LAKE VOSTOK
A lake deep in Antarctica
has been besieged by ice
continuously for millions of years.
Signs may indicate
that there are forms of life
down there. A bacterium on the lake bed,
a knocking sound confined
in total darkness, a bombed city
that refuses to perish.
NOT TO BELIEVERS
Moses listened, and all he wrote down
was not what he heard, but that he was
never closer to a glimpse of god
than the voice in the cloud on the mountain top.
Since then many have heard – in passing,
in the wind, in streets pulled down
underground by death and the lie
of a just war – the vulnerable aspect
of revelation, the breath in the alphabet
from voices without arguments, voices
with a rhythm they have experienced as truth.
THROUGH THE GORGE
It was not the deep, narrow path
between the rockfaces or the fear
of meeting a snake I remember best.
It was not the view at the mouth
of the pine-tree bay, the waves that climbed up
and down the poles of the jetty and the blue van
placed as if by chance under the blackthorn bush
white with blossom. What I remember best
is the tall, slender deciduous trees
which through the entire gorge pressed themselves
flat against the rock to create the greatest possible
space for the light that slowly streamed
towards me from the other side.
ONE STEP AHEAD OF DECAY
The stinging nettles have surrounded the letterbox,
the aspens tremble on the verandah floor,
the roof tiles gape around the chimney, the door-latch
points limply at the mat, the floorboards give way with
lethargic creaks, the putty falls out in chunks, the wallpaper
loosens along the skirting boards, tubs, bowls and saucepans
collect water that drips from ceiling and taps,
rooms have been locked off in stages, the wallpaper is rotting,
damp stains like skulls are coming into view
on the walls, an ant-hill is trying to establish itself
in front of the fireplace, it is frightening to recall
that the former owners suffered a completely natural death.
MAGMATIC
If we were able to observe the planet Earth
from innermost to outermost, we would see it resembles
an old gas lamp travelling through infinite darkness,
protected only by a thin mantle, fragile as an eggshell.
If we could penetrate to the exterior
of our comprehension, we would understand that it is
double-dealing, held fast in the course of the sun,
but with an incandescent longing to burn itself out.
ENVIABLE
Ever since the first cries were heard on the earth
we have had a finger in the pie. We drew the heads
of oxen in the caves before aiming at their hearts, grasped
the plough firmly and felt the forces we could harness
when we stuck our palm into cascading water. The wheel
rolled along with the terrain, we studied the ice that split
rock and the atoms that smashed reason. We taught ourselves
mastery of fire, earth and air, and send scouts out
on missions behind the rim of our own atmosphere.
We encompass the whole universe, but have never gained
a satisfactory explanation as to why fish chose
to live in the sea.
TO PUSH SOMETHING ASIDE
I brush breadcrumbs off the breakfast table,
randomly, like a thought that surfaces
and disappears. It will take some time to fill the floor,
we’re only at the beginning of the history
that will become visible, and a light sweep
of the hand is enough to push something aside.
All we have swept under the carpet and brought in
wearing our boots will be collected together
and discarded. I look out the window at a lawn,
and know that just a spit beneath it lies the clay
as protection against a thousand-year history below
of sand and scraps that can be pushed aside.
We can always delve deeper into matter by looking
at computer screens, housing estates and a glittering
sea shivering with early morning cold. When we sail
on a membrane among granite rocks that resemble
well-turned catches on a large window, with a deeper insight,
we often, imperceptibly easily, choose to push everything aside.
KNEADING DOUGH
Kneading dough is feeling the wind
that makes a field surge like the sea.
Is walking along a shore that is washed
by breakers, unceasingly. A breath
of something that’s larger than life.
Kneading dough is taking nature
in one’s own hands, the soft and the supple
that blends and starts to stiffen. A force
that requires a fist brought down hard. From time
to time the world needs turning inside out.
Kneading dough is creating
a globe that rotates inside a blue drum,
as in a subway where heads bob
around and bodies collide. All must touch
everything else for the dough to cohere.
Kneading dough is snatching
a piece of life from god’s finger,
and feeling how happiness, fear
and the awful second the world stands still
give rise to a hope of a scent after death.
stilleben
En vinter tidligt stået op, du milde, hvor ærligt
medfølende og hæslig er denne fødsel, hud
mellem inden- og udenfor, skum mellem igår
og senere, man barberer sin egen far
når man laver thee taber man glasset, når man drikker
bliver sukkeret bittert, man tager et brusebad, koger et æg
poserer for dagslyset, stilleben med den spisende
nu, aften, man har gemt skårene, lykke
er ikke til at udstå, blyanten stokdøv, til og med
blækket skal skrives om, trægt murrer værkets
hast dengang man stadigvæk levde –
mens man sidder til bords
Mens man sidder til bords bliver de døde stadig mere døde
ligesom denne side fodrer sig selv med sine ord
den ene arver kniven, den anden skeden
den ene spiser sit kød, den anden sine guder
for mange liv siden var der en morgen
man hørte fuglene, man var ikke født
det vil ikke nytte noget, det er ikke til at undgå
en aften som denne, den fuldkommen bestående
bordet det hvide læsset med lokkemad
og at man er udødelig og skal dø –
nøgle
Hvis du taber din nøgle led først
i din egen dørlås, hvis du skal dø
giv din plante lidt mere vand, bank ikke
efter regn på det sænkede loft, lav noget
digte skal ikke trøste, siger jeg
alligevel endnu en gang i det som af og til virkelig
begynder at ligne en fuldvoksen stilstand
hænderne foldet over det arvelige bestik, brød
og kødpålæg står klar, men ikke et eneste ord
der ligger ret i munden, og hvor mager appetitten
at spise er at leve
altså først skal tavsheden lige forgyldes lidt
noget tomrum indtages, skumringen beboes
og en af dem tændes, for de døde –
Strandtistel
Här i en rymd av blonda evigheter
träffas vi åter, nära havets svall.
Skolpojkens fynd bland florans rariteter,
brusten i växtpress, rostad som metall!
Solfjädrar liknar dina blad med nålar,
blågröna fat med blombuketter i,
taggiga stjärnor, bronskärl, offerskålar,
fyllda av dagg då natten är förbi.
Fram tågar gässen av den skånska stammen
dagligen för att stoppa buken full.
Fårhjorden kommer med de muntra lammen.
Ingen dig rör för dina taggars skull.
Strandtistel, du som låter vinden storma
utan att ryckas med och brytas av,
lär mig att vara sällsynt och att forma
stjärnor på gränsen mellan jord och hav!
Sea holly
Here in a vastness of blond endlessnesses
we meet once more, close to the sea’s soft surge.
The schoolboy’s find midst flora’s rare addresses,
broken in plant press, metal’s rust as scourge!
Your spiky leaves resemble fan-blade petals,
bluish-green vases that encase bouquets,
prickly stars, sacrificial bowls, bronze vessels,
brimming with dew when night has had its say.
Geese of the Scanian clan come in processions
each day to fill their bellies to the brim.
The sheep too with their lambs’ gay indiscretions.
But you remain untouched, your spikes are grim.
Sea holly, tackling storm winds unabating
with roots unyielding, like some steadfast tree,
teach me to be uncommon, be creating
stars on the boundary twixt earth and sea!
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 –
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Janusanletet
Jag följer den vanliga lunken,
jag tjänar om dagen mitt bröd.
Mot natt är jag ofta försjunken
i samtal med ofödd och död.
Besvikelsens frätande syra
har räckts åt min törstiga mun.
Men hemligt läska mig dyra
essenser ur drömmarnas brunn.
Förlåt, att jag aldrig har kunnat
välsigna din gåva, o liv!
En värld som ej finns har förunnat
mig ljuvare tidsfördriv.
När ofödda ord i mig stöna
och hjärtat har feberskräck,
ger drömmen mig svalka i gröna
bersåer med lummig häck.
Men pennan mot papperet raspar
och orden bli stelnat bläck,
som handla om vindsus i aspar,
om sländor vid porlande bäck ...
The Janus visage
The common routine is my station,
I spend my days earning my bread,
though nights more in deep conversation
with both the unborn and the dead.
The acid of dashed expectations
my parched lips has sought to have cursed;
in secret, though, precious libations
from dreams’ wondrous well slaked my thirst.
Forgive me, I’ve never been able
to bless you, o life, for your gift!
I’ve found in a world that’s a fable
a pastime that more suits my drift.
When words still unborn moan for hours,
my feverish heart fills with dread,
the dream gives me coolness in bowers
of green leafy hedges instead.
But pen against paper is rasping
and words turn to dry ink in books
which deal with winds soughing in aspens
and dragonflies by purling brooks.
når der ikke er krig
Når der ikke er krig er man tryg, huse
er mere beboelige end grøfter slør asters, kun
hvidt skal spises, kun sort skal fastes
man spiser ujævnt i somre som disse, de døde
afliver sig selv andre steder, gnaver ord
det sneer sultevintre så længe man skal læse kød
man kan alarmere telefonen, fratræde i piller
man kan være uendelig for at mindske sig selv
udenfor på pladserne truer faldende stilhed, indenfor
stadig blidere hårstrygning, ingensteds er der uvejr –
Gitarren
Jag är din farfars instrument.
Min sista sträng är borta.
Vill jag berätta vad som hänt,
så kommer jag till korta.
När jag var ung och hade ton
och det i gatan skymde,
låg som familjens nådehjon
jag inte här och skrymde.
Då smög din farfar sig åstad
med mig i sina armar.
Man lyddes till vår serenad
bak många fönsterkarmar.
Jag var en livlig och gesvind
musikens undersåte.
Nu bor jag ensam på din vind
bland skräp och gammal bråte.
The guitar
I am your grandpa’s instrument.
My one last string is broken.
To tell of my predicament
Needs words that can’t be spoken.
When my fine tone sang tunefully
and dusk came slowly sidling,
I did not out of charity
lie taking space here idling.
For then your grandpa roamed abroad,
me in his arms embracing.
Our serenades were much encored
behind each window casing.
With music as my king, my tone
was lively, not a mutter.
Now in your attic on my own
I live midst junk and clutter.
indeni
Tænk engang alt det du har turdet, eksproprieret
omfavnet, har været, nu sidder du
på vagt ved din seng
du bladrer gennem bogen, rører ved ordene
mistror dit værktøj, guldstøv sangcikader
brødet er forlegent, vil ikke forstene
uret maler mel og ved aldrig sikkert
dybt inde in haven slukkes det yderste indeni
altid disse fugle der vil bygge rede –