zkv77: 'Off the hook'

ALS: 'Sokrates'

ALS: 'Haas'

ALS: 'Nergens'

ALS: 'Maaltijd'

ALS: 'Jongevos'

ALS: 'De brief'

ALS: 'wortels'

zkv76

ALS: 'Verdacht'

ALS: 'Welvaart'

ALS: 'Spandoeken'

Famous Nijhoff poem (Ik ging naar Bommel om de brug te zien)

DE MOEDER DE VROUW

Ik ging naar Bommel om de brug te zien.

Ik zag de nieuwe brug. Twee overzijden

die elkaar vroeger schenen te vermijden

worden weer buren. Een minuut of tien

dat ik daar lag, in ’t gras, mijn thee gedronken

mijn hoofd vol van het landschap wijd en zijd –

laat mij daar midden uit de oneindigheid

een stem vernemen dat mijn oren klonken.

Het was een vrouw. Het schip dat zij bevoer

kwam langzaamaan stroom af door de brug gevaren.

Zij was alleen aan dek, zij stond bij ’t roer,

en wat zij zong hoorde ik dat psalmen waren.

O, dacht ik, o dat daar mijn moeder voer.

Prijs God zong zij, Zijn hand zal u bewaren.

‘THE OLD LADY’

I went to Bommel just to see the bridge.

I saw the new bridge. Two opposing shores

that shunned each other seemingly before

are neighbours once again. A grassy verge

I lay on, tea consumed, for some ten minutes

my head filled with the landscape far and wide –

when from that endlessness on every side

this voice came, and my ears resounded with it.

It was a woman. And the boat she steered

was passing downstream through the bridge quite slowly.

She stood there at the helm, alone on deck,

and what she sang were hymns, I now could hear.

Oh, I thought, oh, were mother there instead.

Praise God she sang, His hand shall safely hold thee.

ALS: Lying

zkv75

A.L. Snijders is back! 'Aporie'

'Jeg gik mig ud en sommerdag...'

Jeg gik mig ud en sommerdag

Jeg gik mig ud en sommerdag at høre
fuglesang, som hjertet kunne røre,
i de dybe dale,
mellem nattergale
og de andre fugle små, som tale.

Der sad en lille fugl i bøgelunden,
sødt den sang i sommer-aftenstunden,
i de grønne sale,
mellem nattergale
og de andre fugle små, som tale.

Den sang så sødt om dejligst vang og vænge,
hvor kærminder gro, som græs i enge,
 
Den sang og sødt om bølger blå og hvide
under ø, hvor danske snekker skride,
 
Den sang om alt, hvad det er lyst at høre,
allerhelst, hvad hjertet dybt kan røre,
 
Den sang, som ingen andre fugle sjunge,
leged liflig med min moders tunge,
 
Den sang som talt ud af mit eget hjerte,
toner gav den al min fryd og smerte,
 
Da nynned jeg så småt i aftenstunden:
Flyv, Guldtop! flyv rundt i bøgelunden,
 
O, flyv fra Øresund til Danevirke!
syng til dans, til skole og til kirke,
 
På folkets modersmål, med Danmarks tunge,
syng, som ingen andre fugle sjunge,
 
Da mærke alle, som har mødre kære,
det er godt i Danemark at være,
 
Da gløder alt, hvad solen har bestrålet,
som det røde guld på modersmålet,

i de dybe dale,
mellem nattergale
og de andre fugle små, som tale.

I walked abroad one summer’s day

I walked abroad one summer’s day to hear

songs of birds that through my heart could sear,
in the deep, green dales,
midst the nightingales
and each bird that now my heart regales.

A little bird sat in the beech-tree grove,

sweet it sang in summer’s twilight mauve,
in the leafy vales,
midst the nightingales
and each bird that now my heart regales.

It sang so sweet of meadows lush and low,

where like grass forgetmenots do grow.

It sang so sweet of waves both blue and white

out at sea where Danish vessels glide,

It sang of everything one fain would hear,
most of all what through the heart can sear,
 
It sang as no bird else has ever sung,

played so grandly with my mother tongue,

It sang as if my heart itself did speak,

pain and joy were notes from its small beak,
 
And then I murmured in the twilight mauve:
Fly, Gold Crest! fly around your beech-tree grove,
 
Oh, fly from north to south, from west to east,

sing at every school, church, dance and feast,

In common Danish, in our mother tongue,

sing aloud like no bird else has sung,

Then all who hold their mothers dear will know

Denmark is a place where hearts can grow,

Then all will gleam that’s lit up by the sun,

like red gold gleams upon our mother tongue,

in the deep, green dales,
midst the nightingales
and each bird that now my heart regales.

A Dèr Mouw 'high and low' poem: Parthenon and barrel organ

Ik sprak enthousiast over ’t Parthenon,

hoe ‘t op verende berg zweefde, als een blank

snaarinstrument, dat door zijn zuilen, rank,

de wereldlucht tot aan de horizon

maakte tot één akkoord van marmren klank -

toen plotseling een draaiorgel begon

door de open deuren, dwars over ’t balkon,

te spugen zijn kwijldraderig gejank.

En ’k dacht: Ja, Brahman is de Kunstenaar:

Hij, Shakespeares voorbeeld, zet vlak naast elkaar

het hoogverhevene en het laagkomieke.

En wat in Cyrano de Bergerac

de bakker zei, toen men zijn glaswerk brak,

dacht ik: Il casse tout, c’est magnifique.

I rhapsodised about the Parthenon,

afloat its springy mountain like some white

string instrument that through its columns, slight,

gathered the expanse of the world sky in one

great unifying chord of marble sound –

when suddenly a barrel organ, through

the open doors, across the terrace, spewed

its viscous slobber as its owner ground.

Yes, I thought, Brahman’s the Artist: he chose,

as later Shakespeare did, to juxtapose

the elevated and the tongue-in-cheek.

And what in Cyrano de Bergerac

the baker said, with all his glassware smashed,

I thought: Il casse tout, c’est magnifique.

Frans Michael Franzén - champagne poem

Champagnevinet

Drick! de förflyga de susande

                                 Perlorna: Drick!

Skynda! Det ljufva, det ädla, det höga

                                 Söker du fåfängt, se’n anden förgick.

Dåren, som fäste vid skummet sitt öga,

                                 Vatten, blott vatten, på läpparne fick.

Njut! de försvinna, de tjusande

                                 Stunderna: njut!

Ytterst förfinade, känslan och löjet

                                 Reta och domna i samma minut.

Snappa i flykten behaget och nöjet:

                                 Högst är raketen, i det han går ut.

Snar är på jorden den rusande

                                 Glädjen, ack! snar.

Fångad af ynglingens spända förhoppning,

                                 Än ur en drufva, förädlad och rar,

Än från en mun, lik en ros i sin knoppning,

                                 Strax till sitt hem öfver molnen hon far.

Champagne wine

Drink! they soon vanish the fast-climbing

                                 Strings of pearls, drink!

Quick now! The beautiful, noble, or lofty

                                 Vainly you seek, once the spirit’s laid waste.

Mad is the man who on foam gazes oftly,

                                 Water, just water is all he will taste.

Feast! they’re soon banished the spell-binding

                                 Hours of joy, feast!

Feeling and laughter, refined beyond measure

                                 At the same instant can rouse and benumb.

Catch in mid-flight all delight and all pleasure!

                                 Rockets reach highest whilst their end is come.

Brief is on earth every mind-blinding

                                 Gladness, ah! brief!

Captured by young man’s high hopes so full-blooded,

                                 Now from a grape at its choicest and rare,

Now from a mouth like a rose that’s just budded,

                                 Straight to its home o’er the clouds she’ll repair.

Frans Michael Franzén (1772-1847)