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| Thorkild Bjørnvig (1918-2004) |
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,
age, 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 insinuated itself,
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.
