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.

 

 

Aleidis Dierick: 'De vrouw' (PS 44)

 

DE VROUW

 

Het weder zo zacht als een vrouw

van vochtig verdriet volgelopen

's nachts vouwt de stijgende wind

voortijdig het jaar op de zomer open.

 

Aan haar mond de verzwegen weemoed

de tuinstoelen van graszaad groen

in een aura van hunker de vriend

de donkere roep van het parelhoen.

 

Warm de huid van de koperen minnaar

een winter van wanhoop bezworen

de zomer verlangend voorzien

een blauw nest in de hagedoren.

 

 

THE WOMAN

 

The weather as soft as a woman

brim full of dew-moistened sorrow

at night the gathering wind unfolds

untimely the year into summer.

 

At her lips is the still withheld sadness

the garden chairs grass seed’s turned green

in an aura of yearning the friend

the guinea fowl’s deep-throated call.

 

Warm the skin of the copper-cast lover

a winter of woe now dispelled

the summer provided with longing

a blue nest hid in the hawthorn.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 44

 

Christine d'Haen: 'Lezen en zijn' (PS 43)

 

LEZEN EN ZIJN

 

Hij stortte in 't stof voorover, 't bot brak middendoor,

de arm gerukt van 't lichaam viel hij rugwaarts neer,

het hoofd hing nog aan huid, het bloedwarm blad der speer

zijn daglicht dovend drong diep hem onder het oor.

 

Zijn hoofd in twee gespleten, ogen vol met bloed,

viel hij languit ter aarde, nacht op hem. Een steen

spleet hem de slapen, de ogen botsten voor zijn voet.

Het paard hoefklauwend schreeuwde' t uit, zijn geest vlood heen.

 

De helm, nog nooit gehavend, smeet eensklaps de god

van 't hoofd hem, paardehaar en veren in het slijk,

de speer stak in de lies, de ziel ontvluchtte' t lijk.

 

Van hiel tot enkel borend, bond de riem aan't rad

zijn voet, spreidde mooi donker haar modderbespat.

Lezen is heerlijk, leven zelf een vreselijk lot.

 

 

READING AND BEING

 

In dust he crashed down forwards, bones breaking off sheer,

his arm ripped from his body, his backward fall outsplayed,

his head clung still to skin, the spear’s yet blood-warm blade

his daylight snuffing drove in deep just under his ear.

 

His head split into two halves, eyes that were full of blood

he fell to the ground full length, night on him. A stone

cleft his temples in twain, eyes hit his feet with a thud.

his horse hoof-clawing screamed it out, his spirit gone.

 

All at once helmet hewn off, as yet in unscathed state,

by the god, muddied horsehair and feathers widely spread,

his groin pierced by the spear, from corpse the soul fled.

 

Squeezing from heel to ankle, to the wheel the strap bound

his foot, with fine dark hair dragged through miry ground.

Reading is glorious, life itself a frightful fate.

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 43