Halbo C. Kool: 'Le poète pur parle'

Le poète pur parle

Ik ben een smerig rijmelaar

met roos en vet in ’t sluike haar,

die, ongewasschen, ongeborsteld,

al zweetend met zijn rijmen worstelt

om, is per slot een vers gelukt,

na ’n haastig middagmaal verrukt,

op alle muzen te gaan klinken

en me een goeden roes te drinken,

want zonder muze, zonder rijm

ben ik een slordig sliertje slijm,

dat om zijn kleinheid te vergeten

zijn heil zoekt in onmatig eten,

in drank en spel en vrijerij,

een kermisklant, zoo vogelvrij …

Halbo C. Kool

In: Scherven (1932)

Le poète pur parle

A grubby rhymester without flair,

with dandruff in lank, greasy hair,

I wrestle here unwashed, unbrushed

quite sweaty with my rhymes and flushed,

should finally a line succeed,

I thrilled, with dinner gulped at speed,

with every muse my glass start clinking

and set about some heavy drinking

for with no muse, devoid of rhyme

I’m just a slapdash string of slime

who would forget his petty cringing

and seek salvation in mere bingeing,

in drink and gambling, wild excess,

a showman, outlaw, nothing less …

Dèr Mouw: The only poem ever to start with 'Spitsbogend'

Spitsbogend zetten kerkhofpopulieren

op zilvren voorjaarslucht hun diagrammen:

als ordinaten staan loodrecht de stammen,

waarom de lijnenfantazieën zwieren.

Ze staan als geel getong van ijle vlammen:

’t is of dood-zelf het Pinksterfeest wou vieren;

ze staan als lang orkest van reuz’ge lieren:

’t is of dood preludeerde in vlucht van gammen;

ze staan als sprok’ge groei van gouden veren,

uit dons van groen rijzend de grijze schachten:

’t is of, Phoenix, met nieuw ontvlamde krachten

het leven uit de dood terug wou keren.

Op eens – geruis, geruis. – Ik sta te wachten,

of ’t kerkhof vliegen gaat naar zonnesferen.

The churchyard poplars, gothic-arching, form

spring diagrams against the silver sky:

as ordinates the trunks, erect, stand high

and round them lines of fantasies all swarm.

They stand like yellow tongues of flaming trails:

it’s as if death itself’s observing Whitsun;

they stand, a giant-lyre orchestra now risen:

as if death were preluding flights of scales;

they stand like airy growth of golden feathers

their tall grey shafts of green down upwards soar:

it’s as if Phoenix, flaring strength rewon,

would have life to return from death once more.

All at once – rustling – and I wonder whether

the churchyard’s flying off to realms of sun.

Nils Ferlin: 'Jag kunde ju vara...

Jag kunde ju vara ...

 

En luffare är jag — vad mera,

jag kunde ju vara en präst,

jag kunde ju vara en brukspatron

en bonde eller en häst ...

 

Jag kunde ju vara en svala,

en kråka eller en snok,

en snok — eller kanske en blomma,

ett sommarstänk i en bok ...

 

Nå — öster börjar i väster

och söder slutar i norr,

virrig är jag av frågor

och halsen är fan så torr ...

 

... en luffare är jag, som halkar

förbi i vägarnas grus.

Mitt hjärta är hett som en masugn

och kallt som ett fattighus.

 

 

I could of course be

 

A tramp’s what I am - what else then,

I could be a vicar of course,

a foundry proprietor too perhaps

a farmer or just a horse…

 

I could of course just be a swallow,

a grass snake or maybe a rook,

if not a snake then a flower,

a summer’s dash in a book…

 

Well, east has in west its beginning

and south ends in north as well,

I get confused by questions

my throat is as dry as hell…

 

…a tramp’s what I am who’s lurching

around in the dust of the road.

My heart is as hot as a furnace

yet a poor man’s cold abode.

 

 

Lars Gustafsson: 'Tranflog'

(Flight of cranes over Skåne, April morning.

Villanella)

The light tracks of a bird are hard to find again.

The number of wild cranes is also very few.

Soon shall the withered grass burn till no straws remain.

This morning was a joyful woman’s reign

whose voice in lust’s short instant rush rose pure and true:

The light tracks of a bird are hard to find again.

All birds are in some secret goddess’s domain,

who taught  them flight and unrest, fleeing staying too.

Soon shall the withered grass burn till no straws remain.

They now change places at the front, the forward dame

by her male consort, and slide off towards the blue.

The light tracks of a bird are hard to find again.

Unfathomable moment! You cannot retain

your form, nor can you slide away anew.

Soon shall the withered grass burn till no straws remain.

And this white blind-born morning would force me retain

the guilt that was my death, which I in secret had to rue.

The light tracks of a bird are hard to find again.

Soon shall the withered grass burn till no straws remain.

Lars Gustafsson: 'Skäggdoppingen'

4 (Skäggdoppingen)

I de rena klara höstkvällarna

i små grupper framför motorbåtens stäv.

Och försvinnande utan rädsla, utan iver,

enbart därför att detta,

att försvinna,

är dess självklara konstart.

Jag har ofta önskat

att jag kunde följa den

också på dess andra flykt.

Ser den vattenytan

som en andra himmel?

Hur är dess tunga vingeslag under vattnet?

Tror den sig vara

samma fågel i två skilda rymder?

Den ena behärskad av vindar,

den andra av svala djupströmmar?

Trädet med dallrande löv.

Sjögräsets långa hår i strömmen

där den kalla bottenkällan faller ut.

Hur kan den föra

så skilda ting till samma liv?

Eller tror den sig vara

två fåglar

som möts ett ögonblick

i vattenytans hisnande och stumma gräns?

4 (The didapper)  (strictly: great crested grebe)

In the pure clear autumn evenings

in small groups ahead of the motorboat’s prow.

And disappearing without fear, without flurry,

simply because

disappearing

is its natural art-form.

I have often wished

that I could follow it

also on its other flight.

Does it view the water’s surface

as a second sky?

What are its heavy wing-strokes under water like?

Does it consider itself

the same bird in two separate spaces?

The one ruled by winds,

the other by cool deep currents?

The tree with quivering leaves.

The long tresses of the sea-grass in the current

where the cold bottom spring meets the lake.

How can it fuse

such separate things into one life?

Or does it consider itself

two birds

that meet for an instant at the

dizzying, mute boundary of the water’s surface?

Holger Drachmann: 'Ad kendte Veje'

AD KENDTE VEJE

 

O hvor hvert Fjed dog er gammeltungt,

       naar Vejen skal trædes tilbage;

       Trittet var let, saa tyveaarsungt,

       da det gik mod de dejlige Dage.

       Liden Fugl paa vor Vej

       havde travlt med at synge

       sin Elskovssang;

       i hver Bøgetræsgynge

       var Legen i Gang, —

       nu synges, nu leges der ej.

       Kun de susende Graner har endnu Røst,

       og det lyder som oprørt Vand;

              det tegner mod Høst.

 

Elskede! ak, den dobbelte Klang,

       som strider i denne Kalden:

       Sangfuglelatter fra korngul Vang

       og hulkende Skovvandes Falden!

       Nu er Sommeren væk

       og kun Høsten tilbage,

       en Middelhøst;

       kun en Afglans af Dage

       med kummerlig Trøst,

       et Billed med falmede Træk.

       Og jeg trykker det blegede Blad til min Mund.

       Der er dobbelt og stridende Lyst

              i Afskedens Stund.

 

Nej, jeg vil ej som den Klagende staa,

       naar Intet dog kan forandres;

       heller ad høstgule Gange gaa,

       naar Stierne dog skulle vandres.

       Der er Kraft i den Luft,

       som fra Granskovens Naale

       min Aande naa’r;

       gennem Høstsolens Straale

       et Farvevæld gaar,

       hver Blomst har forstærket sin Duft.

       Lad kun Vaaren forstumme; her spirer et Frø.

       Jeg har Sange i Hjertet endda;

              de kan aldrig dø.

DOWN WELL-KNOWN PATHS

 

Oh, how each footstep with lead seems hung,

       when the path must be trod till it’s ended;

       Light was each  step, so twenty-years young,

       when it led towards days that were splendid.

       A small bird as we passed

       was so busily singing

       its song of love;

       in each beech there was swinging

       and playing above, —

       songs and games did not last.

       Only pine trees now soughing have voice at all,

       and its sound’s that of water when rough;

              soon autumn will call.

 

Dearest one! ah, the double-edged plea

       that clashes in this strange calling:

       Songbirds’ gay laughter from corn-hued lea

       and woodland streams’ sad-sobbing falling!

       Now the summer is gone

       there’s but  autumn remaining,

       and autumn’s stalled;

       merely day’s image waning

       with solace now palled,

       a picture whose features once shone.

       And I press the wan leaf to my lips with a sigh.

       Double urges still clash when recalled

              at the hour of goodbye.

 

No, as lamenter I’ll not say adieu,

       when change there is no evading;

       rather tread paths of autumnal hue,

       when only such paths lie in waiting.

       There’s a force in the air

       which as pine needles’ resin

       my mind sets on fire;

       and the autumn’s rays dress in

       a rainbow attire,

       each flower has a scent twice as rare.

       Let the spring remain silent; a seed time is nigh.

       All my heart’s songs will never expire:

              they refuse to die.

 

HCA: 'Jylland mellem tvende Have'

Jylland mellem tvende have

som en runestav er lagt,

runerne er kæmpegrave

inde midt i skovens pragt,

og på heden alvorsstor,

her, hvor ørknens luftsyn -

ørknens luftsyn bor.

Jylland, du er hovedlandet,

højland med skov-ensomhed!

Vildt i vest med klittag sandet

løfter sig i bjerges sted.

Østersø og Nordhavs vand

favnes over Skagens -

over Skagens sand.

Heden, ja, man tror det næppe,

men kom selv, bese den lidt:

lyngen er et pragtfuldt tæppe,

blomster myldre milevidt.

Skynd dig, kom! om føje år

heden som en kornmark -

som en kornmark står.

Mellem rige bøndergårde

snart dampdragen flyve vil,

hvor nu Loke sine hjorde

driver, skove vokse til.

Briten flyver over hav,

gæster her prins Hamlets -

her prins Hamlets grav.

Jylland mellem tvende have

som en runesten er lagt,

fortid mæle dine grave,

fremtid folder ud din magt,

havet af sit fulde bryst

synger højt om Jyllands -

højt om Jyllands kyst.

Jutland by two oceans bounded,

laid out like a runic stave,

runes of ancient barrows rounded,

each a wondrous woodland grave,

and on heath they weave strong spells,

here where desert mirage,

desert mirage dwells.

Jutland, you’re the country’s homeland,

highlands with seclusion spread!

Wild in west with dune-topped dome and

sands that rise in mountains’ stead.

Baltic, North Sea here hold hands,

joining over Skagen’s

over Skagen’s sands.

Ah, the heath has no contender,

come and take a look around: 

carpeted by heather’s splendour,

flowers thick-piled for miles around.

Quickly, come and see first-hand,

ere here swathes of cornfields

swathes of cornfields stand.

Soon rich farmsteads will do battle

with steam dragons flying past,

here where Loki now drives cattle,

woods will spring up all too fast.

Britons will soon brave the wave

come to see Prince Hamlet’s

see Prince Hamlet’s grave.

Jutland by two oceans bounded,

laid out like a runic stave,

of the past your graves have sounded,

a strong future you shall save,

and the sea will proudly boast,

loudly sing of Jutland’s

sing of Jutland’s coast.

Willem de Mérode: 'Avondregen'

AVONDREGEN

Er was een zacht gedruppel in de blâren

Of nu de zomerregen zou beginnen.

En traag gleden de schemeringen binnen

Van buien, die ons dreigend overvaren.

De geur van vocht en bloemen vloeide samen

En dreef de paden rond als lichte nevel,

Bleek uit den damp hief zich de roode gevel,

Toen kletsten groote druppels aan de ramen.

En gij: het leven is niet te vertragen.

De bui komt zwaar en driftig nederslaan

Gelukkig wat gered is en geborgen,

Maar ik: zie hoe gerust de rozen staan,

En hemels wreede lafenis verdragen.

Zij dulden sterk en bloeien tegen morgen.

EVENING RAIN

There was a gentle dripping in the leaves

As if the summer rain would now begin.

And lazily the twilights glided in

Of showers borne menacingly on the breeze.

The smell of flowers and dampness merged and then

It drifted round the paths like wisps of mist,

Through steam the gable’s red was faintly guessed,

Huge rain-drops dashed against the window pane.

And you: with life there’s nothing can contend.

The shower is heavy in its headstrong fall

Fortunate what’s been saved and stowed away,

But I: see how each rose stands calm and tall,

Sustains the cruel assuagement heaven sends.

Endures and lives to flower at break of day.

Ludvig Holstein: 'Det er i dag et vejr - et solskinsvejr'

How fine it is today

How fine it is today – a day of sun!

Oh spring so dear, once more you have begun!

Now all those winter months are gone completely,

I will buy hyacinths that smell so sweetly

and take them to the one my heart has won.

She bought some white and then she bought some blue,

she bought of those most beautiful in hue.

How fine it is today! The sun is shining!

And happy memories are me entwining,

I’ll take them with me to my love so true.

And they came floating down in rings and rows.

She passed among them and her heart still glows.

It is a day of sunshine without equal!

And I have sun enough till there’s a sequel,

and I must kiss each little leaf that grows.

She kissed them all, she kissed them one by one,

she took them to the one her heart had won.

My friend, look, hyacinths that smell so sweetly!

My friend, those winter months they’re gone completely!

How fine it is today, a day of sun–!