters

at the quayside. The old houses

in your nights loomed at close quarters

yet seemed strange; and the moon, in-

quisitive, peeked through slim boughs that

softly swayed on trunks, which smoothing

rain now lent a bronze-green tone;

these, like water-gods aligned,

from their element now risen,

stand, in wavering light imprisoned

like dead people turned to stone.

A poem by the Dutch writer Martin Reints

Old meeting room

On the pushed-together tables

stands a tray with cups

a glass bowl with sachets of milk-powder

a glass bowl with sachets of sugar

and a packet of tea-bags

thermos flasks, cabinets from a distant past

a flap-over fallen into disuse like

an easel in the south of France

where the air shimmers with the heat

so that the cypresses look like filmed cypresses

an empty, undulating landscape with stone walls

and desolate country cottages

museums with old attendants on folding chairs and

successful directors who

walk past while looking at the paintings

cars in car parks

school buses with schoolchildren.

And yet again a 'Morning Song' from B.S. Ingemann!

see the stork on his farm-roof nest

See the stork on his farm-roof nest,

O’er meadows and fields he’s gazing.

A lovely spring day will us soon have blessed,

My long-yearned for season’s here with beauty amazing.

Hear the stork on the farm roof clack,

From woods the glad cuckoo’s calling.

When trees are in leaf it means May Day’s back;

Now Whitsun sun gilds the waves with lustre enthralling.

Now the stork leaves his farm-roof nest;

Through green meadows struts and gazes.

When May Day is here he’s a much-loved guest;

He brings us the time of year whose beauty amazes.

Off the stork flies when autumn’s nigh;

Next year he’ll be back to cheer me.

You summertime guest! Delay your goodbye!

Oh welcome, fair time of year my heart loves so dearly!

Another B.S. Ingemann poem

now all god’s birds from their sleep awake

Now all God’s birds from their sleep awake,

They fly from their nests and start singing;

They praise the Lord God, every effort they make

To thank him for life and for light with their trills sweetly ringing.

On church roof chirrups the swallow gay,

Round houses close by cheeps the sparrow;

They call out: Good morning! they call out Good day!

They call out: God’s peace! God be praised! And shoot off like an arrow.

The small bird’s song to Our Lord is plain;

He knows every soul he’s created;

The praises of poor folk he does not disdain;

He sees what his creatures though tongueless would dearly have stated.

Our God most dear, you see us all too!

You hear in your heaven our voices;

When birds from their nests every day fly anew,

You hear infant praises as part of your throng that rejoices.

This poem has been taken from Ingemann's 'Morgen- og Aftensange'. For other poems from this collection of poems, set to music by Weyse, see the index. 

Dèr Mouw and the Panorama

I hear the gold-framed painting say to me

inaudibly, while I observe what’s shown me:

‘I hang in nothingness, am semblance only

of oak and meadow, cloud and heath and sea;

in me has Brahman’s thought attained what he

in your reality likewise had wished to.

With cosmic Self-Awareness I’ll enrich you;

sink through my semblance into Being – free.’

The Panorama though spoils consecration,

irks with sly, spooked and false representation –

surly and vexed, I seek the honest street

where, joy made keener by unsullied truth,

with clicks and clatter, squeals and shrieks uncouth,

life motors, cycles, trams at breakneck speed.

An explanation of what the Panorama is can be found here.

Grundtvig book launch today!

 

Grant me, God, a tongue to praise you

Grant me, God, a tongue to praise you,

that resoundingly displays you

with a psalmist’s art!

so that I may feel with gladness

he who lauds you knows no sadness,

has an upright heart!

Heav’n your glory is proclaiming,

may I too in praise be naming

you when day is nigh!

and when evening bells are ringing

may my song like larks be winging

through the twilight sky!

There’s no man or beast whatever

for your loving kindness ever

ample praise can show,

you to us in joy and sorrow

give both now as on the morrow

more than angels know!

At your marvels we but wonder,

at your wisdom all must ponder

who have had full share,

only fools seek to conceal

everything with you is real

and beyond compare!

As the grass is every sinner,

ends while he is but beginner,

fades while yet it’s spring,

even heavens are time’s minion,

but in your divine dominion

you are always King!

All your foes will soon be shattered,

yea, as chaff they will be scattered

to earth’s farthest end,

while old age will without ceasing

witness wondrous powers increasing

with your trusted friend!

Foes scarce reel before they tumble.

O’er their graves we, glad and humble,

listen to your word:

As a palm or cedar growing,

righteousness is outward flowing,

covering the earth!

See, from your great forcing houses,

outdoors where the storm carouses,

planted shoots take root!

And, when white as snow appearing,

they will for their Lord be bearing

all their winter fruit!

Even though the days be dour,

in your orchards there will flower

every shoot and bud,

in old age their fruit be bearing,

with the hills and woods declaring:

God is wise and good!

A poem by the Danish writer Piet Hein

GOLF

A grassy plain that to the gaze

could match a billiard table’s baize.

A group of gentlemen outdoors

most dignified in grey plus-fours.

They stand a bit. They walk a bit.

They watch a bit. They drive a bit.

They look for that small ball in vain.

They walk a bit. And stand again...

Oh, you to whom this game we owe,

so well the human heart you know!

How smart the game we give the role

of an excuse to take a stroll!

Another famous Grundtvig song

Enlightenment

Is light but for the learnèd few

to try and spell unstriven?

No, heav’n would bless all others too

and light’s a gift from heaven,

the sun will with the farmer go

the learnèd few eschewing,

it best lights up from top to toe

the one who’s up and doing.

Is light the planets’ sole domain

no sight and speech possessing?

Is not the word our mouth can frame

a light where souls find blessing!

Thereby all spirits we behold,

as sun’s rays bodies brighten,

it strikes like lightning in the soul

and does from clouds enlighten.

Does light on certain terms alone

deserve our praise so poorly?

Is light not everywhere a boon!

For it is life’s eye surely!

Shall we because of errant ways

in spirit’s vault of heaven

on pitch-black darkness rather gaze

than on sun’s blazing beacon!

No, from the North was never heard

that light we would be dimming!

like northern lights in free-born word

’twas seen in heaven gleaming,

and shall at northern pole be seen

not only here ’mongst mortals;

midsummer’s valiant sun’s bright sheen

defies black midnight’s portals!

Enlightenment shall be our joy,

though reeds alone be brightened,

but first and last with common voice

may all life be enlightened;

it has its source in common deed

and grows as it is tended,

may it our common council feed

till evening star is ended!

Dutch poetry calendar's poem of the day - by Gerrit Komrij

DREGS

Poets, we read them and our eyes stay dry.

Where are the times of lifeblood freely shed?

Where songs full of compassion’s heartfelt cry?

The litanies – where now? All gone. Quite dead.

Blood turned to grit and slag. Tears turned to glass.

Sorrow was pasteboard. What now sold a treat

Were grimace, shriek and brutal pain. (En masse,

Per piece, you name it). Vinegar was sweet.

The poet, nowadays, is just a freak.

He clowns around and poses in full view.

What’s left: a single-track, obsessive streak.

The wounds he licks. The music too.

A personal favourite - by the Swedish writer Erik Axel Karlfeldt (1864-1931)

Song after the harvest

Here dances Fridolin,

on sweet wine he is drunk but serene,

on his fields’ yield of grain, berries’ juice like champagne,

and the tune of a waltz wild and keen.

See, with tight-fitting frock coat and tails on his arm,

how he dances each girl at the ball so warm,

till she leans – like a poppy whose drooping stem wanes –

on his breast, tired and blissfully calm.

Here dances Fridolin,

and the wine makes his memory keen –

here his father and forebears found solace so strong

in the fiddle’s high-droning careen.

But you sleep now, old ancestors, on such a night,

and the hand that made strings sing is no longer light,

and your lives and your times are a murmuring song

in which sighing and joy both take flight.

But here dances Fridolin!

See your son, he is strong, lithe and lean,

and with farmers speaks plainly the language they know,

but with learnèd folk Latin’s routine.

Through your new land’s bright gold does his scythe sweep apace,

and his joy is as yours if his barn should lack space,

and his lass he lifts high, like his kin long ago,

toward the harvest moon’s red saucepan face.

A poem by the Swedish writer Ragnar Thoursie (1919-2010)

Your eyes are

Your eyes are a clear sky seen from the fish

waiting at the bottom of a well:

Clouds drift across its billows, quays

and gulls, falling swallows,

a spring lark. And when the underwater

observer moves the film of the surface ripples

slightly – But stones that fall

frighten more the one looking upward

than your cleft and once more

shieldlike raised

mirror of water and clouds.

Many a wanderer has bent down

over you: a dark face seen against dreams;

relieved his thirst and muddied

the flowing vein of clearness;

but gone on his way with water-touched tongue

and firstly raising a cairn.

Time to stop all this November obsession - the kill-off poem from Henrik Nordbrandt

The year has sixteen months: November
December, January, February, March, April
May, June, July, August, September
October, November, November, November, November.

On Kingo's death Dorothe Engelsbretsdatter wrote this poem

 

Simple female remembrance

of the widely famous poet

DOCTOR THOMAS KINGO,

whose sorrowful demise

many quick minds do regret

                  So testifies

                  this simple-minded poetess

Ah! Kingo is but dust again,

                  Who wrote hymns so ensnaring!

That he for his praiseworthy pen

                  In heaven palms is bearing;

Such blissful words: of great address,

                  In song and lamentation

That many a limb cured from distress –

                  Yet dust is now his station.

The troubled solace-thirsting soul

                  Your spirit, hand can quicken!

This the remorse-crushed reed makes whole,

                  consoles the heart that’s stricken.

Adroitly me and all alive

                  The fear of God you’re teaching,

Your songs of praise good harvest give

                  We laud God through your preaching.

How well! How well! did you employ

                  The pound God you entrusted,

The outcome clear you now enjoy

                  Your voice has upwards thrusted!

You gained a place in Sion’s choir

                  And took your seat with honour

From so much worldly ill that’s sired

                  Midst sin and grief: and gone were

Your great high office rank and state,

                  A sad end to your story,

You now have charge o’er things more great,

                  And risen to high glory.

You faithful worker, you gain there

                  Reward for all your labour

And can life’s crown in peace now bear

                  Delights forever savour!

Full rest and peace and joy you’ve found,

                  Off former unrest shaken,

You sleep until the trump shall sound

                  and from the grave awaken.

Devout, with spirit’s solace filled

                  You knew the art of prayer

Though death your sweet voice may have stilled

                  And great the loss we share

E’en so do choruses ring out,

                  Each Christian soul rejoices!

And all continue to sing out

                  While they have tongues and voices.

I die, and live convinced that I

                  At God’s throne shall refind you.

There shall we sing the two of us

                  What God gives us a mind to!

Hallelujah, with angels chime,

                  Triumph and great rejoicing,

We both join in when it is time:

                  Your soul, all sweetly voicing!

For heaven I the earth would leave

                  ’Mongst the devout be dwelling

And have the Saviour me receive,

                  That is my wish compelling.

Both joy and glory that ne’er cease

                  May He you now be granting:

Farewell, God’s man, you left in peace

                  And choruses I’m chanting.

A great Norwegian Kingo admirer - Dorothe Engelbretsdatter (1634-1716)

Weary of the world,

and desirous of heaven

You souls who as did Simeon

                  For heaven so are yearning,

Take leave of this world’s Babylon,

                  This sin-cacked prison spurning,

Refuse not from this deep abyss

In peace to journey unto bliss,

                  When God’s hour is approaching.

We are like some poor flock of owls

                  In places of confusion,

Laboriously we roam and prowl

                  Where rest is but illusion;

Here on this earth is no sure rest,

Nor is there any feathered nest.

                  In Meshech we are strangers.

Oft must our life, so full of care,

                  Beneath the cross be bowing,

Delight that once has been our share

                  Now woe is disendowing;

Change after happiness would spy

Where tares among the wheat do lie

                  And put a stop to gladness.

Some lustful souls do well withal,

                  Find life a bed of roses,

While others are but sorrow’s thralls,

                  Bear crowns of thorns, not posies;

Complaint, constraint and wounds full sore

Do through their restless skin now bore

                  Till death the knot’s untying.

All sin and sorrow pass away,

                  The grave has proof that’s soothing,

When finally the earth and clay

                  The diggers’ spades are smoothing;

For then the body’s found its nest,

For then the soul at last knows rest,

                  And all feuds have their ending.

So now, earth that laments and grieves,

                  That is a trap of evil,

Good night! For heaven I now leave,

                  Rejoice at this upheaval.

There shall eternal joy be mine,

There shall Hosannahs sweetly chime

                  Among the hosts of angels.

In sin and grief mankind you chain,

                  Yea! cause the soul’s frustration

Begone! Limed grave, stronghold of pain!

                  Sion’s palace is my station.

By harmful sinful deeds dismayed,

The many stumbling blocks arrayed

                  That block my pathway forwards.

Come, longed-for Death! Cut through life’s straw,

                  You as your Lord’s gatekeeper

Shall open heaven’s mighty door

                  Though you are too life’s reaper;

If God deems that my time is come,

That sufferings enough are done,

                  That I can cease my weeping.

Almighty God! I cry aloud,

                  Our time here you’ve allotted,

By blessed hour and burial shroud

                  All agony is blotted;

From thralldom’s yoke by mercy freed,

With life’s course fully run indeed,

                  There comes a final treasure

Help’s granted him who to the end

                  resists the world’s beguiling.

A trustful helmsman will e’er fend

                  Against the ocean’s wiling,

He’d rather drown in his dire need

Than let his hand the storm-waves heed

                  That would the helm be seizing.

Oh, Jesus, by your death may I

                  From this world now be leaving,

Let my soul to your bosom fly

                  From sin and days of grieving;

My corpse grant space within my grave,

So I, without my pilgrim’s stave

                  May at your side be resting.

When you on Judgment Day shall fetch

                  The dead to life eternal,

 Touch my grave too with hand outstretched

                  And grant me grace supernal,

May the last trump wake me from sleep

And you my body safely keep

                  Amongst the blessèd chosen.