Gustaf Fröding: 'De Gode och De Ädle'

 

De Gode och De Ädle

 

Jag vill ej vara ädel, jag vill ej vara god,

de gode och de ädle de ställa upp sin stod

i skönaste belysning på högsta piedestal

med inskrift om bedrifter i hörnet av sin sal.

 

Sen stå de och betrakta sin älskliga bild,

hur ädel är ej minen, hur god och blid och mild,

de tänka i sitt hjärta: si, allt är ganska gott!

– men bakom står Hin onde och hostar så smått.

 

The Good and the Noble

 

I don’t want to be noble, I don’t want to be good,

the statues of the noble and good have always stood

where lighting is most brilliant and pedestals most high,

with plaques of their great exploits discreetly placed nearby.

 

They stand there then admiring their images divine

expressions oh so noble, how good and mild and fine,

and in their hearts they’re thinking: see, all us so revere!

– behind them though the Devil’s cough they fail to hear. 

 

 

Elisabeth Eybers: Sonnet ('My hande was van altyd af onpaar')

 

Sonnet

 

My hande was van altyd af onpaar:

skraal, vroulik en beskeie is die linker,

haar maat is ferm, grofgekneukeld, flinker,

maar net so links met greep, groet of gebaar.

 

Verwonderdheid, besinning, wanhoop, angs,

die dinge wat die bloedstroom plotseling strem,

dryf hul soms saam in asemlose klem,

maar dan los elk, verleë, gou sy vangs.

 

Selfs in die voorgeboortelike vog

het hulle onafhanklik rondgeroei

en was nooit waarlik aan mekaar verknog.

 

Ek twyfel of hul ooit behoorlik tuis

kan raak of tot eenparigheid sal groei

vóór iemand hulle oor my borskas kruis.

 

 

Sonnet

 

My hands have been an odd pair first to last:

the left is ladylike, slim, unassuming

her mate is nimble, firm, with knuckles looming,

cack-handed though in gesture, greeting, grasp.

 

Amazement, contemplation, fear, despair,

such things as can make pulses quickly soar,

will sometimes make them tightly clasp or more,

but, much embarrassed, let go then and there.

 

Even in amniotic fluid they

would flail around not getting anywhere,

with no coordination in their play.

 

I doubt if they will ever come to rest

or grow into a true and single pair

till someone folds them both across my chest.

 

Elisabeth Eybers: 'Eerste sneeu'

 

EERSTE SNEEU

 

Vyandelike bitter oostewind,

sodra ’k my veilig agter glas bevind

 

vergeef ek jou. Want kyk hoe saggies dra

jy elke aparte ragfyn donsvlok na

 

die knekelharde grond om saam te smelt

tot één groot wit weerlegging van geweld.

 

 

FIRST SNOW

 

You hostile, bitter east wind, when again

I’m safe and sound behind the window pane,

 

I bear no grudge. For see how gently you

bring home each filmy, downy snowflake to

 

the bone-hard ground where all the merging white

forms one great refutation of raw might.

 

Anon 'Vil man se fagre piger i mengde' (Ulf Cranner no. 2)

VIL MAN SE FAGRE PIGER I MENGDE

 

Vil man se fagre piger i mengde,

da skal man øverst i Hallingdal gå.  

Fagre som roser, skjønne som liljer,

gullgule lokker og øyne så blå.

En sådan var min,

med gruber på kinden

den falske til malurt forvandlede vin.

Skulle jeg sørge, da var jeg en dåre.

Skulle jeg gråte, da var jeg en narr.

Skulle jeg la kvinnfolk mitt hjerte bedåre,

da var det skitt å vera vaksin som kar.

Takk og ære for meg!

Den pige skal aldri,

nei, aldri i verden min kjæreste bli.

 

To hear the Alf Cranner recording, go to here:  

 

 

WILL YOU SEE FAIR MAIDS, FAIR MAIDS A-PLENTY

 

Will you see fair maids, fair maids a-plenty,

high up in Hallingdal’s where you should be.

Fair as fine roses, lovely as lilies,

fine golden locks, eyes as blue as the sea. 

A like girl was mine,

with dimpled cheeks rosy

the false one to wormwood did turn the sweet wine.

Were I to grieve now, with fools you’d compare me

Were I to weep now, a numskull I’d be.

Were I to let every woman ensnare me,

it would be hard as a man to stay free.

Thank goodness, say I!

That girl, she will never,

no, never my sweetheart become by and by.

Anon.: Sven Svane (Norwegian medieval ballad)

 

Wonderful LP, purchased in Oslo in the 1960s 

SVEN SVANE

 

Sven Svane han ganger seg et stykke utpå veg,

der møtte det hannem en vandringsmann.

«Å hør nå min vandring hva jeg spørger deg

og om du på de spørsmåla vil svara meg.»

 

«Å hvo er nå rundar hell det rundaste hjul?

Og hvo sjunger fagrest utav alle kreatur?

Og hvo er nå hvitare enn svanen?

Og hvo roper høyere enn tranen?»

 

«Og sola er nå rundar hell det rundaste hjul,

og engla sjunger fagrest utav alle kreatur,

og månen er hvitare enn svanen,

og tora roper høyere enn tranen.»

 

«Og vet du nå dette så vet du fulla mer.»

Sven Svane tok gullringen utav fingeren ner

og ga så den vandringsmann for svara.

Og dermed skiltes båe desse kara.

Listen here

 

 

SVEN SVANE

 

Sven Svane went walking down a lonely country road,

He there met a wayfarer that had no fixed abode;

Good day to you, traveller, and listen to me do,

Please say if these riddles four mean anything to you:

 

And what is yet rounder than the wheel that’s most round?

And who in creation are the fairest singers found?

And what is yet whiter than is swan’s down?

And what cry is louder than the crane’s sound?

 

‘The sun is yet rounder than the wheel that’s most round,

And angels in creation are the fairest singers found,                                      

The moon is yet whiter than is swan’s down,

And thunder’s cry is louder than the crane’s sound.’

 

‘If this you know truly, you need know nothing more.’

Sven Svane took off the ring of gold he always wore

And gave him for answering correctly,

And then they both went on their way directly.

 

 

Tove Ditlevsen: 'Februar'

 

FEBRUAR

 

Vi kan mærke nu på nætterne

der flyver os forbi,

mere korte, mindre mørke,

tryggere at sove i,

at et forår på sin vandring

i det stjernekolde hvælv

strejfer klodens vinterhjerte

i en længsel mod sig selv.

 

Og vi vågner i den sene time

mellem søvn og drøm

i en sød, bevæget uro

ved den måneblege strøm,

der som fine fingre leger

i dit nattesorte hår,

og som nattens sarte glorie

er vor spæde drøm om vår.

 

 

FEBRUARY

 

We can sense it in the night-time hours

which now are flying past,

growing shorter, with less darkness,

safer now for sleep at last,

that a spring upon its voyage

in the star-cold firmament

brushes earth’s heart held in winter

with self-longing’s fixed intent.

 

And we wake up in the late-night hour that

lies twixt sleep and dream

in a sweet and heart-felt unrest

at the moonlight’s pallid stream,

which like slender fingers fondles

with your hair’s night-sabled wing,

and like night’s so fragile halo

is our budding dream of spring.

 

Olav H. Hauge: 'Eg dreg ifrå glaset'

 

EG DREG IFRÅ GLASET

 

Eg dreg ifrå glaset fyrr eg legg meg,

eg vil sjå det levande myrkret når eg vaknar,

og skogen og himmelen. Eg veit ei grav

som ikkje har glugg mot stjernone.

No er Orion komen i vest, alltid jagande –

han er ikkje komen lenger enn eg.

Kirsebærtreet utanfor er nake og svart.

I den svimlande blå himmelklokka

ritar morgonmånen med hard nagl.

 

 

I DRAW BACK THE CURTAINS

 

I draw back the curtains before I lie down,

I want to see the living darkness on waking,

and the forest and the sky. I know a grave

with no peephole out to the stars.

Now Orion has come in the west, always hunting –

He’s not come any further than I have.

The cherry tree outside is bare and black.

In the staggering blue dome of the sky

the morning moon scores with a hard nail.

 

 

Olav H. Hauge: 'Under bergfallet'

 

UNDER BERGFALLET

 

Du bur under bergfall.


Og du veit det.


Men du sår din åker


og trør trygt ditt tun


og lèt dine born leika


og legg deg


som inkje var.

 

Det hender,


når du stør deg til ljåen


ein sumarkveld,


at augo sviv som snarast


yver bergsia


der dei segjer


sprekken


skal vera,


og det hender


du vert liggjande vaken


og lyde etter 


steinsprang


ei natt.

 

Og kjem raset,


kjem det ikkje uventa.


Men du tek til å rydja


den grøne boti


under berget


– um du då har livet.

 

Short video of the poet talking about the poem here.

 

 

BENEATH THE OVERHANG

 

You live beneath the overhang.

And you know it.

But you sow your fields

and walk secure on your land 

and let your children play

and lie down

as if there were nothing.

 

It happens,

leaning on your scythe

on a summer’s evening,

that your eyes rapidly

take in the rock face

where they say

the fissure

may be

and it happens

you’ve lain awake

listening for

rockfalls

at night.

 

And if the slide comes,

it will not come unexpected.

But you’ll set about clearing

the green patch of grass

beneath the rock –

if you’re then still alive.

Olav. H. Hauge: 'Vindhanen'

 

VINDHANEN

 

Smeden slo han

med vele og kamb,

høgt kom han,

verdi var ny

og vindane mange.

Han var ivrig,

trippa, skreik

og brusa fjør

for kvart vinddrag,

i storm sto han strak

med lang hals –

Til han rusta fast

og vart ståande

skeivt mot nord.

Draget stend oftast

frå den kanten.

 

 

THE WEATHERCOCK

 

The smith wrought him

with tail and comb,

high up he came,

the world was new 

and the winds many.

He was eager,

tripped about, crowed

and puffed his feathers

at every breeze,

in gales he stood erect

with neck outstretched –

Till he rusted solid

and stayed pointing

obliquely northwards.

The wind comes most often

from that quarter.

 

 

 

Olav H. Hauge: 'Kvardag'

 

man drying birch twigs for fodder

KVARDAG

 

Dei store stormane

har du attum deg.

Då spurde du ikkje

kvi du var til,

kvar du kom frå eller kvar du gjekk,

du berre var i stormen,

var i elden.

Men det gjeng an å leve

i kvardagen òg,

den grå stille dagen,

setja potetor, raka lauv

og bera ris,

det er so mangt å tenkje på her i verdi,

eit manneliv strekk ikkje til.

Etter strævet kan du steikja flesk

og lesa kinesiske vers.

Gamle Laertes skar klunger

og grov um fiketrei,

og let heltane slåst ved Troja.

 

 

EVERYDAY

 

The raging storms

you have behind you.

You did not ask then

why you existed,

where you came from or where you were going

you were simply in the storm,

were in the fire.

But life is quite possible

in the everyday too,

the day grey and silent,

planting potatoes, raking leaves

drying birch twigs for fodder,

there’s so much to think about in this world,

a human life is insufficient.

After your exertions you can fry bacon

and read Chinese poetry.

Old Laertes trimmed wild roses

and dug round fig trees,

and let the heroes fight for Troy.

Olav H. Hauge: 'Sanningi'

 

SANNINGI

 

Sanningi er ein skygg fugl,

ein fugl Rokk som

ferdast utanum tidi,

stundom fyre,

stundom etter.

Sume segjer ho

ikkje er til,

dei som har set henne,

tegjer.

Eg har aldri tenkt meg sanningi

som ein husfugl,

men um ho so vore,

kan du godt strjuka henne med fjøri

og ikkje jaga henne upp i ei krå

til ho snur ugleaugo og klør imot deg.

Andre held sanningi for

ei kald knivsegg,

ho er både

yin og yang,

ormen i graset,

og fuglekongen som lettar frå ørni

når ho trur seg høgst.

Eg har òg set

sanningi daud:

augo stod som på ein klaka hare.

 

 

TRUTH

 

Truth is a shy bird

a Roc that

roams outside time,

at times before

at times after.

Some say it

doesn’t exist

those who have seen it

stay silent.

I have never thought of truth

as a domestic bird,

but if it was such,

you can try stroking it along its feathers

rather than chasing it into a corner

till it turns owl-eyed and would claw you.

Others consider truth

a cold knife-edge,

it is both

yin and yang,

the snake in the grass,

and the wren lifting from the eagle

when it thinks itself highest.

I have also seen

truth dead:

its eyes those of a frost-stiffened hare.