A Norwegian classic 'Pigen paa Anatomikammeret' (1836) by Henrik Wergeland

Pigen paa Anatomikammeret

– – Jo det er Hende! O lys hid!

Og slip ei Kniven end paaglid

       i denne Armes Hjerte!

O, der er rædsom Vittighed

i Lampens Blik, som stirrer ned

       paa denne døde Smerte.

Saa kold, dengang den aanded, saae

den stolte Verden jo derpaa?

       Og frække Øine skar

det Slør igjennem tidligt, som

den stakkels Piges Fattigdom

       af gyldne Drømme bar.

Som Blomst i Isen frossen ind

jeg seer et Træk paa denne Kind,

       som vel jeg bør at kjende.

Thi Fryden i min Barndomsleeg,

før altfor høit min Skulder steeg,

       – o var den ikke Hende.

Tversover boed’ hun for os,

i Armod født, som i sit Mos

       paa Taget Stedmorsblommen.

Fornemme Folk kun fatted’ svært,

at Blod saa fagert og saa skjært

       af Fattigfolk var kommen.

Ak, mangt sligt Aasyn dog jeg saae

som Maanedsrosens Pragt forgaae,

       som Sommerfuglestøvet!

Dem Skjebnens Haand for haardt vel tog,

og Syndens Spor dem overjog

       som Sneglens Sliim paa Løvet.

The girl in the dissection room

– – Yes, it is her! Oh light here, quick!

Let not the knife yet even flick

       across this poor girl’s heart!

Oh, what cruel irony does glow

in this lamp’s gaze that stares down so

       on dead pain set apart.

So cold, yet when it breathed did not

the proud world gaze at it a lot?

       And bold eyes soon sliced through

the veil of golden dreams that she

the poor girl against poverty

       wore when as child she grew.

Like flower frozen in the ice

this cheek bears traits that in a trice

       should be well-known to me.

For childhood games that brought me joy,

before I was no longer boy,

       – Oh surely it was she.

She lived just opposite from us,

of humble birth, like in its moss

       the roof’s heartsease could thrive.

Fine folk could hardly contemplate

that blood so fair and delicate

       from paupers could derive.

Ah, many a face as this saw I

like monthly rose’s splendour die,

       as butterfly-dust brief!

Fate’s hand too firmly must have grasped,

and sin’s trace to such lives have clasped

       like snail’s slime on the leaf.

The poem 'Jordaan' by Anneke Brassinga in an English version

Jordaan, Amsterdam

Palmgracht’s colonnade, a heaven-reef the cloudshore

reaching out to, distantly oncoming, an evening sea 

whose mother-of-pearl I tinged with my fiery glow now

I was welkin and revelation, radiance was I where

trembling summer verdure warped and wefted in water-

mirror-ripples, the contrailing swallows high above flitted

through warm breeze of earth’s breathing – now light

began to dwindle into gloaming and I

perceived: this waiting alone has been your presence.

 To see the poem in the original, go to here

'Waarover spreken' - a poem by Hugo Claus

WHAT TO SPEAK ABOUT

What to speak about tonight? And preach

in a land we recognise, tolerate,

seldom forget.

That country with its droll beginnings,

its clammy climate, its sapless stories

about the old days,

its inhabitants, greedy till their final fall

among the cauliflowers.

They keep on multiplying

in a paradise of their own imagining,

hankering for happiness, shivering, mouths full of porridge.

Just as in nature

which depilates our puny hills,

scorches our pastures, poisons our air,

the guileless cows graze on.

Speak about the writings of this land,

printed matter full of question marks

on the patient paper

that time and again is shocked by its history

and so resorts to concealing shorthand.

Speak about the curtains

that people draw around themselves.

But still we hear them, the stinking

primates that stalk each other in rooms.

Just as in nature

the hibiscus gives off no scent,

that the innocent cows do, becoming bogged

in the piss-logged earth.

Speak in that land of glittering grass

in which man,

intemperate worm,.dreaming carcass,

dwells among the corpses which dead as they are

remain obedient to our memory.

Just as our nature expects a single,

simple miracle that one day will finally

explain what we were,

not only this remote spectacle

thrown together by time.

Speak about that time which, they said,

would mark as a brand and palimpsest?

We lived in an aged of using

and being usable.

What defence against such?

What festive arse-feathers?

What cellar song? Perhaps.

Say it. Perhaps.

A few swift scratches in slate

and that’s the outline of your love.

Fingerprints in the clay are her hips.

Phonemes of joy sometimes sounded

if she, when she, called you like a cat.

Speaking about her presence

wakens the blue hour of twilight.

Just as in nature

the merciless, glassy, blue azure

of our planet seen from Apollo..

And though from simply speaking

your festive cap begins to feel heavy

and the lifeline in your palm

starts festering

still, notwithstanding, nevertheless

honour the flowering

of the shadows that inhabit us,

the shadows begging for consolation.

And still stroke her shoulder blade.

Like the back of a hunchback

Still hankering for a ferocious happiness.

A medieval Dutch poem about grief - Egidius

Rondeel

Egidius, waer bestu bleven?

Mi lanct na di, gheselle mijn.

Du coors de doot, du liets mi tleven.

Dat was gheselscap goet ende fijn,

Het sceen teen moeste ghestorven sijn.

Nu bestu in den troon verheven

Claerre dan der zonnen schijn,

Alle vruecht es di ghegheven.

Egidius, waer bestu bleven?

Mi lanct na di, gheselle mijn.

Du coors de doot, du liets mi tleven.

Nu bidt vor mi: ic moet noch sneven

Ende in de weerelt lijden pijn.

Verware mijn stede di beneven:

Ic moet noch zinghen een liedekijn.

Nochtan moet emmer ghestorven sijn.

Egidius, waer bestu bleven?

Mi lanct na di, gheselle mijn.

Du coors de doot, du liets mi tleven.

Rondel

Egidius, where shall I find thee?

I long for thee, dear friend of mine.

Thou’st suffered death, to life consigned me.

Sweet company we had and fine,

Yet one must die and the other pine.

Now at the throne mayst thou enshrined be,

There as a brightest sun to shine,

With bliss that’s unalloyed assigned thee.

Egidius, where shall I find thee?

I long for thee, dear friend of mine.

Thou’st suffered death, to life consigned me.

Now pray for me: thy death’s behind thee,

I to this harsh world must resign.

Keep my place by thee safe, I mind thee:

I still must sing my song’s each line.

Yet unto death all lives incline.

Egidius, where shall I find thee?

I long for thee, dear friend of mine.

Thou’st suffered death, to life consigned me.