Thorkild Bjørnvig: 'Lappedykkeren' (1959)

Lappedykkeren

 

Med Halsens fuldendte Bøjning,

Næbbets slanke Lanse

sigter den paa mig, svajer

og følger, som vilde den danse,

den mindste af mine Bevægelser,

yndefuld, vagtsom og fin —

men Kroppen blir passivt staaende

lodret, som hos en Pingvin.

 

Den flyver ikke, som ventet –

en Olieplet paa dens Bryst

er mygt blevet infiltreret,

har lammet dens Evne, Lyst

til at kalde, parres og yngle,

svømme, flyve og dykke,

jage, fange, fortære —

hele dens Legemslykke;

har ramt den som dødelig Sygdom:

en Draabe, en flydende Kim,

og den mineralske Spedalskhed

klistrer dens Fjer som Lim.

 

Nedskrevet til et Vraggods

blandt Brædder og Dunke paa Sandet,

ubrugelig, kan ikke fiske,

droppet af Luften og Vandet,

paa Vej ned mod Kredsløbets Hades:

de langsomt svindende Ting —

vogter den ufravendt paa mig,

mens jeg gaar om den i Ring.

 

Syge lille Guddom,

fortabt paa de ensomme Flader,

endnu har Naturen, den vældige,

aldrig taalt Svækkelsens Grader

fra Fuldkommenhed ned til pur

Udslettelse – ingen Nød,

som ikke af vilde Dyr fordrer

genvunden Magt eller Død.

 

Derfor vil jeg ikke prøve

forgæves at rense din Krop,

for du vilde værge din Dødsro

med vild Angst, tog jeg dig op,

som skulde du leve! Nej Maanen

i Nat er dig mere fortrolig

og Skyerne, Luften og dét,

som du afventer rolig, rolig.

Og du vil synke: din sidste

fuldkomne Bevægelse – ned

og ligge uformelig henstrakt

paa dette tilfældige Sted.

 

 

The grebe

 

With the perfect curve of the neck,

the beak’s slender lance

it points at me, swaying

and follows, as if it would dance,

the smallest of my movements,

elegant, fine and alert –

but its body is that of a penguin,

held upright, passive, inert.

 

It does not fly as expected –

on its breast a stain of oil

has gently infiltrated,

has sapped its power and spoilt

its desire to call, to mate and breed,

to swim, to fly and dive,

to hunt, to catch, devour –

its joy at being alive;

has struck like a deadly disease:

a drop, a germ that’s afloat,

and the mineral leprosy

glues feathers to sticky coat.

 

Reduced to just jetsam

midst planks and cans in the sand,

no use at all, unable to fish

dropped by water, air and land,

on its way down to life-cycle’s Hades:

each slowly dwindling thing –

it watches my moves intently

as around it I walk in a ring.

 

Sick little deity,

lost on the lonesome expanses,

nature, the mighty, has never as yet

brooked impairment’s nuances

from perfection down to pure

obliteration; – no plight

that from wild beasts does not dictate 

reasserted power or death outright.

 

Which is why I will not try in vain

to clean your body of slick,

for you would defend your last rest

with wild fear, were I to pick 

you up as if you should live. No, 

tonight’s moon’s a more intimate friend

and the clouds, the sky and what

you so calmly await as your end.

And you will sink down: your last

perfect movement – leaving no trace,

lie outstretched a shapeless form

in this fortuitous place.