I Vreden rejste sig hans Hovedhaar som Taarne,
Hans Næse steg, hans Vom, hans Røst sig hæved -
Kun een Ting hang, som altid, paa den Høivelbaarne.
Such wrath: his hair stood quite on end from the exertion,
His voice, his nose and belly rose together -
But one thing hung, as always, on his noble person.
You can find the three-liner here.
Til Britterne
Krigens Lynild omsonst, o Britter! mod Eder sig tænder,
Thi Neptun om jer Øe, slaaer sin betryggende Favn:
Kun for den lavere Krig med Piil og med Skytte I ræddes,
Mens det larmende Torv, Kræmmere! Valpladsen er.
To the British
In vain, war’s lightning flash – oh British! – you dearly would harrow,
For Neptune in his embrace your isle does firmly shield:
You are but safe from lesser wars and from the marksman’s arrow,
You’ve noisy market squares – Shopkeepers! – as battlefield.
(The derogatory term ‘shopkeepers’ for the British is often attributed to Napoleon, but it dates from 11 June 1794 and was made by the French revolutionary Bertrand Barère.)
MONT VENTOUX
dichten is fietsen op de Mont Ventoux,
waar Tommy Simpson nog is overleden,
onder zo tragische omstandigheden
werd hier de wereldkampioen doodmoe.
op deze col zij velen losgereden,
eerste categorie, sindsdien tabu.
het ruikt naar dennegeur, Sunsilk Shampoo,
die je wel nodig hebt, eenmaal beneden.
alles in onuitsprekelijk vermoeiend,
de Mont Ventoux opfietsen wel heel erg,
waarvoor ook geldt: bezint eer gij begint.
toch haal ik, ook al is de hitte schroieiend,
de top van deze winderige berg:
ijdelheid en het najagen van wind.
(Mont Ventoux, 1 aug. 1971)
MONT VENTOUX
writing verse is cycling up Mont Ventoux,
where Tommy Simpson met his tragic end,
before he ever made the final bend
the once world champion collapsed from view.
here riders all try shaking off the pack,
a category one col, now taboo.
it has a pinewood scent, Sunsilk Shampoo,
which you could need to use when you get back.
it’s so exhausting you run out of fuel,
cycling up Mont Ventoux’s a bitter pill,
so ‘look before you leap’ applies, you’ll find.
despite all this, although the heat is cruel,
i reach the summit of this windswept hill:
vanity and the hot pursuit of wind.
(Mont Ventoux, 1 Aug. 1971)
Die Stunde der Andacht
Leise athmen rings umher die Leben,
Träumen gleich der Seligen, umschweben
Ahndungen von ferner Zukunft mich:
Heilig und geweiht ist diese Stäte,
Mein Gefühl entlodert zum Gebete,
Nahet, Schöpfer, deinem Throne sich.
Das Gefühl im düstern Tannenhaine,
Die Betrachtung, die beim Sternenscheine
Bang' den Vorhang jener Welt umfliegt -
Jede Kraft, die der Natur entquillet,
Die des Edlen schöne Seele füllet,
Stärke mich, wann meine Kraft versiegt!
Jeder Thränenguß beim Feierschalle
In des Tempels hochgewölbter Halle
Sey ein Vorgefühl der Seligkeit!
Jede That, mit der die Menschheit ringet,
Jede, die das Mitgefühl umschlinget,
Sey ein Funken deiner Herrlichkeit!
Schwinden dann des Sinnenlands Gestalten,
Die mit banger Ahndung mich umwallten,
An dem Sterbelager, Träumen gleich,
Dann erhebe auf der Hoffnung Schwinge
Kühner meine Ahndung sich und bringe
Mich hinüber in der Geister Reich!
The Hour of Devotion
All around me lives are softly breathing
As in dreams of those now blessèd, weaving
Far-off premonitions reach me here:
Holy, consecrated is this lair
And my feeling flares up into prayer,
To thy throne, Creator, it draws near.
In the dusky fir-tree grove the feeling,
And the contemplation in stars’ gleaming
That flits anxiously round that world’s veil –
May each force from nature’s endless treasure
Which the noble soul fills in full measure
Strengthen me if my own force should fail!
May each burst of tears at glad exalting
In the mighty temple hall’s high-vaulting
Be a foretaste of a future bliss!
May each deed that man would be embracing,
Everything that has compassion’s tracing,
Be a spark of thy great gloriousness!
When our world’s perceived forms face attrition –
Those which filled me with dread premonition –
At my final death-bed, as in dreams,
Then, more boldly and more strongly rising,
May my premonition soar and fly me
To the spirits’ realm that brightly gleams!
Published in Musen-Almanach. Poetische Blumenlese aufs Jahr 1793, s. 35.
A different, earlier version of the poem exists in a letter written by Staffeldt to the Duke of Augustenborg in 1792. This has been published in Danske Studier 2002. You can find it here.
Brief aan Baudelaire
Ha Baudelaire, kan ik jou, kan ik jou nog schrijven
anderhalve eeuw, een land en een landschap later
nu het duister opnieuw deemstert doorheen
de dagen en verderop in het Oosten een man
halsstarrig bommen gooit op uitgestorven steden.
Wie of wat zou je zijn indien je terug kon keren?
Een rapper, een rekkenvuller die vol gramschap
de dingen schikt of ergens tussenin een dichter
die zich inzet voor het klimaat? Ik kan er enkel maar
naar talen, Baudelaire, net zo verstrikt als ik ben
in de halsstrik van de taal. En graag, wat graag
herdenk ik in jou, in mij, anno nu, de dag dat
Menno duizend dromen stierf, de dag
dat Pernath van rechts naar links het boek
van de waarheid droeg, het uitgebreid hebbend
over de onmacht een mens te zijn.
Letter to Baudelaire
Hi, Baudelaire, can I, can I still write to you
a century and a half, a country and a landscape later
now that darkness once more descends
devouring our days and further east a man is
stubbornly dropping bombs on deserted cities
Who or what would you be if you could return?
A rapper, a shelf-stocker who full of resentment
arranges things or a poet that in between
stands up for the climate? But all I can do is
yearn for words, Baudelaire, ensnared as I am
in the noose of language. And gladly, so gladly
I recall in you, in me, in this present year, the day that
Menno died a thousand dreams, the day
that Pernath, from right to left, bore
the book of truth, dealing at length with
the powerlessness of being a human.
Ved Söen
— Og medens de Bölger fare afsted,
Mig synes at ogsaa jeg skulde med,
Og stirrende ned i billedfuld Söe,
I underlig Længsel vil jeg bortdöe.
Mig vinker dybt i den stille Azur
En anden Himmel, en anden Natur,
Æteriskt og idealiskt er Alt,
Ligt Tingenes allerförste Gestalt.
Mit förste Jeg fra det reene Blaae,
Mit reenere Selv tilhvidsker mig saa:
Hvi skilte du dig fra mig, fra mig?
Og dog hvor elsker, hvor elsker jeg dig!
Da blir jeg saa underlig bange og öm,
Min Aand sig lösner til meere end Dröm:
Mig synes at Guder og Mennesker gaae
Omfavnede, dybt i det reene Blaae.
By the lake
– And while all the waves are borne off apace,
I feel as if I there too had my place,
And staring into the image-filled lake,
In some strange longing my parting would take.
From still azure depths me greeting, I spy
A different nature, different sky;
All is ethereal there and ideal,
Like things in their pristine form more real.
My very first I from the purest blue,
My once purer Self then whispers anew:
Why did you leave me, just leave me and go?
Oh, how I do love you, I love you so!
How strangely afraid and aching I seem,
My spirit escapes to more than a dream:
There appear to be gods and humans who
Embrace and mingle in depths of pure blue.
Indvielsen
Jeg sad paa Pynten ved Sundets Bred,
Himlene smiilte,
Og saae med Længsel i Dybet ned,
Bølgerne hviilte,
Da hælded Solen til Havets Bryst,
Og rundtom rødnede Luft og Kyst.
Og brat fra Skyen en Strængeleg
Anelsen vakte,
I Aftenrøde Musen nedsteg,
Harpen mig rakte
Og rask et brændende Kys mig gav,
Nedsynkende i det luende Hav.
Da rundt en anden Natur der blev:
Vindene talte;
Fra Skyer, som blege for Maanen hendrev,
Aanderne kaldte;
Et Hjerte slog varmt og kjærligt i Alt,
I Alt mig vinked min egen Gestalt.
Dog blev fra nu for Tanke og Trang
Jorden et Fængsel;
Vel lindrer ved Anelse, Drøm og Sang
Hjertet sin Længsel,
Dog brænder mig Kysset, jeg kjender ei Fred
Førend jeg drager Himlene ned!
Initiation
I sat far out on the sound’s still shore,
The heavens smiling;
And filled with longing I gazed down o’er
The waves beguiling.
The sun slipped into the sea’s embrace,
The coast and sky found a blushing grace.
With sweet foreboding a harp I heard,
The clouds now rending;
The muse descended, in sunlight girt,
Her lyre extending.
Sealing my lips with kiss of fire
She plunged into her glittering pyre.
Then all around me the world was new:
The winds spoke softly;
From pale clouds drifting before the moon
Called spirits lofty;
In all creation a loving heart beat,
My own reflection from all did me greet.
Since then the earth each thought and desire
Does now imprison;
Though longing is eased by dream, plucked lyre
And premonition,
The kiss still consumes me, no peace will see birth
Until the heavens are brought to earth!
Schack Staffeldt
Du tænder lys i alle vinduer
For ikke at se de grinende rovdyr.
Men nattens døtre kalder dig ud, lokker
med guldæbler og skamløse orkideer.
Din skygge vokser fantastisk, strejfer
Mælkevejen, svinger henover månens torso.
Pludselig
Spiller et orgel i susende løvtræer.
Du lytter ind mod dit nøgne hjerte
Og hører ekko fra mindets bjerghuler.
Stjernerne ler med lykkelige øjne.
En af dem er dig. Men hvilken?
Feber i blodet. Hjemve. – Kunne du blot
Slippe din dødvægt! rykke tanken op med rode!
Roligt vugger i det fjerne
Et objektivt fastland. – Turde du blot
Springe ud fra din fordømte vulkanø!
Dit bryst er tungt af lava.
Ingen forløsning, ingen flugt.
Du presses hårdt mellem himmel og jord,
Stønner under vægten af tusind atmosfærer.
Lysene blafrer bag de våde ruder.
Du bar ingen tårer, ingen virkelighed.
Drømmen er dit eneste element.
Men du er vågen og klar.
Uden kikkert
finder du dig selv:
En slukket planet i et hav af ild.
Schack Staffeldt
You light candles in all the windows
So as not to see the grinning predators.
But the night’s daughters call you out, tempt
with golden apples and shameless orchids.
Your shadow grows fantastic, grazes
The Milky Way, swings across the moon’s torso.
Suddenly
An organ plays in rustling leafy trees
You listen close to your naked heart
And hear an echo from memory’s mountain caves.
The stars smile with happy eyes.
One of them is you. But which?
Fever in the blood. Homesickness. – If only you could
Escape your deadweight! rip thought up by the root!
Calmly in the distance
An objective mainland rocks. – If only you dared
Leap out of your damned volcanic island!
Your chest is heavy with lava.
No deliverance, no flight.
You are hard-pressed between heaven and earth.
Groan under the weight of a thousand atmospheres.
The candles flutter behind the wet window panes.
You have no tears, no reality.
The dream is your sole element.
But you are awake and ready.
Without telescope
you find yourself:
An extinct planet in a sea of fire.
Wollt’, ich läg drei Ellen tief
Wollt’, ich läg drei Ellen tief
In der Erde Schooße,
Wollt', ich bärge mich und schlief’,
Unterm Todesmooße!
Denn mir ist so weh! so weh!
Kann es gar nicht sagen,
Kaum daß ich mich selbst versteh’ ––
Ach! wann wird es tagen?
Leben möcht ich und auch nicht –
Gieb mir frei, O Erde
Rufe Himmel mich an’s Licht
Durch ein zweites Werde!
Wished I lay full six feet deep
Wished I lay full six feet deep
In earth’s bosom resting,
Wished I lay concealed, asleep
Under death’s moss nesting!
For my woe’s so great! so great!
No words can express this,
Scarce I grasp my present state ––
When will dawn redress this?
I would live yet not, and pray –
Earth, no more enthrall me,
Through a re-creation may
Heav’n to light now call me!
„Es werde Licht“ ist ein berühmtes Zitat aus der Bibel, genauer gesagt aus dem 1. Buch Mose (Genesis) 1,3.
Und Gott sprach: Es werde Licht. Und es ward Licht.
cf Goethe, last verse of 'Selige Sehnsucht' (1817):
The verb “to enthrall” means:
1. To captivate or fascinate someone completely
It describes the act of holding someone’s attention so intensely that they are fully absorbed or spellbound.
2. (Historical/Literal use) To enslave or hold in bondage
In older usage, “enthrall” also meant to literally make someone a thrall or slave (from Old English þræl, meaning servant or slave).
