Stefan George poem in English and also a Swedish version by Vilhelm Ekelund

Wir schreiten auf und ab im reichen flitter

Wir schreiten auf und ab im reichen flitter

Des buchenganges beinah bis zum tore

Und sehen aussen in dem feld vom gitter

Den mandelbaum zum zweitenmal im flore.

Wir suchen nach den schattenfreien bänken

Dort wo uns niemals fremde stimmen scheuchten ·

In träumen unsre arme sich verschränken ·

Wir laben uns am langen milden leuchten

Wir fühlen dankbar wie zu leisem brausen

Von wipfeln strahlenspuren auf uns tropfen

Und blicken nur und horchen wenn in pausen

Die reifen früchte an den boden klopfen.

In beech-tree avenue’s rich tinselled light

In beech-tree avenue’s rich tinselled light

We stroll until we almost reach the gate

Through railings in the field outside we sight

The almond tree in second blossom’s spate.

We search for benches where no shadows lie

There where strange voices never drive away ·

In dreams our arms embrace as time goes by ·

We drink our fill of each mild-gleaming ray

Feel gratefully how sunlight-traces here

Drip down on us to tree-tops’ soughing sound

And only gaze and listen when we hear

The ripe fruits’ gentle knocking on the ground.

Vi vandra upp och ned den gamla bokallen

Vi vandra upp och ned den gamla bokallen.

Septemberglansen varm i gyllne rikedom

dess kronor lyser milt, och ifrån gångens grindar

se vi för andra gång vårt mandelträd  i blom.

Och bänken är där, fri från skugga står den mitt i

det vita ljuset, runt omkring är trädens brus,

och våg på våg går sakta skridande förbi oss

och söver in oss ljuvt i sina rytmers sus.

Vi sitta lyssnande och slutna tätt tillsamman

och sjunka sakta ned i denna klangvågs svall

och väckas endast när i vindens paus och saktning

mot marken dämpat slår den mogna fruktens fall.

'Sorgen' from Ekelund's collection 'Melodier i skymning' (1902)

Grief

In the cemetery hyacinths and tulips are in flower

– hyacinths cool and gleaming in the shade by

the dark-green cypress, tulips flaming like open

red hearts up from the naked soil. It is

spring, people die every day, and with each passing

evening the scent grows stronger and stronger from the

many new clusters of flowers.

       All this ostentatious grief, how coarse! How loud-

mouthed!

       – There lies a grave at the very outermost

edge of the cemetery, all on its own in the stony

ground. It is scarcely a grave, there is no beautifully

shaped mound over it, it is quite simply a

hollow and nothing else; – with earth and tussocks

tossed haphazardly and hastily around

it. No wreaths lie on the grave, all that marks it

is a simple, crude batten, a strip of wood with a

wrongly spelt name cut into it with a knife:

                      ELEN

       I walk out there in the evenings, and my heart

feels humble at the sight of this lonely grave lying

there as if on sufferance, with no intention to appeal

to the sympathy of one living, so far removed from

the clamorous grief of the wealthy...

       It is like a poem to me, that grave.

A symbol of quiet grief, so movingly simple as

grief is – grief that only wishes to hide far

away from everyone, be spared all well-meaning

words, die in silence far far away in the farthest

corner of the wood like a mortally wounded animal.

Perhaps there is no one except me in the whole wide

world who thinks of this grave; nobody ever

comes here...

(To download a pdf of this and Ekelund's collected poems, go to here)

Ekelund pares down Goethe to a minimum

Ekelund again - the convalescent heart

'Cor inquietum' poem by the Swedish poet Vilhelm Ekelund

Aldrig kan själens

längtan stillas,

icke jordens riken,

brusande städer

och hafvens glans

förmå att lindra

dess eviga oro.

O, hvem spelar

dessa toner,

denne svidande musik

på mitt hjärtas

strängar, spända

alltid, alltid

alltför hårdt?

Nothing soul’s longing

e’er appeases,

none of earth’s dominions,

dull-roaring cities

or oceans’ gleam

can soothe completely

its fixed agitation.

O, who’s playing

all this music,

these so sorely smarting notes

on my aching

heartstrings, tautened

always, always,

far too tight?

A full-throated Jeppe Aakjær

'Father' - another poem by Andy Fierens

FATHER

the table was laid out for two

the meat was tender

when there was a knock

who’s there? my wife said

while she looked away

and washed her hands

i opened the door

there were many of them

as far as the horizon

they filled the landscape

i knew who they were

although i’d never seen them before

their looks were stern

what have you done?

they ask in unison

who is it? my wife called out

the meat was ready

rare and soft

in front of me stood the seed

that i had carelessly spilt

since my youth

all the seed that had

ever flowed from me

it had germinated into grain

and come back to me

they were rough and transparent

incomplete, since they lacked

a female component

father, what is it you have done?

they asked once more

who is it? my wife called out

i pulled the door some more towards me

transfixed i looked at it

that restless sperm of mine

It’s complicated, i told them

for i was a man and a coward

blushing i thought of the life

that has slipped through my fingers

nameless and naked

they asked

a third time why

i gave a deep swallow

it didn’t help

in veils of mist i then saw

how they started to become blurred

i went on standing there till i was sure

that all traces had been erased

then i went inside

and closed the curtains

who was it? my wife asked

she cut the flesh

that was pink

i chewed far too long

and told her it was tasty

so tender and soft

my wife did not notice my suffering

she had her own cross to bear

that night while she slept

i tossed and turned

and sighed deeply

dejectedly i stood up

and counted the blisters

on my hands

when i pricked them with a needle

they seemed to be full of tears

it was the work of many years