Du var den fine Rose
Du var den fine Rose,
Blegrød i Sommerluften,
Og jeg var Atmosphæren,
Som fyldte sig med Duften.
You were the rose in flower
You were the rose in flower,
Pale-red in summer’s radiance,
And I the air around you
Imbibing all its fragrance.
ERKJENDELSE
At ikke jeg forlængst har hængt mig
Om hendes Hals, om hendes Knæ,
Og i mit Raserie har vovet -
Ja, hun maa troe, jeg er af Træ.
Men det er jeg paa ingen Maade;
O, gid jeg bare var af Træ!
Men, jeg er lidt moralsk, lidt dydig,
Og derfor egentlig et Fæ.
ADMISSION
That long ago my arms have never
Around her neck or knees been thrown,
Despite my turmoil nought’s been ventured -
Yes, she must think I’m made of stone.
Yet quite the opposite describes me;
Oh, were I only made of stone!
But I’m straight-laced, a trifle prudish,
A stupid ass if it be known.
Dichterschap
Is dit genoeg: een stuk of wat gedichten,
Voor de rechtvaardiging van een bestaan,
In 't slecht vervullen van onnoozle plichten
Om den te karigen brode allengs verdaan ?
En hierom zijn der op een doel gerichten
Bevredigende dagen mij ontgaan;
Hierom blijft mij slechts zelf en lot betichten
In zicht van' t eind der onherkeerbre baan.
Van al de dingen, die 'k in dromen zocht-
Erger: van alle, die ik wèl vermocht,
Is, nu hun tijd voorbij is, niets geworden.
En ik kan zelfs niet, als mijn onbevreesd
Erkennen mij verwijst naar de verdorden,
Aanvoeren: maar mijn bloei is schoon geweest.
Poethood
Is this enough: a smattering of verses,
To justify existence on this earth,
In just fulfilling mindless duties’ curses
For long since frittered bread in constant dearth?
Because of this would days of satisfaction
And purposefulness often pass me by;
Thus too I’ve but myself and fate to question
Now, irreversibly, my end is nigh.
Of all the things that I in dreams have sought
Worse than that: all which finally were caught,
Now that their time is past, nothing remains.
Not even when self-knowledge fearlessly
Consigns me to the wilted can I claim
In my defence: but I bloomed peerlessly.
Ik ween om bloemen in de knop gebroken
En vóór den uchtend van haar bloei vergaan,
Ik ween om liefde die niet is ontloken,
En om mijn harte dat niet werd verstaan.
Gij kwaamt, en 'k wist -- gij zijt weer heengegaan...
Ik heb het nauw gezien, geen woord gesproken:
Ik zat weer roerloos nà die korten waan
In de eeuwge schaduw van mijn smart gedoken:
Zo als een vogel in den stillen nacht
Op ééns ontwaakt, omdat de hemel gloeit,
En denkt, 't is dag, en heft het kopje en fluit,
Maar eer 't zijn vaakrige oogjes gans ontsluit,
Is het weer donker, en slechts droevig vloeit
Door 't sluimerend geblaarte een zwakke klacht.
I weep at flowers in bud whose stems have snapped
And just before their blossoming must die,
I weep should love’s fine bloom remain untapped
And at my heart that cannot fathom why.
You came, I knew – but after that you left …
I scarcely caught a glimpse, no word did say:
Once more sat motionless, so soon bereft,
To endless shadows of my pain a prey.
Just like a bird which wakens suddenly
In night’s deep silence since the sky’s a-glow
And thinks it’s daytime, lifts its head and trills,
But well before some light its keen eye fills,
The darkness has returned, and but a low
Complaint through drowsing leaves drifts woefully.
 |
Avond
Nauw zichtbaar wiegen op een lichten zucht
De witte bloesems in de scheemring -- ziet,
Hoe langs mijn venster nog, met ras gerucht,
Een enkele al te late vogel vliedt.
En ver, daar ginds, die zachtgekleurde lucht
Als perlemoer, waar ied're tint vervliet
In teêrheid... Rust -- o, wondervreemd genucht!
Want alles is bij dag zó innig niet.
Alle geluid dat nog van verre sprak,
Verstierf -- de wind, de wolken, alles gaat
Al zachter en zachter -- álles wordt zo stil...
En ik weet niet, hoe thans dit hart, zo zwak,
Dat al zó moê is, altijd luider slaat,
Altijd maar luider, en niet rusten wil.
Evening
Scarce visible upon a light sigh sway
In growing twilight the white blossoms – see,
How past my window still, at end of day,
One far too late bird flits unhurriedly.
And there, far off, sky’s softly coloured light
With pearl-like lustre where in tenderness
Each tint dissolves… o rest, unreal delight!
For all in daytime lacks such ferventness.
All far-off sounds that still had not expired
Are gone – the wind, the clouds, already all
Grows ever quieter, all with calm is blessed…
I fail to grasp how now this heart, so tired,
So weak already, loudly starts to call,
Ever more loudly, and will seek no rest.
SPLEEN
Ik zit mij voor het vensterglas
onnoemelijk te vervelen.
Ik wou dat ik twee hondjes was
dan kon ik samen spelen.
SPLEEN
I sit down at the window pane
completely bored as ever.
I wish I was two dogs in vain
so we could play together.
ars amandi – 1. en hund
man skal lære sin hund at kende
problemet er
de dør alt for hurtigt
min nuværende
er ikke den samme hund
som den foregående
det gør ikke noget
siger den nuværende
efter det du siger
er du ikke
det samme menneske
ars amandi – 1. a dog
you must get to know your dog
the problem is
they die far too quickly
my present one
is not the same dog
as the previous one
that doesn’t matter
says the present one
based on what you say
you are not
the same person either
Sang bag ploven
I solen går jeg bag min plov.
Jeg nikker til den grønne skov,
Hvor du, min lykke, gemmer dig.
Mit hjerte ler og gemmer sig
Og gemmer sin lyksalighed
Til sol går ned, til sol går ned.
Min lykke vågner ung og ny
Som lærkesang ved morgengry.
Hver aftenstund den smykker sig.
Men kun for mig du smykker dig.
Og nætternes lyksalighed
Er dagens gyldne hemlighed.
Jeg pløjer op det gode muld.
Men ingen ser det gyldne guld,
Som i mit hjerte gemmer sig.
Jeg gemmer mig, jeg gemmer dig,
Jeg gemmer vor lyksalighed
Til sol går ned, til sol går ned.
Song behind the plough
In sun’s warm glow I plough the land,
I greet the trees as green they stand,
where you, my joy, are hiding still.
My heart’s full glad and hides as well
And hides its bliss from everyone
Till setting sun, till setting sun.
My joy awakens young and new
Like lark-song in the dawn’s pale blue.
Each evening it adorns itself.
You though for me adorn yourself.
And all the bliss of every night
Is daytime’s secret golden-bright.
I plough the rich earth, turn each fold,
But no one sees the golden gold
That hidden in my heart does dwell.
I hide myself, you hide yourself,
I hide my bliss from everyone
Till setting sun, till setting sun.
Nach dieser Sintflut
Nach dieser Sintflut
möchte ich die Taube,
und nichts als die Taube,
noch einmal gerettet sehn.
Ich ginge ja unter in diesem Meer!
flög' sie nicht aus,
brächte sie nicht
in letzter Stunde das Blatt.
After this Flood
After this Flood
I’d like to see the dove,
and nothing but the dove
saved one more time
For I would go under in this sea!
were it not to fly out,
not at the last instant
come bearing the leaf.
 |
Tidtakeren
Den store tidtakeren trykket rutinert
på knappen da Big Bang lyste opp i det store
tomrommet, og siden har klokka tikket trofast
runde for runde gjennom millioner av år og galakser.
Den store tidtakeren har alt under kontroll, tida tar alle ting
for gitt, jordas roterende bane rundt ei brennende sol
blir notert i faste og skiftende intervaller. En gammel venn
som hilser på deg i en travel handlegate sier, nei, nå
er det lenge siden, og tidtakeren kan gi et nøyaktig svar.
Det er ingen grunn til å legge skjul på at det har vært
kriser undervegs, dinosaurenes undergang og bienes slavekår,
imperier har gått under av overmot, mennesker er blitt
jagd på flukt av lovlig valgte tyranner. Kortene blir stokket
om og en forstokket utgave er automatisk en ny utgave,
selv om innholdet er det samme. Tidtakeren lar seg
ikke distrahere, for ham finnes ingen framtid, bare
et øyeblikk hvor han skal stanse klokka, og resten
av historien, regner han med, blir avgjort etter fotofinish.
The Timekeeper
The great timekeeper competently pressed
the button when the Big Bang lit up the huge
voids of space, since when the clock has faithfully ticked
round by round for millions of years and galaxies.
The great timekeeper has all under control, time takes everything
for granted, the earth’s orbit round a burning sun
is noted in fixed and changing intervals. An old friend
who greets you on a busy shopping street says, no, how
long ago is it now, and the timekeeper can give an exact answer.
There is no point in concealing the fact that there have been
crises en route, the dinosaurs’ extinction and the bees’ slavery,
empires have fallen because of hubris, people have been
put to flight by legally elected tyrants. The cards have been
reshuffled and a die-hard version is automatically a new one,
although the content is the same. The timekeeper does not
let himself be distracted, for him there is no future time, only
a moment when he must stop the clock, and the rest
of history, he assumes, will be decided by a photo-finish.
Morgonsång på Baggensfjärden
Nu ristes gren och skälver löv,
Nu kommer bris, nu kommer bris!
Emellan böjda trän vi skymta Baggensfjärden
Nu knarra blockar, sträckas tåg
I morgondis, i morgondis
Jungfrulig, daggbestänkt, uppväckt ur dvala världen
Sin famn av ås vid ås,
Sitt sköt av hav vid hav
Mot himlen öppnar –
Böljans djupa grav är ännu dystert mörk
Men ytan glimmar
I solens glada ljus
Fiskmåsen simmar i snövit skrud
Mot strand i dunkel sänkt
Men bortom mörknad ås
Går, guldbestänkt, i ljusnad rymd
En här av moln som jagas av okänd vind
Mot okänd ort
Det dagas
Morning song at Baggensfjärden
Now leaves are rustling, branches shake
Now comes a breeze, now comes a breeze!
We catch between bent trees a glimpse of Baggensfjärden
Now rocks are creaking, rushes stretched
In morning mist, in morning mist
So pristine, dredged in dew, aroused from worldly slumber
Its arms by ridge on ridge,
Its lap by sea on sea
Now skywards open –
Sinister and dark is still the wave’s deep grave
The surface gleams though
In sun’s bright joyous light
The sea-gull swims in its snow-white garb
Towards the dusky shore
But past the darkened ridge,
Now dredged in gold, in lightened space
A host of clouds is hustled by unknown wind
To place unknown:
It’s daybreak
(XIII)
Sei allem Abschied voran, als wäre er hinter
dir, wie der Winter, der eben geht.
Denn unter Wintern ist einer so endlos Winter,
daß, überwinternd, dein Herz überhaupt übersteht.
Sei immer tot in Eurydike -, singender steige,
preisender steige zurück in den reinen Bezug.
Hier, unter Schwindenden, sei, im Reiche der Neige,
sei ein klingendes Glas, das sich im Klang schon zerschlug.
Sei - und wisse zugleich des Nicht-Seins Bedingung,
den unendlichen Grund deiner innigen Schwingung,
daß du sie völlig vollziehst dieses einzige Mal.
Zu dem gebrauchten sowohl, wie zum dumpfen und stummen
Vorrat der vollen Natur, den unsäglichen Summen,
zähle dich jubelnd hinzu und vernichte die Zahl.
(XIII)
Be in advance of each parting, as if unbending
past, like the winter that soon is gone.
For among winters exists one so without ending
that, if well-wintered, despite all your heart will live on.
Be ever dead in Eurydice –, sing while ascending
praise while descending into what’s sheer in its ground.
Here, midst the dwindling, be, in the death that’s impending,
be a clear-ringing glass turned to shards in mid-sound.
Be – and know the condition of being’s negation,
the quite infinite source of your own oscillation,
that you completely fulfil this in one single phase.
To what’s been used up and likewise the dull and the numbing
bounty of nature’s great hoard, the unspeakable humming,
joyfully reckon yourself, and that number erase.