Adam Oehlenschläger: 'Guldhornene'

The Gold Horns

They peer in pages

of ancient sages,

on opened barrows

their gaze now narrows,

on shield and sword in

each castle ruin,

on runestone boulders

midst bones now moldered.

Old deeds exciting

cast spells if bidden;

but earth keeps hidden 

the ancient writing.

Their gaze unseeing,

Thoughts wild and fleeing

In mists they’re groping.

“You days of glory

lost well past hoping!

when the North shone clearly

with heaven here nearly,

may we glimpse your story!”

Clouds are rushing,

Night is hushing,

Barrows sighing

Roses shying.

The heavens’ highest ceiling

pealing!

The high ones transfigured

are teeming, are teeming,

daubed red for war’s rigours,

their eyes starlike gleaming.

“You who reel and are blind

will find

a relic of bygone year

that will come and disappear!

Its sides full golden

the stamp will be wearing

of times most olden.

Its lesson’s for sharing.

With reverent bearing

our gift you repay us

Of beauties the fairest,

a maid

will this treasure discover!”

They sing and pass over.

The airborne sounds fade.

Black Rimfaxe, fawning

his mouth flecked with lather,

plunges into the ocean.

Gates of the morning

are ope’d by day’s father:

Skinfaxe in motion

with fire seems to leaven

the arch of the heavens.

The birds are all singing.

Dewdrops give showers

To petals of flowers

That breezes are swinging.

And with graceful lilt 

a maiden now dances

with violet-garlands

away to the field.

Her rosy cheeks bright,

Her hands lily-white.

Light as a deer

With spirit so clear

she floats sweetly smiling;

Love-thoughts beguiling

her mind in a tumble

she stumbles!

and sees as she gazes 

golden blazes,

and blushes and shivers

and lifts with a quiver,

amazed at the sight,

from the earth’s black hold

with hands snow-white

the crimson gold.

A peal of

distant thunder!

The North’s

in total wonder

With crowds soon forming

now seething, now swarming

they dig without measure

for yet more treasure.

But no more gold!

Their hope was mistaken.

They see but black mould

from which they’ve been taken.

A century dies!!

O’er summits the cry

again is sounding.

With force astounding

Storm’s floodgates break.

O’er Norway’s peaks

to Denmark’s vales

in lofty halls

once more they gather

the ancient fathers.

“For the precious few

who our gift well knew

who no earthly chains bind

but whose souls rise up

to eternity’s top

who sense what is high

in Nature’s eye

who adoringly learn

divine rays to find,

in suns, violets – in all,

the great and the small

who thirsting still burn

for the Life of Life,

who – oh great spirit

of ancient times! –

see your divine gaze

on its sacred sides,

for them is our stay!

A son of nature,

an unknown creature,

but strong and tall

as his fathers withal,

is tilling his soil,

we will honour his toil –

he’ll once more uncover!”

They sing and pass over.

Black Rimfaxe, fawning

his mouth flecked with lather,

plunges into the ocean.

Gates of the morning

are ope’d by day’s father:

Skinfaxe in motion

with fire seems to leaven

the arch of the heavens.

By woodland brow

The oxen heave

the heavy plough

and furrows cleave.

The plough seems to freeze,

and a shiver is heard

to pass through the trees.

Flocks of birds

cease to call

Holy silence

consecrates all.

The ringing of old

of ancient gold.

Gleaming pair from days of yore

in later ages dazzling.

Strangly they came as before,

on crimson sides so puzzling.

Sacred mystery enshrouds

ancient runes and signs.

A holy aura trembles round

these miracles from outside time.

Honour them, for fate can falter

soon maybe no more they’ll rove.

May Christ’s blood on God’s high altar

fill them, as did blood the grove.

You see gleam as the whole story,

not what’s venerable and high!

Only show their outer glory

to a dull indifferent eye.

Skies grow dark, the storms awaken!

Certain hour, your word is law.

What they gave has been retaken. 

What was sacred is no more.

ALS: 'De parallele wereld'

The parallel world

Yesterday I drove past the ice-rink in Almen, which had not only been hosed with water – there was also ice on it. I hadn’t seen this here for years: ice on the ice rink. A couple of weeks ago, to my amazement, I saw Kenzo Kusuda dance in the Bimhuis. He’s Japanese. With three metal crutches he danced among the tightly packed audience. I was deeply impressed and hoped he would go on dancing for hours, but he didn’t, I was very disappointed. On the way home I thought that perhaps the time had come for me from time to time to make the acquaintance of a parallel world. I once read short stories aloud in a pine wood on Terschelling, along with two musicians who I didn’t know. I had been invited as a talking substitute – the third musician had suddenly fallen ill. They made music on a prepared piano and with countless, impossible sounds. On that occasion too I was impressed and I suggested to them not to take the ferry back to the mainland, but to board the freighter that lay ready to sail to Japan the following day. We could then perform in seaports on the quay so as to earn some money and never return to our mother country again. They agreed, but the following day were not on board, on closer consideration their previous obligations had been given priority. I got bad-tempered and surly on the ship – after a month I got off at an African port and hitchhiked back home. I was not dissatisfied with my role in how things had turned out, I began to understand something about living on the fringe. My knowledge fell into place behind me when there were rumours that in the wood I often walked in an artist worked who nobody had ever seen. I kept a look-out, but never found any trace of him. I had forgotten all about this when I happened to meet him in a café in Almen. I knew that it was him, but he just told me about it when we talked about painting outdoors. He lived in a room in Zutphen, 12 kilometres away. He would cycle to the wood every day, to a spot where there were no paths and no people who walked near there. Two large pieces of sailcloth lay there between which he protected his gear from the wind. He had been doing this for years, no one had ever seen him, he came there every day. I suspected that I was beginning to understand the parallel world. When I later see that there is skatable ice on the ice rink, I have reached my goal.

Robert Gray: 'Diptychon' in Danish translation

DIPTYCHON

1

Min mor fortalte mig om hvordan hun en nat, som ofte skete, 

                      havde holdt sig vågen

i vores træhus, for enden af indkørslens

mørke bladmuld

og ventede på min far, efter værtshusene havde lukket, velvidende

                      at han måtte gå

adskillige miles ‘i hans tilstand’,

hvis ikke en eller anden satte ham af hjemme,

fordi han lang tid før havde kørt sin egen bil ud over en bjergskråning,

og i færd med at blive en legende havde kørt

på en plantages væltede 

bananpalmer, helt ned til dens fod, og nogens dør,

med bilen stejlende, og hurtigt glidende

på en kæmpeflåde

af lemlæstet, saftsivende fiber,

fra hvilken han var klatret ned, uskadt, helt igennem høflig,

og aldrig siden havde kørt.

Denne nat tøvede min mor med at gå ud, og efterlade os børn alene,

og faldt selv i søvn, fuldt påklædt, på den redte seng,

men sprang op, lidt senere, med den grimmeste smag –

så med det samme

at han stadigvæk savnedes – og styrtede ud, halvkvalt,

for at opdage at hun, i søvne, havde bidt halen af

et lille firben, der var trukket mellem hendes læber. Denne bitterhed

                      (plejede jeg at forestille mig),

løb hun ud på verandaen for at spytte ud,

og, stående dér, tør for spyt, så hun ud over den tavse, frosne bush,

og så at byens fjerne lys var døet bort.

Dog holdt min mor aldrig op med det som filosoffer påberåber sig,

                      ‘at yde omsorg’,

skønt hun aldrig havde læst andet end Women’s Weekly,

og kunne være ‘helt umulig’ gennem et par 

                      måltider, selvfølgelig.

Denne omsorg for ting, indser jeg, var hendes eneste ægte ledsager

                      i alle disse år,

Det var som om hun var to personligheder,

en fortravlet person, og en stille anden person, som så hvad

                      der skulle gøres, og

som syntes at træde igennem hende, igen.

Hendes omsorg for alting kunne man se komme til syne ligesom

tidevandets bræmme på saltflader.

Det var det som fik hende til at jage naboens tyr ud af vores

                      have med en kost,

da hun opdagede den i færd med at trampe hendes kimplanter ned –

tilbage, skridt for skridt tvang hun den, gennem det ødelagte hegn,

mens den brølede og stangede efter hende til højre og venstre hele vejen, 

jeg som var fem år gammel råbende på bagtrappen:

‘Gi’ den dog for pokker et par blomster, mor.’

Nej. Hun låste kosteskaftet med udstrakte arme tværs over dens næse

mens hun selv blev skubbet tilbage, brat, tværs over gårdspladsen. Hun

dukkede sig bagved nogen tomatstokke,

og slog den med håndtaget, lige over mulens rungende hulhed,

puffede mod øjnene med hirsebørsten,

og fik sin vilje, jog den brølende ud; imens jeg, i kvaler,

stod og slog mod trinene, rækværket, med en strygejernsledning,

og pludseligt styrtede derned, og blev ligeledes sat på plads,

slået tilbage til det nederste trin, hujende. Og alt,

indså jeg, på grund af disse skrøbelige blade

som hun med det samme begyndte at pusle med, små som musefodspor

                      i den nedtrampede lermuld.

2

Hvorimod, min far blot syntes at bekymre sig om aldrig at 

                      blive opfattet som dranker,

altid iført velpudsede sko.

En dranker definerede han som én der havde glemt en

                      gentlemans

facon.  En gentleman, dybest set, kendes kun,

eksisterer kun, i kraft af hans optræden. Selv havde han de mest perfekte

                      manerer,

så at sige. Jeg kan ikke forestille mig nogen

med en mere kølig og afslappet rolig opførsel. I ham

var al følelse underlagt facon. At børste og bule den hat

man så tog på, eller at se ud over os alle, og så

                      brede sin serviet ud

for at lade måltidet begynde – in en by hvor alle mænd sandsynligvis

en varm aften satte sig for at spise i en undertrøje –

var hans lidenskab. Han var, trods alt, akademiker

(dog uden afsluttende eksamen), noget mere sjældent dengang. Min far,

                      indser jeg, var håbløst melankolsk –

de små, mistroiske små øjnes

stilling, og de smalle læbers, i hans langstrakte ansigt

røbede hver fornøjelses bitterhed, bortset fra formens fornøjelser.

Tit drak han alene

i RSL-klubben, og var blevet set bærende et omhyggeligt udvalgt slips

for at drikke sig fuld i klitterne mens han betragtede havet.

Da han var syg og hjemme om natten, kiggede jeg ind i hans soveværelse

ved den ene ende af en veranda med trådnet,

lige rundt om døren og lidt bag ham,

og så hans uhyggeligt hvælvede hovedskal under lampelyset mens han læste

i cigarettens størknende røg.

Lys skinnede igennem netværket hen på de tætte hortensiahoveder,

og på den store uformelige masse af insekter, som bier på voks,

                      kravlende tøjret

og upåagtet lige ved side af ham. Han syntes at være tilfreds, i disse stunder,

som om han havde gjort alt han kunne for sig selv

og var blevet tvunget til, objektivt, at give op.

Han kunne lide sin kedelige mavesårspatientmad

og den store bunke biblioteksbøger jeg havde hentet. (Mine instrukser

                      var altid:

‘Ikke noget klynkende. Ikke noget af New York jøder;

ikke noget af kvinder, især de franske; ikke noget

oversat fra russisk.’)

Og dog var den eneste gang jeg hørte ham sige at han havde nydt

                      noget som helst

da han talte om bushen, engang. ‘Deroppe i bjergene,’

belærte han mig, idet han pegede sig omkring, ‘når solen stiger op

                      af havet, og man står blandt

disse høje træer, får man fred i sindet.’

Jeg var imponeret. En anden gang, bad han mig om, efter sin død, at

tage hans aske et eller andet sted hen, og ikke lægge ham sammen med

                      de lokale, på kirkegården.

Jeg gik op på et af bjergene han havde nævnt

år tilbage, på den tid på døgnet han havde talt om, når den halv-

                      opstegne sol

var lige så takket som den

på hans infanteritegn,

og dér strøede jeg ham ud, endelig fuldstændigt reduceret, i det

                      våde, vindblæste græs.

Trods al hans afstumpethed overfor min mor, havde jeg for længst

                      accepteret ham.

Han havde, trods alt, givet mig, eller vist mig, det bedste råd,

og havde ladt mig være i fred. Og jeg var kommet nu til det synspunkt at

                      vi alle er patetiske.

Da jeg åbnede hans murstensstore plastikæske denne morgen,

gled min lommekniv

og skar mig i hånden – og så gravede jeg med denne

i hans aske, som viste sig at ligne grålilla marmorstøv,

og følte at jeg ikke behøvede at finde flere ord.

Winter poem by Willem Jan Otten

Op elke tak lag sneeuw ook op de dunste twijg.

Geen wind geen ree geen zucht nog iets verschoof.

Elke tak een hand met op zijn rug een zeepbel

neergedaald en toch intakt. Het sneeuwde niet.

Ach breng mij verder dan de stilte voor,

mij vrezer die in alle ramen wakjes amen

ademt, pers desnoods mij door je oog.

Kwam er geschenen zon, van elke tak zeeg

sneeuw zich sneeuwend zegenend tot sneeuw.

On every branch lay snow down to the slightest twig.

No wind no roe no sigh no thing that stirred.

Each branch a hand with on its back a bubble

floated down and yet intact. It did not snow.

Oh take me further on than stillness will,

I fearer who breathes amen ice-holes in all frosted

panes, if need be squeeze me through your eye.

Were now the sun to shine, from every branch would

drifting snow sift snowing blessing into snow.

gerrit kouwenaar: 'muziek voor het slapen gaan' in danish translation

muziek voor het slapen gaan

Er stond muziek op toen zij hem vond

wat er speelde was zij later vergeten, had zij

afgelegd toegedekt of ingeslikt met zijn leven

zij hoopte dat het strawberries was geweest

zoetrood geneurie op koelere hoogte

en niet de negende kleine steeds weer

voorgoed onvoltooide

maar het liefst dat met die vluchtende vogel

die nooit kon antwoorden waarheen hij op weg was

en onder zijn veren kon uitrusten, inwonen –

musik før man sover ind

Der var musik på da hun fandt ham

det som spilledes havde hun senere glemt, havde hun

lagt af, dækket til eller slugt med hans liv

hun håbede på at det havde været strawberries

en sødrød nynnen i en køligere højde

og ikke den niende lille om og om igen

ufuldendt for altid

men helst det stykke med denne flygtende fugl

der aldrig kunne svare på hvor den var på vej hen

og kunne hvile ud, bosætte sig under sine fjer –

To see all the poems of 'Bezit' in Danish translation, go to here

ALS: 'Gevallen engel'

Fallen angel

I’d like to write something about a man who cycles to work every morning. He lives in the Rivierenbuurt district and cycles to the city centre, near to the Central Station. He has a wife and child. The route he cycles morning and evening has been the same for the past 15 years. This means that he now not only knows the streets, the houses and the tramway lines but also the housewives who have a fixed job, for this was at a time when few women worked outside the home. Over the years the man has fallen in love with a women in the neighbourhood of the Ceintuurbaan. They have never spoken to each other, but because his cycling times are so precise, customs have arisen on both sides the effect of which is rather like low and high tide, sun and moon, day and night. The man is a fallen angel, but he is unaware than the woman knows about this. The woman was born in Sumeria, an area that was once a part of Mesopotamia, The Land between Two Rivers. It is regarded as the first land in the world to have displayed characteristics of a human civilisation. This woman in the neighbourhood of the Ceintuurbaan is in love with the man who cycles twice a day past her house and looks at her as if a history between them could possibly arise. She feels her blood, but also her brains, she knows that he originally comes from the tribe of fallen angels, and she is unwilling to take over that curse. He will not be released, nor will she be forgiven her false step. That is how things lie after thousands of years, and nobody in this young neighbourhood is aware of the fact. Something changes when her husband dies and her children leave the house. The woman changes in her loneliness, she seeks a rapprochement with the cyclist and wishes to forget that he is a fallen angel. The cause may be mere chance, that of the cycle: a puncture. After 15 years his bike gets a puncture outside her house. She immediately feels that this is a sign, she comes out, he has up-ended his bike and is searching for the puncture. They look at each other, she is four thousand years old. Her first words are: ‘Morning star, sun of the dawn light, how deep you have fallen! You who ruled over your peoples have been struck down.’ He sneezes three times and says: ‘Do you have any tissues?’ She goes back into the house to fetch them. He thanks her with a kiss and whispers: ‘It is over, we have become ordinary mortals. I am no longer an angel, you simply live in Amsterdam, you can forget about The Land between Two Rivers.’ She asks: ‘Shall we buy a Christmas tree?’ This, however, is going a bit too far for him, Christmas trees have never been part of the family traditions. At this point the story stalls, the writer’s hand seeks rest. He probably lets the fallen angel mend the puncture, he follows the woman on her final journey to Sumeria,  but he does not record any of this on paper. The years that follow are ordinary and anonymous, as are the lives of practically everybody. The upstairs neighbour of the man is the only one who cannot accept this. He begs the couple to be allowed to mention something about their wedding, two years later. They hesitate, but finally agree to this. He is allowed to be present, but must not expect any large-scale celebration. In February 2022, at Stadsloket Zuid, they are joined in matrimony at half-past nine in the morning. From that moment on, they are like everybody else, humanity that no writer wants to understand, as has actually always been the case.

Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer: 'Indolent Sonnet'

INDOLENT SONNET

waarin de klimaattop in Madrid mislukt

Wanneer een zaak urgent mijn aandacht vraagt,

geen uitstel duldt en echt gedaan moet worden,

wil ik de wekker allereerst vermoorden,

had ik de dag het liefst een dag verdaagd,

blijf ik in bed tot twintig over elf,

voel ik me Don Quichot belaagd door reuzen,

rek ik me kreunend uit op mijn dormeuse,

peil ik stakingsbereidheid bij mezelf

en schaam ik mij. Tenminste schaam ik mij.

In hoge hallen wordt er schaamteloos

getalmd omtrent de redding van de aarde.

Zo gaat er weer een laatste kans voorbij.

Inertie maakt elk hopen hopeloos.

Uit hebzucht laat men de planeet ontaarden.

INDOLENT SONNET

in which the climate summit in Madrid fails

Should urgent matters for attention call,

brook no delay, be on the spot accomplished,

I'd first of all the alarm clock have demolished

had I the day one day have tried to stall,

and if I stay in bed till almost twelve

I’m like Don Quixote round whom monsters throng,

if groaning I stretch out on my chaise longue

I sense reluctant langour in myself

and feel ashamed. At least I feel ashamed.

In lofty halls procrastination’s shameless,

attempts to save the earth are left to rot.

And so the final chance then goes unclaimed.

Inertia makes all hoping seem so helpless.

From greed our planet soon will go to pot.