Monday, 30 June 2025

Lars Gustafsson: 'Världens tystnad före Bach'

 


Världens tystnad före Bach

 

Det måste ha funnits en värld före

Triosonatan i D, en värld före a-mollpartitan,

men hur var den världen?

Ett Europa av stora tomma rum utan genklang

överallt ovetande instrument,

där Musikalisches Opfer och Wohltemperiertes Klavier

aldrig hade gått över en klaviatur.

Ödsligt belägna kyrkor

där aldrig Påskpassionens sopranstämma

i hjälplös kärlek slingrat sig kring flöjtens

mildare rörelser,

stora milda landskap

där bara gamla vedhuggare hörs med sina yxor

det friska ljudet av starka hundar om vintern

och – som en klocka – skridskor som biter i glanskis;

svalorna som svirrar i sommarluften

snäckan som barnet lyssnar till

och ingenstans Bach ingenstans Bach

världens skridskotystnad före Bach

 

 

The silence of the world before Bach

 

There must have existed a world before

the Trio Sonata in D, a world before the A minor Partita,

but what was that world like?

A Europe of large unresonating spaces

everywhere unknowing instruments,

where Musikalisches Opfer and Wohltemperiertes Klavier

had never passed over a keyboard.

Lonely remote churches

where the soprano voice of the Easter Passion

had never in helpless love twined itself round

the gentler movements of the flute,

gentle expanses of landscape

where only old woodcutters are heard with their axes

the healthy sound of strong dogs in winter

and – like a bell – skates biting into glassy ice;

the swallows swirling in the summer air

the shell that the child listens to

and nowhere Bach nowhere Bach

skating silence of the world before Bach


To hear the translation read, go to here.

 


Thursday, 26 June 2025

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Maleri fra Jyllands Vestkyst VI.'


Strandparti med klitter. Jyllands vestkyst (Dankvart Dreyer)


Maleri fra Jyllands Vestkyst

 

VI.

 

Den hela jorden liknar här ett lik,

Och himlen står, liksom en mördare,

I blodig skrud, betraktande sitt offer.

            Atterbom

 

Man seer ei Træ, ei Busk, selv Lyngen vil ei groe,

Fra Sandet pipper frem et Græsstraa eller to;

Sandklitter reise sig, de vexle Dag for Dag,

Og rundt om stikke frem de nøgne, sorte Vrag.

Foruden Grændse Havet udstrakt for os staaer,

Speilklart og glat det er, saa langt som Øiet naaer;

Strandbredden er belagt med Stene, store, smaa,

Og alle runded’ smukt, see, røde, hvide, blaa!

Hist komme Fiskere, de gaae til Havet fro;

En herlig Slægt det er, med Marv i hver en Kno.

Nu læses først en Bøn, fromt folder sig hver Haand,

Saa ile de med Christ, Gud og den hellig Aand.

 

 

Den gamle Mo’er paa Klinten staaer,

Saa graat som Sand er hendes Haar;

Hun drikker Solens Ild saa smaat,

Og skutter sig, det gjør saa godt.

Men som hun ret paa Havet seer,

Strax hendes gustne Ansigt leer;

Thi ude, hist paa Bølgens Hjem,

En prægtig Seiler glider frem,

Men uden Roer og uden Mast;

Den borer sig i Sandet fast,

Det Dødningskibet er, man seer,

Thi see — — — nu er det ikke meer.

Da knæler fromt den gamle Mo’er,

Hun læser høit et Fadervor,

Og siger: „Gud til os Du see!

Lad det paa vores Kyst dog skee!

De drukne vist, den hele Flok,

Men vi skal leve, veed Du nok!“

 

 

Painting from the West Coast of Jutland

 

VI

 

The earth entire here looks just like a corpse,

And here the sky stands like a murderer,

In blood-stained vestments, gazing at its victim.

            Atterbom

 

No tree, no bush, not even heather does one view,

From sand there peeps but a lone blade of grass or two

Sand dunes tower up, but change position day by day.

And naked, charcoal shipwrecks stick out like dead prey.

Before us stretches out the vast unbounded sea,

It’s mirror-smooth and clear as far as we can see,

The shore is strewn with stones, large, small, of changing hue,

All beautifully rounded, look – red white and blue!

Now come the fishermen, with joy the sea they view;

So marvellous a breed, each bone well-marrowed too.

A short prayer first is said, with folded hands they pray.

Now armed with God, Christ, Holy Ghost they haste away.

 

 

Up on the dune the old crone stands,

Her strands of hair are grey as sand!

She drinks in sun’s wool-threads a bit

And snuggles down, quite pleased with it.

But looking at the sea a while

Her pallid face now starts to smile.

For out there on the waves so blue

A splendid sailship she can view,

But with no rudder and no mast

It hits the sand and is held fast;

The Ship of Death is what one sees,

For look – from view it simply flees.

Down on her knees falls the old crone, 

The Lord’s Prayer she aloud intones

And says: ‘Lord God, look to us, do!

Upon this coast let this come true!

They’re sure to drown, all those on board,

But we shall live, you know this, Lord!’

 

 

Wednesday, 25 June 2025

Knut Hamsun: 'Skærgaardsø'

 


Skærgaardsø

 

Nu glider Baaden

mot Skærgaardsøen,

en Ø i Havet

med grønne Strande.

Her lever Blomster

for ingens Øjne,

de staar saa fremmed

og ser mig lande.

 

Mit Hjærte blir som

en Fabelhave

med samme Blomster

som Øen ejer.

De taler sammen

og hvisker sælsomt,

som Børn de mødes

og ler og nejer.

 

Her var jeg kanske

i Tidens Morgen

som hvit Spiræa

engang at finde.

Jeg kender Duften

igen fra fordum,

jeg skælver midt i

et gammelt Minde.

 

Mit Øje lukkes,

en fjærn Erindring

har lagt mit Hode

ned til min Skulder.

Saa tætner Natten

ind over Øen,

kun Havet buldrer –

Nirvanas Bulder.

 

 

Skerry

 

The boat’s now gliding

towards the skerry,

a sea-set island

its shores green banding.

Wild flowers grow here for

no eyes intended

stand unfamiliar

and watch me landing.

 

My heart becomes like

a fabled garden

with flowers the same as

the ones I’m greeting.

They talk together

and whisper strangely,

with nods and smiling

like children meeting.

 

Perhaps long since I

have here existed

as white spiraea

in first perfection.

I recognise now

that far-off fragrance,

and tremble slightly

in recollection

 

I close my eyelids,

a distant memory

towards my shoulder

my head is drawing.

The night grows denser

about the island,

the sea alone roars –

Nirvana’s roaring.



Tuesday, 24 June 2025

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Pjat! Pjat!' (1830)

 


Pjat! Pjat!

 

Om Theebordet sidder de Damer smukt;

- ak, Munden er aldrig paa dem lukt!

Pjat! Pjat!

Den ene taler om Silke og Baand,

Den anden viser sin hvide Haand,

Den tredje her er poetisk stemt,

Hun sværmer for Schiller saa det er slemt.

Pjat! Pjat!

 

Om Politikken der snakkes nu lidt,

Ja, Kjøkkenet selv faaer ogsaa sit.

Pjat! Pjat!

Ved Bordet sidder en Mandsperson,

Han er saa rar i Conversation,

Han synger og laver en Vittigheds-Grød,

Og Damerne sige: “hvor han er sød!”

Pjat! Pjat!

 

Nu tager man da Theatret fat,

Saa komme de først i den rette Pjat;

Pjat! Pjat! -

Tilsidst skrider Natten endelig frem,

Men saa - ja saa skal der følges hjem!

Det hjælper ikke at krybe i Skjul;

Nu gaaer det som en Kjap i et Hjul:

Pjat! Pjat!

Pjat! Pjat!

 

 

Chit-chat

 

The tea-table ladies sit oh so fine –

What are they nattering all the time?

     Chit-chat!

One of them’s on about silk and bright bands

The second showing her lily-white hands

The third one here’s in poetic mood

She’s mad about Schiller, half construed.

     Chit-chat!

 

They talk about politics just a bit

And the kitchen too is not out of it.

     Chit-chat!

A man is part of the delegation,

So nice to have for conversation,

He sings and of jokes makes a pot pourri –

The ladies say: ‘He’s as nice as can be!’

     Chit-chat!

 

The theatre now is the theme they choose,

It’s here they really begin to enthuse:

     Chit-chat!

At last, signs of night now start to come,

Then, though, one has to be followed home!

Attempting to hide is simply unreal;

Now that just puts a spoke in the wheel:

     Chit-chat!

     Chit-chat!

 

 

Saturday, 21 June 2025

Fritz Andersen: 'I skovens dybe, stille ro'

 


 

I skovens dybe, stille ro,

hvor sangerhære bo,

hvor sjælen lytted mangen gang

til fuglens glade sang,

der er idyllisk stille fred

i skovens ensomhed,

og hjertets længsler tie her,

hvor fred og hvile er.

 

Hør landsbyklokken lyder ned,

bebuder aftenfred,

småfuglen, før den går til blund,

end kvidrer lidt en stund.

I mosen kvækker højt en frø,

stærkt damper mark og sø,

nu klokken tier, - aftnens fred

sig stille sænker ned.

 

 

In forest depths where quiet reigns

in songbirds’ prized domains,

where troubled soul would listen long

to joyous warbling song,

there is idyllic peacefulness

within the forest’s loneliness

and all heart’s longings quite subside

where rest and peace reside.

 

Hear how the village bell rings clear,

announcing evening’s near,

small birds, before they go to sleep

give one last final cheep.

A frog from bogland croaks out loud,

field, lake wear steamy shroud,

and evening peace, when bell’s chime ends,

now tranquilly descends.

 

Tuesday, 17 June 2025

Wilhelm Müller: 'Der Leiermann'


 

Der Leiermann

 

Drüben hinterm Dorfe 

Steht ein Leiermann, 

Und mit starren Fingern 

Dreht er was er kann.

Barfuß auf dem Eise 

Schwankt er hin und her; 

Und sein kleiner Teller 

Bleibt ihm immer leer.

Keiner mag ihn hören, 

Keiner sieht ihn an; 

Und die Hunde knurren 

Um den alten Mann.

Und er läßt es gehen 

Alles, wie es will, 

Dreht, und seine Leier 

Steht ihm nimmer still.

Wunderlicher Alter,

Soll ich mit dir gehen? 

Willst zu meinen Liedern 

Deine Leier drehn?

 

 

The Hurdy-Gurdy Man

 

Past the village stands a 

Hurdy-gurdy man,

And with rigid fingers

Plays as best he can.

Barefoot on the ice he

Staggers to and fro, 

And his small plate’s empty –

Nothing there to show.

No one wants to listen, 

No one looks his way, 

Dogs snarl round the old man

Each and every day.

And he lets things happen

Any way they will,

Churns his hurdy-gurdy,

It is never still.

Strange old man, I wonder,

Shall I go with you?

Will your hurdy-gurdy 

Play to my songs too?



Monday, 16 June 2025

Ludwig Tieck: 'Herbstlied'

 

 

Herbstlied

 

Feldeinwärts flog ein Vögelein

Und sang im muntern Sonnenschein

Mit süßem, wunderbarem Ton:

Ade, ich fliege nun davon.

Weit, weit, reis ich noch heut.

 

Ich horchte auf den Feldgesang,

Mir ward so wohl und doch so bang.

Mit frohem Schmerz, mit trüber Lust

Stieg wechselnd bald und sank die Brust.

Herz, Herz, brichst du vor Wonn’ oder Schmerz?

 

Doch als ich Blätter fallen sah,

Da sagt ich: Ach, der Herbst ist da,

Der Sommergast, die Schwalbe, zieht,

Vielleicht so Lieb' und Sehnsucht flieht

Weit, weit, rasch mit der Zeit.

 

Doch rückwärts kam der Sonnenschein,

Dicht zu mir drauf das Vögelein,

Es sah mein tränend Angesicht

Und sang: Die Liebe wintert nicht.

Nein, nein! Ist und bleibt Frühlingsschein.

 

 

Autumn Song

 

Into the fields a small bird flew

And in glad sunshine it anew

Did sing with sweet and wondrous tone:

Farewell, for I will soon be gone:

Away I’m bound today.

 

Its outdoor song I listened to,

I felt so glad, yet fearful too.

With cheerful pain, with joy oppressed

First rose, then sank my heaving breast.

Oh heart, does bliss or pain so smart?

 

Yet when I saw the leaves all fall,

I said: Ah, autumn’s cruel call,

The swallow, summer’s guest, departs,

As love perhaps and longing hearts

So fast, their time won’t last.

 

The sunshine though returned again

And right up close the small bird came,

It saw my face so full of tears

And sang: Love does not winter here.

Oh no! It’s always springtime’s glow.

 


 

 

Sunday, 15 June 2025

Adam Oehlenschläger: 'Der er et yndigt land'


Der er et yndigt land

 

Der er et yndigt land,

det står med brede bøge

//: nær salten østerstrand; ://

det bugter sig i bakke, dal,

det hedder gamle Danmark,

//: og det er Frejas sal. ://

 

Dér sad i fordums tid

de harniskklædte kæmper,

//: udhvilede fra strid; ://

så drog de frem til fjenders mén,

nu hvile deres bene

//: bag højens bautasten. ://

 

Det land endnu er skønt;

thi blå sig søen bælter,

//: og løvet står så grønt, ://

og ædle kvinder, skønne mø'r

og mænd og raske svende

//: bebo de danskes øer. ://

 

Hil drot og fædreland!

Hil hver en danneborger, 

//: som virker, hvad han kan! ://

Vort gamle Danmark skal bestå,

så længe bøgen spejler

//: sin top i bølgen blå. ://

 

 

There lies a pleasant land

 

There lies a pleasant land

with beech trees wide outspreading

//: near Baltic’s salty strand, ://

it winds and curves in hill and dell,

its name of old is Denmark,

//: and here does Freya dwell. ://

 

There sat in days of yore

the warriors clad in armour,

//: revived from times of war; ://

they rose again to smite the foe,

now here their bones lie resting

//:’neath wreaths of standing stones ://

 

Still beauteous is this land;

rich-veined with deep-blue waters 

//: and in full leaf it stands, ://

and noble women, maidens fair

and men and youths so eager

//: its isles as homeland share. ://

 

Hail king and fatherland!

Hail every heart that’s Danish

//: and serves as best it can! ://

Our ancient Denmark shall stand true,

as long as beech trees mirror

//: their crowns in waves of blue. ://