Hendrik de Vries: 'Mijn broer' (PS 28)

 

Mijn broer

 

Mijn broer, gij leedt

Een einde, waar geen mens van weet.

Vaak ligt gij naast mij, en ik

Begrijp het slecht, en tast en schrik.

 

De weg met iepen liept gij langs.

De vogels riepen laat. Iets bangs

Vervolgde ons beiden. Toch woudt gij

Alleen gaan door de woestenij.

 

Wij sliepen deze nacht weer saam.

Uw hart sloeg naast mij. ‘k Sprak uw naam

En vroeg, waarheen gij gingt.

Het antwoord was:

‘… Te vreeselijk om zich in te verdiepen,

Zie ’t gras

Ligt weder dicht met iepen

Omkringd.’

 

 

Brother

 

Brother, unknown

To others was your final plight.

You often lie beside me, and I

Can’t grasp it, grope, feel sudden fright.

 

Along the elm-lined path you fared

The birds called late and something scared

Pursued us both. Alone though you

wished through the wasteland to pass through.

 

This night we shared a bed again.

Your heart beat next to mine. Your name

I spoke, your path I asked.

Your answer was:

‘…Too frightful even to begin to explore,

Look, the grass,

By elms encircled, lies once more 

Held fast.’

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 28

 

Heinrich Heine: 'Im wunderschönen Monat Mai'

Im wunderschönen Monat Mai 

 

Im wunderschönen Monat Mai,

Als alle Knospen sprangen,

Da ist in meinem Herzen

Die Liebe aufgegangen.

 

Im wunderschönen Monat Mai,

Als alle Vögel sangen,

Da hab ich ihr gestanden

Mein Sehnen und Verlangen.

 

 

In May month’s beauty unsurpassed

 

In May month’s beauty unsurpassed,

When all the buds were bursting,

There came a love that quickened

My heart and slaked its thirsting.

 

In May month’s beauty unsurpassed,

When birds all sang untiring,

To her I have confided

My longing and desiring.

 

  

Tomas Tranströmer: 'Sena maj'

 

Sena maj

 

Äppelträd och körsbärsträd i blom hjälper orten att sväva

i den ljuva smutsiga majnatten, vit flytväst, tankarna går vida.

Gräs och ogräs med tysta envisa vingslag.

Brevlådan lyser lugnt, det skrivna kan inte tas tillbaka.

 

Mild kylig vind går genom skjortan och trevar efter hjärtat.

Äppelträd och körsbärsträd, de skrattar tyst åt Salomo

de blommar i min tunnel. Jag behöver dem

inte för att glömma utan för att minnas.

 

 

Late May

 

Apple trees and cherry trees in bloom help the place to float freely

in the lovely grimy May night, a white life-jacket, thoughts fan out wide.

Grass and weeds with silent stubborn wingbeats.

The mailbox gleams calmly, what’s written can’t be taken back.

 

A mild cool breeze moves through the shirt and gropes for the heart.

Apple trees and cherry trees, they laugh silently at Solomon

they blossom in my tunnel. I am in need of them

not for forgetting but for remembering.

Robin Veen: 'Loopgraaf'

 

Loopgraaf

 

Omdat je precies in je eigen hoofd paste,

kon je de oorlog nooit winnen.

Achter iedere muur lachte de vijand.

 

In camouflagekleuren sloop je langs

de demarcatielijn tussen jou en de wereld.

Je dagen mesbreed gevouwen.

Je wapen keurig ingevet om nooit te gebruiken.

 

Nu tast je hand breekbaar in de lucht;

een witte vlag vanuit de loopgraaf van het leven.

Boven je hoofd vind je de driehoek,

maar de kracht ontbreekt je te verheffen.

 

Aan alles komt een eind.

Buiten dwarrelen de bewijzen. Ik zie

hoe je ze nakijkt tot de vrede is getekend.

 

 

Trench

 

Because you precisely fitted your own head,

you could never win the war.

Behind each wall the enemy was laughing.

 

In camouflage colours you stole along

the demarcation line between yourself and the world.

Your days compactly folded.

Your weapon oiled and greased but never to be used.

 

Now your hand pokes gingerly into the air;

a white flag out of the trench of life.

Above your head you find the triangle,

but lack the strength to raise yourself up

 

Everything comes to an end.

Outside the signs of proof flutter. I see

how you watch them until peace has been signed.

 

 

Kjell Espmark: 'Majnatten ljusnar'

 

Majnatten ljusnar

 

Majnatten ljusnar. Månen hänger I äppelträt.

Intill den låga muren gör utdöda

vildtulpaner ett gult försök.

Det fuktiga gräset bryter ljuset

i sting av rött, violett och grönt,

med mörka fotavtryck som hejdat sig –

koltrasten tycks ha upptäckt Mozart.

Vi står genomlysta, förstummade.

Murens erfarna stenar

och den gamla röda flygeln

är en öppen hand för ögonblicket.

 

 

The May night lightens

 

The May night lightens. The moon hangs in the apple tree.

Up to the low wall withered

wild tulips make a yellow essay.

The damp grass refracts the light

in stabs of red, violet and green,

with dark footprints that have come to a halt –

the blackbird seems to have discovered Mozart.

We stand translucent, struck dumb.

The seasoned stones of the wall

and the old red side-building

are an open hand for the moment.

 

 

 

 

Johannes Johansen: 'Du, som har tændt millioner af stjerner' (1981)

 

Du, som har tændt millioner af stjerner

 

Du, som har tændt millioner af stjerner,

tænd i vort mørke en tindrende tro.

Du er vort lys, og du vogter og værner

os, så vi sover i tryghed og ro.

 

Tak for den lysende dag, der er gået,

gaven til os, dine hænder har rakt.

Tilgiv os det, som vi ikke fik nået,

tilgiv alt ondt, vi fik gjort eller sagt!

 

Tak for hver glæde, der fyldte vort hjerte,

hver gang du gjorde vort liv til en fest.

Hjælp os at bære hver byrde, hver smerte,

du ved alene, hvad tjener os bedst.

 

 

You who have lit stars above by the million

 

You who have lit stars above by the million,

light in our darkness a strong sparkling faith.

You are our light and throughout your dominion

watch over us while we sleep sound and safe.

 

Thanks for the bright-gleaming day almost finished,

which by your bountiful hand we’ve been fed.

We ask forgiveness for deeds unaccomplished

and all bad things we have done or have said!

 

Thanks for the joy our hearts feel for the morrow,

each time our lives you have kindled and blessed.

Help us to bear every burden and sorrow

for you alone know what for us is best.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

B.S. Ingemann: 'På Sjølunds fagre sletter'

På Sjølunds fagre sletter

 

På Sjølunds fagre sletter

ved Østersøens bred,

hvor skoven kranse fletter

om engens blomsterbed,

hvor sølverkilden glider

nu ved ruinens fod,

dér stolt i gamle tider

en kongebolig stod.

 

I borgens gyldne sale

sig rørte muntert liv,

der hørtes skæmtsom tale

og lystigt tidsfordriv:

kong Valdemar dér bygged

så fast sit kongehus,

som det hans liv betrygged,

til verden sank i grus.

 

Med lystig jægerskare

på hviden ganger fløj

den konge tit med fare

hen over stub og høj;

men i den raske glæde,

ved jægerhornets klang

de glemte tit at bede

og høre messesang.

 

I muld for længe siden

kong Valdemar er lagt,

men sælsomt gennem tiden

går sagnet om hans Jagt.

Tit korser arme bonde

sig end på natlig sti,

hvor jægere og hunde

ham suse vildt forbi.

The original poem was much longer. See here

 

 

On Sjølund’s plains so pleasing

 

On Sjølund’s plains so pleasing

down by the Baltic shore,

where woods with wreaths are friezing

the flower-strewn meadow-floor,

where silver streams now softly

glide past the ruin’s foot,

in ancient times a lofty

royal castle there once stood.

 

In golden halls so stately

a merry life was led,

where all did pleasure greatly

and jesting words were said:

King Valdemar had built there

his stronghold to defend

his life against all ill there

until the world should end.

 

With hunters he went riding,

upon his milk-white steed,

o’er hill and dale, fast striding

no danger did he heed;

but at the hounds’ loud baying,

the horn’s shrill calls far-flung,

they all forgot their praying

no holy mass heard sung.

 

Long since deep in the earth has

King Valdemar been laid,

in legends strange and terse has

his Hunt though been portrayed.

The farmer, poor man, crosses

himself aghast from fright

when hounds and hunters’ horses

tear past him late at night.

 

 

Werner Aspenström: 'Maj månad kom'

 

Maj månad kom

 

Maj månad kom som ett fotbad

efter en lång marsch.

För göken var det en strävsam tid.

Nätterna seglade som dun på sjöarna.

Hade inte grannens svarta hund skällt

skulle vi drömma än.

 

 

The month of May came

 

The month of May came like a foot-bath

after a long march.

For the cuckoo it was a strenuous time.

The nights sailed like down on the lakes.

Had the neighbour’s black dog not barked

we would still be dreaming.

 

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Jylland mellem tvende Have'

 

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

 

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.

 

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'I Danmark er jeg født'

 

I DANMARK ER JEG FØDT

 

I Danmark er jeg født, der har jeg hjemme,

der har jeg rod, derfra min verden går.

Du danske sprog, du er min moders stemme,

så sødt velsignet du mit hjerte når.

Du danske friske strand,

hvor oldtids kæmpegrave

står mellem æblegård og humlehave,

dig elsker jeg! - Danmark, mit fædreland!

 

Hvor reder sommeren vel blomstersengen

mer rigt end her, ned til den åbne strand?

Hvor står fuldmånen over kløverengen

så dejlig, som i bøgens fædreland?

Du danske friske strand,

hvor Dannebrogen vajer, -

Gud gav os den - Gud giv den bedste sejer! -

Dig elsker jeg! - Danmark, mit fædreland!

 

Engang du herre var i hele Norden,

bød over England, - nu du kaldes svag,

et lille land, og dog så vidt om jorden

end høres danskens sang og mejselslag.

Du danske, friske strand,

plovjernet guldhorn finder,

Gud giv dig fremtid, som han gav dig minder!

Dig elsker jeg! - Danmark, mit fædreland!

 

Du land, hvor jeg blev født, hvor jeg har hjemme,

hvor jeg har rod, hvorfra min verden går,

hvor sproget er min moders bløde stemme,

og som en sød musik mit hjerte når!

Du danske friske strand

med vilde svaners rede,

I grønne øer, mit hjertes hjem hernede,

dig elsker jeg! - Danmark, mit fædreland!

 

 

IN DENMARK I WAS BORN

 

In Denmark I was born, my home’s no other,

here lie my roots, my world spreads out from here.

You Danish tongue, your voice is of a mother,

and you’re my heart so wonderfully near.

You bracing Danish strand,

where ancient barrows slumber

midst hops and apple orchards without number,

you are my love! – Denmark, my native land!

 

Where else does summer strew as rich a cover

of meadow-flowers, down to the open strand?

Where is the full moon over fields of clover 

as bright as in the beech’s native land?

You bracing Danish strand,

where Dannebrog flies surely, –

God’s gift to us, – God give us might and glory! –

You are my love! – Denmark, my native land!

 

You once held sway o’er all the Nordic region,

ruled over England, – now you are deemed weak,

though small, your songs and chisel-blows are legion

and still throughout the world are heard to speak.

You bracing Danish strand,

the plough unearths your gold horn,

God grant you future life, your past now full-born!

You are my love! – Denmark, my native land!

 

You land where I was born, my home – no other,

where my roots lie: my world spreads out from here.

Your language is the soft voice of a mother

that to my heart is music sweet and dear.

You bracing Danish strand,

where wild swans do their nesting,

you verdant isles, the home where my heart’s resting,

you are my love! – Denmark, my native land!